Secret Agent, British Intelligence

Biff Thrash - Secret Agent: British Intelligence - EYES ONLY

2011-12-18T04:11:00.004Z

I have been remiss in not mentioning that the comic character who gave this blog its wincingly daft name has concluded his first adventure and is now safely back home, having saved England, and probably the world.

THIS MAN IS DANGEROUS.

Secret Agent: British Intelligence
EYES ONLY

I've got a couple of new stories in the planning stage, so who knows, Agent Biff Thrash of British Intelligence may well explode onto your screens in the near future. If you're very unlucky!

Also: will I ever adapt the comic into a novel or script, as was the original plan? The comic's just a big storyboard, after all...

MARS - webcomic side project

2011-07-21T07:36:00.006+01:00

I noticed a couple of pings on my blog stats, which prompted me to remember that I actually have a blog, such as it is. (Visitors?! Why? How? Will I ever know?!) So I thought I'd better check in and wave just to prove I'm still alive and kicking.

Another side project webcomic has shuffled its way into the ether, after several "extra" characters who have only been glimpsed briefly started complaining about their lack of meaty roles, and told me they were ready for prime time. I already had the locations, vehicles and props (made for other comics) gathering dust on the studio lot, so what the hell, MARS was born. Tentatively subtitled A Murder Mystery on Mars!

Unlike several other long-running projects (Crowbar kicked off August 2008; Space Pirates and Secret Agent, January 2009; Sword Princess Yukisaki, February 2009; Starship Captain, August 2009; eek, where has the time gone?!), MARS is a short. At least that's the plan! And the cruel Fates, listening, chuckled with amusement.

As always I have this weirdo theory/idea that once I finish these comics I'll adapt them into prose, that the comics are really only storyboards. And that could actually be true. I just haven't proved it yet.

MARS is hosted on ComicFury

How time flies!

2011-01-03T10:14:00.002Z

You get to my age, the days blur into weeks, the weeks into months... next thing you know, it's a new year and I have to instruct my autopilot to type 2011 instead of 2010 (which instruction should "take" around September/October, going by previous years).

We enjoyed 2 weeks of 'flu over the holidays, nothing serious, just a lot of coughing and spluttering and lost sleep and rubber legs. Oh, and vomiting, plus simultaneous volcanic activity at the other end. Buckets! Buckets!! This makes 3 years in a row we've caught some kind of bug just in time for Christmas but we're not complaining, truth to tell we look forward to the extra time together; it's become a tradition.

[Checks date] Wow, it's the 3rd already. And so the New Year has come and gone, another blur. I have some email to catch up on now that my brain is almost functioning again. Just as well I waited -- I scribbled some short story and novel chapter updates over the holidays, and they are mental.

Best wishes to everyone for 2011.

Higher Than Usual - the podcast!!

2010-04-29T19:56:00.008+01:00

Norm @ The Drabblecast has produced an audio version of Higher Than Usual (which is still showing in Strange Horizons' archive). Complete with music and sound effects! Check out the link! Strange stories by strange authors, indeed! [Edit: link updated, was moved to archive... the story starts at around 7 minutes into the mp3, after sponsor messages.]

I haven't laughed so much in ages, this is just the voice I'd imagined when I'd written the story 'way back when. Excellently read by Dan Chambers, and excellent art by Bo Kaier.

A little update, 6 Sept 2011:

Bizarrely, I happened across a forum thread today, discussing the podcast and story. Sorry I missed it! Too late now!
http://thedrabblecast.com/viewtopic.php?f=1&t=1579

Alive and kicking

2010-01-16T23:40:00.003Z

When someone contacts you to say they'd wondered if you'd died, you know it's time to update your blog, even if you don't have anything much to say except, I'm still here!

eXtreme nostalgia - my old AOL website

2009-10-23T14:58:00.002+01:00

Just saying, I dug up files for my old AOL website (which vanished when AOL Hometown's plug got pulled) and reloaded 'em into new webspace -- partly for nostalgia's sake, and partly so I could find stuff I kept losing track of!

It's pretty damn weird to browse old Best Openings Contest entries from yesteryear and not even remember writing them... even when many went on to become short stories or chapters. Stupid brain cells, work harder!

Where no man has gone before

2009-09-24T23:29:00.003+01:00

I just found out there's nothing quite so unpleasant as a strange man sticking a probe up your willy to check your bladder is in good working order. They told me the gel was an anaesthetic. Ooooh really? Next time, I pray they whack me over the head with a 2-pound ball hammer. "I hope you're not going to faint on me?" said the pleasant nurse, who probably does 1,000 of these routine inspections a day. No, but I did sob a little.

This experience topped the man sticking a finger (at least I hope it was a finger) up my bum a few weeks ago to check my nether region bits were fully functional. I believe I let out an embarrassed squeak.

Still, you've got to laugh. Although oddly enough, I didn't. Three cheers for the NHS!

2009-08-22T20:41:00.003+01:00

Just a quickie for those who have asked:

The 3D models that appear in my comics were made using Google SketchUp, a free-to-use 3D modeller that has to be one of the easiest graphics tools I've ever used (in a previous existence I worked for an IT giant as CAD systems tech support... and before that I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt... no, wait, scrub that last).

SU runs happily on my wee 1.6GHz laptop with 2Gb memory running Vista. It's a nice piece of software, try it out, shout if you need any help. :)

One of these days I'll put up a quickie tutorial showing the steps from the basic draw-a-rectangle, pull into a prism...

...to an uncannily odd head with movable eyes, eyebrows and mouth variants.

But most of all, I loves makin' them ships:

2009-08-17T21:37:00.003+01:00

Just posting to keep the blog alive!

Had a bit of fun today with this, the actualization of sci-fi stories from 'way 'way back in the past, possibly from my schooldays!

Bet you can't guess what it's based on. No, not Doctor Who. No, not Lost In Space. No, not Phoenix Five. Who said Phoenix Five?! Aieee!

Whispers in the night

2009-06-20T10:53:00.004+01:00

Heh, spot the dead blog, win a prize. Not much excitement happenin' lately, which is just the way I likes it, but alas this doesn't make for daily updates.

I'm still fiddlin' about with the webcomics,

...which tickles my creative spark and fools the Muse enough so she doesn't bug me much about not writing anything new for months.

In spare moments I've been tinkering with a couple of older novellas that are staggeringly brilliant but want to spread their wings and be novels, which is more of a start-over-from-scratch deal. They're whispering to me in the night. I hate when that happens.

Not watching much TV lately but that's 'cause there's not much Sci-Fi showing (yeah I still call the genre "Sci-Fi" -- you wanna fight about it?). About the only shows I tune into are Dollhouse and The Mentalist. And Buffy re-runs.

OK, that's this year's blog updates taken care of...

Winning is for losers!

2009-03-24T13:03:00.001Z

Over on the Done Deal screenwriters' message board, in the Writing Exercises forum, the man known only as JCorona has been running a fun "March Madness" short script contest (up to 5 pages, any genre). Kind of an annual event now.

I hadn't written anything script-ish for a while — heck I even blew this year's V.D. Contest (er, that's Valentine's Day, not...) — so I decided I'd chuck a script into the MM contest. Hell yeah! Go me!

Thus my frantic brain drove my typing finger to pound the keyboard day and night. My keyboard received such abuse that it's been acting up since, backspacing at random to wipe out characters, but despite this technical difficulty I came up with not one, but 4 short scripts in the space of as many days.

I read them over with enormous pride, and entered a glowing self-congratulatory state of being that touched true nirvana, until I realized they were all sh!t on a stick. But that's besides the point! Winning is for losers, it's the trying that matters! Didn't Yoda say as much to Luke? I'm pretty sure he did.

Monkey pleasures

2009-03-08T09:57:00.001Z

Sometimes I glance at the stats page just to see how many lost souls have accidentally stumbled onto my worthless excuse for a blog. Usually more than I'd expect, due to quirky search results.

Some of the search strings can be puzzling and/or educational. The "secret agent" variants I can understand given the blog's oddball name and my webcomic, but the others...? No idea. I have never, for example, written about nor once thought about naked priests (honest!) or monkey pleasures for that matter:

long gloves nose ring
Webcomic agents
british intelligence academy
secret intelligent agent
naked priests
wot is a secret agent
you got monkey pleasures we got intelligence forces
Stutmann family history
poor moderation dpaterso
a cigarette out on his
breast smothering fiction female agents
foolproof agent not eat
what do you call the british intelligence
mark anthony brennan
ROBOT CLEANER BURER
permanent cuffs
how do you get chosen for a tap on the shoulder british intelligence
agent british
peter grigor welding
derek paterson subatomic
tiny opaque insects in my floorboards
How to become a secret agent or intelligence sites
her girlfriend is locked in a cage gaged and cuffed
defunct british agents
agent jewelry europa
nope not a lick of intelligence found on the planet
how to fight like a secret agent
British intelligence officer kept human skull on his desk
secret agent web comic
howard penrose wiki
secret agent wages
O'Neil De Noux blog
barefeet corpse sheet
knockout (blow), cleave gag, rope, hands behind, ankles together, carrying
British intelligence priorities
drubber
sudlanders
How to be an agent of British Intelligence
secret agent earphone
double or quits bet
agent in Intelligence
outline of the Burgermeister's daughter
story of an Irish secret agent on the case of a gang of assassins and femme fetales
british story writer a secret agent
the gesture of parting your nose by forefinger of BRITISH
olee
where to buy secret agent earphones
crest british secret
absolute write water cooler derek
harley can't swallow peter north's load
how to make a british sheepskin backpack
duck feather pastry brush
portable advanced intelligence x-ray vision sunglasses
british flag stilettos
is the payment of change at chalkey wood noted on an intelligence camera
swashbuckler webcomic
i would like to be a secret agent teenager

Keep searching. The truth is out there.

Nostalgia Trip #21: TERRA INCOGNITA

2009-02-11T22:10:00.002Z

Appeared in AMAZING HEROES II (originally a Cyber Pulp anthology) published by G.W. Thomas, August 2004.

It had rained for six days and nights, turning the road into mud and soaking the four dangerous men as they waited among the trees opposite the roadside inn.

      Their flamboyant yellow and scarlet radiation cloaks suggested they might be New Yakuza but Lei Ping was not fooled—their weapons were the best and they moved and acted like soldiers. She'd hoped the war would keep its distance. Their presence dashed her hopes and boded nothing but blood and pain for the future.

      Upon their arrival her stepfather had taken her mother and her half-brothers and half-sisters to the next village to stay with relatives. Only Lei Ping and the equally worthless Second Assistant Cook remained, to cater to their visitors' needs. She saw the wisdom in this. These men would think nothing of putting everyone here to the sword if they were displeased with the food or the rice wine or the service, or simply because the mood took them.

      Only one at a time would come inside to eat and then sleep for a few hours in one of the rooms at the back of the inn. The other three would stand like iron statues in the rain, always looking south. After a while Lei Ping began to wonder whether they were human or whether they were automatons from the terrible past before the gods lit up the skies with thunderbolts and crimson blossoms scarred the world forever.

      On the morning of the seventh day the rain stopped. The sudden silence seemed unnatural. The four dangerous men went about their business as before, with three outside watching the road and the fourth man inside, resting. Second Assistant Cook wrung his hands and prayed the men would soon begone. Perhaps he sensed, as Lei Ping did, their growing frustration. If whoever or whatever they were waiting for did not come soon. . . .

      The distant growl of a monocycle engine stirred them into activity. The fourth man, who was at breakfast, snatched up his sword and went to the window overlooking the road. He cautiously peered outside. The other three men had hidden themselves among the trees, though Lei Ping could still see them. She hardly dared breathe lest they notice her.

      A lone rider appeared on the crest of the hill. Three curious faces looked up at the window. The fourth man stared at the rider for long moments—then he gave a hand signal. The other three relaxed. The rider was not the person, or persons, they were waiting for. The fourth man returned to his table and resumed eating his breakfast. Lei Ping remained by the kitchen door so she could watch their guest and respond to his wishes, as was her duty—but also so she could see what was happening outside.

      The monocycle rider came down off the hill and pulled up in front of the inn. Lei Ping couldn't see his face—he wore protective mask and goggles—but then he looked up and she sensed his gaze upon her. Lei Ping shuddered. It was as if a power had swept over her, an elemental force of Nature.

      He killed his engine and climbed down into the mud. His monocycle stood upright, balanced by its gyroscopes. He walked to the stairs and paused there, looking back over his shoulder. The three men had emerged from the trees and were looking south again, making it obvious that they had no interest in him. The stranger climbed the steps, opened the door and came inside. He shrugged off his anti-radiation coat and hung it on one of the wooden pegs. Then he took off his goggles, his mask and his gauntlets and put them into the coat's deep pockets. His black hair was tied at the base of his neck and hung halfway down his back, thick and shiny, like poured oil. He stepped onto the ultrasonic mat which removed mud from his boots. When he turned to face the room Lei Ping only just managed to smother her gasp before it escaped her lips. A livid radiation burn covered the entire left side of his once-handsome face. He'd been touched by the crimson blossom! Her heart went out to him. Karma to have such beauty destroyed.

      He wore a plain brown kimono without any embroidered Clan or Corporation insignia. His cat eyes swept the interior of the inn, missing nothing. His gaze rested upon the warrior sitting at the breakfast table. The warrior's head slowly came up and his dark, dead eyes studied the new arrival incuriously. Then he returned to eating his meal. Evidently the stranger had been assessed and judged inconsequential.

      Her stepfather should have welcomed the stranger but he had fled, so this duty also fell to Lei Ping. She stepped forward and bowed her respect, trying not to look at his face. He smiled at her, but she knew that he knew. Then his stomach rumbled noisily, and they both laughed.

      "The smells from your kitchen please me," he said. "What would you recommend?"

      "The chicken noodle soup and a bowl of savory dumplings," Lei Ping replied at once. "The best in the district if I may say so myself. Please sit down. I'll bring you hot rice wine first. That'll dispel the morning chill, hmm?"

      He nodded his approval. "A most excellent idea."

      He sat down by the other window, facing the door. He carefully placed his sword, sheathed in its lacquered scabbard, upon the matted floor beside him. Lei Ping hurried to the kitchen and gave the food order to Second Assistant Cook. She flash-heated the rice wine herself and brought it to the tall stranger's table. She kept her gaze carefully averted from his ruined face as she poured wine into his cup. The tall man sipped the wine and nodded his approval again. Lei Ping breathed a sigh of relief. Here was someone she could understand and deal with, a traveler who wished only to rest for a while and eat some noodles before he continued on his journey. Not like the four dangerous men who were like nervous cats, waiting to pounce and kill.

      The stranger sat quietly while his meal was prepared. He stared out the window, idly watching the three men standing by the roadside. Lei Ping went to the kitchen. Second Assistant Cook had performed adequately. She carried the tray with its two steaming bowls, set them down on the stranger's table and placed spoon and chopsticks upon a silk napkin. She added a small vase of trumpet-shaped purple flowers to the table. The stranger's gaze met hers and he smiled again.

      Abruptly the warrior who'd been eating breakfast rose and hurried outside to join his comrades. Lei Ping watched as all four men moved to take up positions among the trees and bushes on the far side of the road. They squatted down, concealing themselves expertly. She wondered what was about to happen, and tasted her own fear.

      Several monocycles appeared on the crest of the road. Lei Ping counted eleven machines and riders. Their machines were painted green and brown flecked with black—military camouflage pattern. The riders wore hooded anti-radiation coats. Even at this distance she could see from the way they slouched in their saddles that they were tired. They had journeyed a considerable distance, and because of this their captain made the inexcusable mistake of not sending scouts ahead to check the harmless roadside inn and its surroundings. Lei Ping held her breath, and waited. What else could she do?

      The thunderous chorus of their engines shook the air as the riders came down the road and drew up outside the inn. As they did so the four warriors leapt from hiding, ran across the road and attacked with a berserk fury that startled Lei Ping. They came upon their unsuspecting enemies from behind, their blades slashing at exposed backs. Four riders instantly fell from their monocycles, dead. In the blink of an eye another four riders were hacked from their saddles. The handsome young captain, identified by the red scarf he wore about his upper arm, seemed only dimly aware of what was happening. He turned to face the attackers but his sword was still in its scabbard when one of the warriors bore down upon him. His warning scream died in his throat and his corpse toppled into the mud.

      Only two of the eleven riders still lived. The first gunned his monocycle into a slewing half-circle to cut the warriors off from the last rider. Lei Ping observed that the last rider was smaller than the rest, with a boy's figure beneath his radiation coat. The defending rider drew his sword and shouted a challenge, inviting a duel, but two of the ruthless warriors leapt to either side of him and struck together, a double attack that skewered the rider from both sides. He slumped across the handlebars and his weight pitched his monocycle over onto its side, the engine dying along with its owner.

      The four warriors quickly surrounded the last rider and so prevented him from fleeing. They carefully closed the trap, cautious and wary, ready for anything. The boy looked around desperately seeking an avenue of escape, but there was none.

      The leader of the four—he who had been eating breakfast when the riders appeared—lowered his sword and took a pace forward. To Lei Ping's surprise he bowed to the last rider. And then he held out his hand.

      "The message spool, if you please," he said, and as she heard these words Lei Ping realized that the four warriors must have received intelligence informing them that these riders would be coming north by this road, bringing a message with them. A message from whom? A message to whom? Lei Ping had no way of knowing, nor did she wish to know. Such knowledge might well bring about her own death, assuming it was not already written in stone.

      The young rider hesitated, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood. The warrior behind him snatched the rider's hood away. Lei Ping gasped as long black hair spilled out, framing a face that was suddenly very feminine and very afraid.

      Afterwards, when she thought back to this moment, Lei Ping would swear that the stranger moved with such speed that the chopsticks he had been holding floated in mid air for long seconds, uncertain as to whether they should obey gravity's pull. The stranger became a blur as he leapt through the open window. His sword left its scabbard in a smooth arc that cut entirely through the body of the warrior who had pulled the rider's hood away, before the stranger's boots had even touched the ground.

      The warrior gurgled and fell, his body splashing in the mud. All motion then ceased as the three remaining warriors regarded the stranger who stood in their midst. The woman, for such she was, seemed no less afraid. She did not recognize the stranger, as was obvious from her surprised expression, and therefore she had no way of knowing whether one swordsman was any better than another. Lei Ping could have told her.

      The leader of the warriors said, "This is private business. If you wish to live, turn and begone."

      On this last word another warrior lunged, his blade humming as it sought the tall stranger's head. Instead it found only air. The stranger spun, slashed, and slashed again. The warrior stared at his handless wrists, and then a line of red slowly appeared across his neck and he realized he was dead. He fell to his knees and pitched forward into the mud which turned dark beneath him.

      The two remaining warriors attacked together, their speed deadly, but the stranger held them both, refusing to retreat. Yet it was obvious to Lei Ping that their combined skills might prove a match for him, therefore the outcome of the battle was by no means certain. She snatched up the flower vase and threw it. The vessel tumbled through the air, leaving a trail of trumpet-shaped purple flowers, and smashed upon the head of the warrior nearest her. The man cried out and stumbled. An instant later he too was dead, a victim of the stranger's lightning reflexes.

      The leader backed away from the stranger. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his rage at having three of his men killed.

      "Who are you? Why do you interfere in our business?"

      The tall stranger's sword did not waver, nor did he take his eyes from the leader for an instant, even to look at the woman. She was still uncertain as to whether she could trust the stranger, but he had killed three of the men who had murdered her escort and so she stared at him, anxious to hear his reply.

      "My name is unimportant. And I have no interest in your business. Only in the lady."

      "You killed my men because of her?"

      The stranger smiled. "But of course. She's pretty, don't you think? I never could resist a pretty face. She's too good for you and your vermin. She needs a real man, mmm?"

      A muscle beneath the leader's eye twitched. Even as Lei Ping began to understand that the stranger had said these things to anger him, the leader screamed and stamped forward, raining blow after blow upon the stranger's sword as if determined to smash through his enemy's defense by brute strength alone, his desire for bloody vengeance now his only consideration.

      The stranger held the attack. His rage exhausted, the leader stepped back and re-assessed his adversary. The two men circled each other, each a master swordsman, neither prepared to give or receive quarter. They came together and the clash of steel on tempered steel all but deafened Lei Ping, who put her hands over her ears and was terrified by the thought that the leader might triumph—in which event she and Second Assistant Cook would perish along with the rest. The leader would leave no witnesses to what had happened here, she knew that now.

      "Remain in the kitchen!" she warned Second Assistant Cook who was peering around the door, frightened by the sounds of fighting. He needed no second telling and disappeared at once—just like her stepfather, who'd thought nothing of leaving Lei Ping to whatever fate the four warriors wished to inflict upon her.

      At that moment the leader lunged, the point of his sword seeking the tall stranger's heart. Something happened then, something which Lei Ping could not quite follow or understand. A flash of steel—and then the stranger and the leader stood immobile in the mud, each perfectly relaxed and unmoving. In the eternity that stretched out of this single instant in time Lei Ping realized that one or other of the men below had embraced death. She swallowed hard and silently prayed it was the right one.

      At last the leader moved. He looked down at the dark stain that spread across his chest, hardly able, it seemed, to comprehend what had transpired. He looked up at the stranger, wishing him to explain this curious phenomenon. Instead the stranger took a step forward and decapitated the leader cleanly. The leader's body splashed into the mud, as did his head, a moment later.

      The stranger examined the other bodies thoroughly, making sure the warriors were all dead, not that there was any doubt in Lei Ping's mind. The stranger and the woman were the only two people still alive down there, that much was obvious.

      The stranger wiped his bloodied sword on the dead leader's tunic before returning it to its scabbard. Only then did he pay any attention to the woman. She'd picked up a fallen sword and stood ready to defend herself. But once again her expression became one of surprise as the stranger, without a word, turned and climbed the stairs. He came back inside, stepped onto the ultrasonic mat again to clean his boots, then returned to his table and sat down, placing his sword beside him on the floor. As if nothing had happened, he picked up his chopsticks and resumed eating his savory dumplings.

      Lei Ping went to the kitchen and heated more rice wine. She brought it to the stranger's table and refreshed his cup. She tried not to stare, but was not entirely successful; the stranger looked up at her. Lei Ping bowed her thanks. The stranger nodded, acknowledging her unspoken gratitude and understanding her fears. Lei Ping went and stood by the window, leaving him to enjoy his meal in peace. She closed her eyes and reveled in the soft touch of the morning breeze on her face. From certain death to continued life; a short but significant journey made possible by a stranger's sword. Even with its ever-present burned metal taint, the air smelled wonderful.

      Footsteps sounded upon the stairs. The door flew open and the woman entered. Her gaze swept the room, lingered on Lei Ping for a moment, and then locked upon the stranger. She came forward to stand before his table, dripping mud on the floor. He looked at the mud, tutted his disapproval, then raised his head to look at her.

      Until that moment Lei Ping had not realized how beautiful the woman was. Even in her mud-spattered anti-radiation coat, with her hair windblown and unkempt, she brightened the interior of the inn with her perfection like some goddess descended from the heavens.

      "Who are you?" the woman demanded of the stranger.

      "My name is unimportant," he said—the answer he'd given when the leader had asked the same question, Lei Ping remembered.

      "You have saved my life and vanquished my enemies. I would know why."

      "Must there be a reason?" he asked.

      "Yes!" The single word exploded from her perfect lips.

      He shrugged again, as if the subject was inconsequential. Then he said, "My mission and theirs is the same."

      Color drained from her face but he held up a hand, palm outward, as if to reassure her that he meant her no harm. "The message spool you carry must not reach my master," he said.

      Her eyes widened in surprise. "Meaning?"

      "I should have thought it obvious, Princess. Your father wishes you to deliver an offer of alliance to my master. But such an alliance would bring us into a war which we do not wish to be involved in. I was ordered to spare my master the embarrassment of having to refuse your father's offer." He nodded toward the window. "These men were sent to stop you because their master wished to make his own offer of alliance first."

      "And what will your master say when that offer arrives?"

      "It will never arrive. The messenger will be intercepted, just as you were intercepted. He will be turned back, assuming he listens to reason—or if not, he will simply vanish from the face of the earth. Easy enough to blame his disappearance on one of your father's patrols, which have no respect for official borders any more."

      His tone carried a warning that the woman could not have failed to notice. She gestured angrily at the dead warriors lying in the mud. "Why did you stop them? If you had allowed them to kill me, my message would not have reached your master."

      He thought about it for a moment, sipping his rice wine and staring out across the blackened fields beyond the shriveled, bare trees. Lei Ping also waited to hear his answer.

      "It was a spur of the moment thing," he said at last.

      "I beg your pardon?"

      "I stopped them," he said, "because I felt like it."

      "And for no other reason?" She looked disappointed.

      "For no other reason."

      At last, Lei Ping understood. The woman wished to know if the stranger intended to take her as a spoil of war. He'd saved her life. None could dispute his right even though she possessed Royal blood.

      "You have a long ride ahead of you, and there are bandits on the road," he said. "Speed will be of the essence. Take my bike. The tank is nearly full and there's food and water in the storage pod. I'll take one of yours. I don't have as far to travel." He threw her the key. She snatched it out of the air and turned it in her hand, inspecting it. Lei Ping sensed she wanted to ask more, but somehow realized that there would be little point; the stranger had said all he'd wanted to say. She turned and went to the door, opened it and paused on the landing, looking down at the carnage. The bodies of her dead escort and the warriors who had been sent to intercept her lay sprawled in the mud in various positions of obscene death. The predominant color was crimson, like the fiery blossoms that had transformed the world into a quiltwork of pain and suffering.

      The woman cast a final backward glance at the seated swordsman, then went down the steps. She mounted his monocycle and rode back the way she'd come, her long black hair streaming behind her.

      The stranger finished his meal and dabbed his lips with a napkin. He rose from the table, fished in a pocket for a coin and placed this beside his empty cup. Lei Ping stared at the gleaming hexagonal coin. At the current exchange rates it represented enormous wealth; enough to purchase this inn outright from her stepfather.

      "You were right," he told her. "Your savory dumplings are the best in the district."

      He took his anti-radiation coat off the hook and shrugged it on, then pulled on his goggles and gloves. Lei Ping watched as he went outside and down the steps. He inspected the camouflage pattern monocycles and selected one, mounted it, started the engine and drove off in the opposite direction from the beautiful princess—north, toward the distant, half-melted city-dome where he would report the outcome of his mission to his master, the wise mandarin-daimyo who refused to involve himself or his people in the senseless war that sought to destroy the feuding southern nations.

      Lei Ping sighed. Had she expected the swordsman to sweep her up and place her on the back of his monocycle and take her with him? Just because they had both been kissed by the burning heat of the crimson blossom didn't mean that a man such as he would ever consider a lowly serving maid encountered by chance in a roadside inn.

      She bowed once more to the departing rider, and then she told the Second Assistant Cook to ride to the next village to fetch the village headman, who would give her a good price for the ownerless machines. After all, she'd need money to pay for the extension she planned to build onto the restaurant she would purchase from her stepfather, and the extra staff she intended to take on.

The End

Nice title, shame about the — ooh, shiny!

2009-01-20T15:00:00.006Z

Y'all may have wondered where the title of this lame excuse for a blog came from? (Or, far more likely, no one gives a crap.) Anyways, once upon a distant time I had this grand idea for a bunch of secret agent stories... which as usual came to not very much, what with my butterfly attention span a.k.a. Shiny Object Distraction Syndrome a.k.a. SODS law. But suddenly I had a rare moment of focus over the weekend (clunk! ow!) and this odd little spin-off from the original ideas came into being:

(You're supposed to click on the button!)

I was kinda hoping this might pop the cork that's blocked the mighty dam and get me typing again, but not yet, not yet... the world must be denied my genius* for a while longer, it seems.

*apply salt to taste

Space Pirates of the Black Quarter!

2009-01-08T14:01:00.002Z

New webcomic! First page posted today. Hoping to update/add at least one page every week. Clicky on mini-banner to view the intro page:

This project is in addition to CROWBAR which is still going strong after 6+ months, my longest project for years!

Those who have read my even older rivets Sci-Fi from the early '90s may recognize the insidious space pirate organization and realize, with a mounting sense of dread, where the story's going...

Whether you're a new or old reader, enjoy!

Damn this flu/virus/whatever the hell it is

2009-01-04T17:03:00.002Z

Had it 3 weeks now and I feel like sh!t. Thanks to Mr. Alexander Fleming, without whose assistance I would be feeling like even worse sh!t. Brain totally befuddled but slowly regaining function.

Today's thought:

How feeble this body is!
See how easily it breaks.
How I yearn for a robot body,
immortal and powerful!

Culture, baby.

An actual blog entry! Unheard of!

2008-12-18T00:06:00.002Z

Heh, I keep forgetting to update. Not that there's much to update.

Last month's NaNoWriMo was pretty much a disaster for me, too many darn distractions (and not enough discipline), but I got a couple of things started and intend to continue with them. I'm actively working on a script, with a deadline (of sorts). Hoping to finish this before the holidays.

I've also been updating the webcomic and having lots of fun with that. Silly maybe, but it tickles parts of my brain that writing prose doesn't normally tickle.

There's a fun short script contest running on the Done Deal Pro board, in the Writing Exercises forum. No prizes, just a have-a-laugh Christmas theme.

Nostalgia Trip #20: THE VAMPYRE'S KISS

2008-09-23T21:27:00.003+01:00

The long-awaited, mega-thrilling, action-packed sequel (pause to roll your eyes - OK that's long enough) to THE KAISERINE'S CHAMPION! Originally released in 2004 by publisher Raechel Henderson Moon's sadly defunct Jintsu imprint from EGGPLANT LITERARY PRODUCTIONS.

Click on the title button below to view the novella, which like its predecessor is a tad too long to post here.

I found these stunning stats on Fictionwise... I can't tell if it's an old archived page or if the novella is still for sale. Thanks to my army of unknown fans for your votes!

Nostalgia Trip #19: PARADIGMS

2008-08-25T22:06:00.006+01:00

Published by Richard Freeborn's most excellent
OCEANS OF THE MIND, Issue XI, March 2004.  While THE DRAW and MADE IN HEAVEN take place on Ganymede, PARADIGMS goes further afield, to Alphacent System, as Mankind spreads out to colonize the stars.  And indeed Issue XI's theme was:  Colonies.  It's possibly worth mentioning that, thanks to the success of Frank Miller's 300, folks are familiar once again with the famous stand of the Spartan king, but when PARADIGMS was written, and published, 300 wasn't even a blip on the horizon!

Johnson looked up in surprise as O'Hara entered the Admin Center and collapsed into a chair, his p-suit joints hissing as they took on the new configuration.  "Coffee," the engineer croaked, like a man crawling out of the Sahara after a week without water.  He banged his fist on the table.  "Somebody bring me a bloody coffee, will you?"

Larette, sitting at her big desk on the other side of the compartment, turned to regard O'Hara with interest.  The former surfboard champ had the kind of sculpted body and permanent suntan that most women drooled over.  Larette appeared to be no exception, though Johnson noticed she made no attempt to satisfy O'Hara's demands.

Johnson went to the machine just to shut O'Hara up.  He pressed the button and waited while the unit went through its usual spluttering and wheezing routine.  As Chief Maintenance Tech it was Johnson's responsibility to overhaul the damned thing, but he had a dozen other systems to take care of, important systems like Life Support.  Which, in an Offworld Scientific Research Station with a population of over fifty people and animals, took priority.  He banged the side of the machine and muttered obscenities under his breath until the hatch finally slid open to reveal the steaming cup.

O'Hara snatched it out of his hand and gulped the contents—then screwed up his face.  "Bloody hell, what is this stuff?  I asked for coffee, not battery acid."

Johnson shrugged.  "I usually ignore the toxic warning lights.  To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"  What he really wanted to ask was, "Couldn't you take your perfect profile somewhere else?"

"I just lost a construction drone.  Thought I better report it."

"That's not an easy thing to do," Larette said.  She got up and joined them at the table.  Johnson nodded toward the coffee machine, offering her a cup, but she shook her head, no thanks.  She knew better.

"I was out working on the new dome," O'Hara said.  "Everything's running to schedule, should you wonder.  By this time next week we'll have full integrity."

Johnson was glad to hear it.  Another team of scientists would soon be arriving on Alphacent, along with their families.  The Research Station was about to turn into a minor colony.  He couldn't help but take pride in the fact he'd contributed toward this evolution.

O'Hara paused, staring into his empty cup, his lips set in a tight line.  Johnson glanced at Larette, who said, "Hey, wake up.  The drone, remember?"

"It was a Type Three," O'Hara said.  "You know, the ones with the A-G packs.  Sixteen of them were working with me on the new dome."  He ran his tongue around the inside of his lips, maybe wondering whether the coffee had dissolved his tooth enamel.  Then he added, "Fifteen, now."

Larette said, "Did it malfunction and wander off, or what?"

Johnson shook his head.  "They can't do that.  They're slaved to the Station A.I.  It keeps track of them at all times."

She pondered that for a moment.  "Then what happened?"

O'Hara didn't answer.  Johnson got the impression he was replaying events over in his head, trying to figure it out for himself.  Just when Larette looked as if she was about to scream, O'Hara spoke again.  "I think there's something out there."

[End of Excerpt]

published by

OCEANS OF THE MIND
Issue XI, March 2004
Richard Freeborn, editor
Fiction by: Brenda Cooper, Andrew Burt, Cherith Baldry, Gregory Benford, Julia West, Doug Smith, Jerry Goodz, O’Neil De Noux, M. C. A. Hogarth, Jennifer Schwabach, Derek Paterson
Non-fiction by: Gregory Benford

CROWBAR: the webcomic

2008-08-02T12:50:00.004+01:00

I've had a couple of folks ask if this is my work, to which I've been tempted to respond, Well yeah, that's my name on it, right there, see? And my email addy, too! And if you didn't find it through clicking on the links I've been leaving here and there in my siglines, how the heck did ya find it? :)

It's not intended as a serious work of art, it's just a bit of hobby fun to get the old synapses going, so if you happen to pay a visit to Mikey and Construction Robot M-47 aka CROWBAR, enjoy!

Nostalgia Trip #18: THE BARROW

2008-07-26T14:13:00.003+01:00

Originally published in KINGS OF THE NIGHT anthology from Cyber Pulp, Editor G.W. Thomas, and later by G.W.'s own imprint, R A G E Machine.

The storm came suddenly out of the southeast, bringing with it darkness and monstrous waves that crashed over the galley and threatened to send her to the sea bottom.  The oarsmen pulled for all they were worth, but could make little headway against the storm's savage, unrelenting fury.  Ranald of Skyree knew that their only chance of survival rested in reaching the safety of the sheltered harbor that lay somewhere ahead, obscured by the blinding rain.

Ranald held his course and prayed the winds wouldn't drive them onto the rocks.  He'd lashed himself to the tiller to stop himself from being washed overboard.  He wiped stinging salt water from his eyes and peered at the tall figure who stood at the bows, acting as lookout, risking his life by thus exposing himself to the elements.  But Ranald expected no less of Dughal, High King of the Caledon tribes.  Dughal would not cower from the storm and let another man take his place.  It was not his way.

Dughal signaled frantically.  Ranald saw why:  up ahead, two points off their port bow, a light shone.  The twin signal fires, marking the entrance to the safe harbor they so desperately sought.  Dughal bared his teeth in a triumphant grin, and Ranald grinned back at him.  They had endured the worst of the storm and survived.  Ranald shook off his relief and took the galley in toward the signal fires, the constantly burning beacons that lit their way to safety.

The great blow turned the galley over onto its side, throwing screaming men into the boiling sea.  Ranald lost his footing and his head struck the tiller.  He blacked out for a moment.  When he opened his eyes again and looked to the bows, King Dughal was gone.  Ranald couldn't understand what had happened.  He could still see the signal fires, dead ahead.  They couldn't have struck the rocks.  Couldn't have.

The waves smashed into the galley with pitiless cruelty.  The ship disintegrated, its timbers unable to withstand the pounding.  Ranald tried to untie himself so he could look for Dughal but the soaked, knotted ropes binding him to the tiller would not unravel, and Ranald's scabbard was empty.  The broken stern slid down into the foaming sea, which parted briefly to reveal jagged black rocks.  The steersman took his confusion with him to his watery grave.

§

A persistent banging at the door dragged Dulnain from a deep sleep and sent his hand questing for his shortsword.  He rose from his cot, draped his blanket about his shoulders and staggered to the door.  The floorboards were freezing cold beneath his bare feet.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

Incoherent words reached him.  He recognized Grigor's voice, opened the door and peered outside.  The balding innkeeper stood there with his wife and his two daughters.  Dulnain had noticed the girls when he'd arrived.  The younger, red-haired girl was pretty but too slim, while the older, dark-haired one had wider hips but rivaled the cows in Grigor's byre for beauty.  Small wonder Grigor hadn't been able to marry her off yet.

"What is it, man?" Dulnain growled.  "It's the middle of the night."

"Nordlanders," Grigor said.  "Padraig says they're coming this way."  Padraig was Grigor's stable hand.  The dark-haired girl glanced nervously at the stairs, as if she expected the Nordlanders to appear there at any moment.  They were all afraid, and small wonder.  Nordlanders slew men and womenfolk alike to appease their blood god, Fel.  What was it the priests of Daras had written before they were slaughtered in their sanctuary on Skyree?  Save us, Oh Daras, from the fury of the Nord.  Their prayers hadn't worked; Daras the Charitable had looked the other way, as He usually did.  The Nordlanders had slaughtered the priests in the worst ways imaginable.

Dulnain had come here to sell his father's cattle at tomorrow's market.  The coin would purchase supplies to help take his family through the harsh mountain winter.  He wasn't here to fight Nordlanders or defend Grigor's womenfolk.

"You must help us," the wife said, perhaps seeing his hesitation.  "You are a Caledon warrior.  You have a sword."

Dulnain glanced down at the iron shortsword his father had given him, remembering his advice:  Never involve yourself in someone else's battles.  Always be your own man.  He didn't want them to think him a coward, but he'd little choice in the matter.  "This is none of my business," he said gruffly.  He noted the wife's surprise, and the dark-haired daughter's disappointment.

But Grigor gave Dulnain a reason for involvement:  "They'll steal your animals as well as ours.  You think they care who owns which beast?"

Dulnain imagined the consequences of coming home without coin or supplies.  "Give me a moment," he said, trying desperately to think.  He pushed the door shut, shrugged off the blanket and dressed quickly, pulling on his trews and his shirt, and the sheepskin jerkin his mother had given him.  Next, he sat on the edge of the cot and pulled on his woolen socks and leather boots.  Feeling considerably warmer, he picked up his sword again and strode to the door.

"Have you a weapon?" he said to Grigor as he stepped out onto the landing.

"He was a bowman once," the wife said.  "He fought with King Dughal's army at Blood Moor, against the Nordlanders.  But a Nordlander ax split his shoulder.  He cannot pull the string any more."

Dulnain recalled seeing the great longbow hanging above the stone fireplace in the common room downstairs, but he was no more an archer than he was a swordsman, so the bow was useless to him.

"How many Nordlanders are there?" he said.

"Padraig counted six," Grigor said.  "But there must surely be more.  Their dragon ships can hold ten times that number."

Sixty Nordlanders!  The odds were against Dulnain, but he'd no choice.  Tonight he must be a warrior instead of a farmer, if he wanted to keep his father's cattle.  "Stay here," he said, heading for the stairs.

"What will you do?" said the wife.

Dulnain frowned.  Did she expect him to have a plan of battle?  "I will see what is to be seen," he said, hoping that was a good enough answer.

He descended to the inn's darkened common room.  The smell of stale pipeweed smoke still hung in the air, but the tables had been cleaned and the floor brushed.  Grigor's womenfolk kept a tidy house.  Dulnain crept to a window and peered outside.  Nothing was moving out there.  He wondered whether the dozy stable hand might have been dreaming.  Nordlanders, indeed!

A dark, tall figure stepped out of the house opposite the inn, clad in fur and leather and carrying a longsword that gleamed in the pale moonlight.  He looked left and right as he crossed the ground between the house and the inn.  Behind him, orange fire took hold inside the house, spreading up the walls to the thatched roof.

Dulnain experienced a pang of fear for whoever dwelled in the house—then realized they were probably dead already.  He drew back the locking bar so the Nordlander would have no trouble opening the door, and stepped away from the door.

"What are you doing?  Are you mad?"

Dulnain spun, surprised.  The older daughter had followed him.  He wanted to shout at her to go back upstairs, but the Nordlander would hear him.  He put a finger to his lips instead, warning her to silence, and turned back to face the door.

The Nordlander kicked the door open and Dulnain threw himself at the huge shadow, sinking the iron blade deep into the warrior's guts.  The Nordlander glared at him, eyes wide, lips drawn back to expose uneven teeth.  Then his longsword slipped from his hand and he collapsed, dead.  Dulnain stumbled back, hardly able to believe he'd killed the warrior so easily.

"Watch out!" the girl shouted.

A second Nordlander leapt over the body of his comrade and struck at Dulnain, sending his shortsword spinning from his numbed hand.  Caught off-balance, Dulnain sprawled on his back on the floor, gasping for breath.  The grinning Nordlander stood over him, his longsword raised.  Dulnain tensed himself to receive the fatal blow, but it didn't come.  Instead the Nordlander slowly sank to his knees, then pitched forward onto his face.  Grigor's daughter stood over him, holding the splintered remains of the three-legged stool she'd broken over his head.

Dulnain shakily pushed himself up and recovered his shortsword, relieved to still be alive.  "What's your name, girl?"

"And who are you to ask me that?" she said.

He clamped his mouth shut.  He'd only asked her name, he hadn't asked her to share his cot.  These coastal people were touchy, he decided.  He went to the door.  There were no other Nordlanders to be seen.  The house opposite burned fiercely, the wind carrying showers of burning sparks into the night.

A moaning sound made Dulnain glance back over his shoulder.  The second Nordlander was still alive, trying to get up.  Grigor's daughter picked up his fallen longsword.  She put her weight upon the weapon, pushing the point down into the warrior's back.  The Nordlander shuddered, and then lay still.  Bile rose in Dulnain's throat.  He saw the sense in what she'd done, but this was no way for a warrior to die.  Heimdal would deny the man entry to Valhalla, nothing was more certain.

The girl pointed behind Dulnain, her eyes wide.  Dulnain turned around, expecting to come under attack from another wild foeman.  But it was far worse than that.  A mist was rising from the body of the warrior he'd slain.  The air in the common room turned chill.  The mist swirled, then became a ghostly outline of the dead warrior.  The specter's terrible gaze swept the common room and came to rest upon Dulnain.  It nodded, acknowledging Dulnain as the victor in their combat. Then it turned its back on him and walked through the wall.

Several moments passed before Dulnain dared breath again.

"Did you see that?" he said, finding it difficult to believe his own senses.

"Aye, I saw it," she replied, her astonishment mirroring his own.  Then she gasped as the air in the room turned chill again.  A second specter rose from the body of the Nordlander she'd dispatched.  The ghost looked down at the body it had occupied and gave a terrible wail of despair.

"Give him his sword," Dulnain whispered.  "Without it, he cannot enter Valhalla."  His father had impressed upon Dulnain the awe-inspiring legends of Valhalla and Hel.  It was not the religion of the Caledon Druids, but even the Druids did not totally deny Nordlander beliefs.

The girl shook her head.  "I gladly deny him his place in Heaven.  A curse on him and all his kind."  She spat on the Nordlander's body.

For a moment Dulnain thought the ghost might snatch its sword from her, but this was not to be.  Instead the wraith stepped past her and walked through the solid fireplace wall as if through an open door.

Dulnain's hands shook.  His eyes had never beheld such terrible sights before.

"Where are they going?" Grigor's daughter asked.

"To Valhalla, or to Hel, whichever is fitting," he said.  Dulnain felt sorry for the warrior she'd killed.  Then again, the Nordlander would probably have taken pleasure in slaughtering everyone here, and deserved no one's pity.

"What if other Nordlanders see the ghosts?" she said.  "They'll come looking for us, knowing we slew them."

Dulnain cursed softly.  She was right.  The others would see the ghosts and seek out whoever had done the deed.  There could be no more hiding in the dark.  He stepped outside.  The ghosts were walking toward the flat hill that lay west of the village.  Clearly they had a purpose, but Dulnain could not fathom it.  Nor did he particularly wish to; he simply wanted them gone.

The burning house turned day into night.  Three Nordlanders stood not twenty paces away, their backs to Dulnain, watching the ghosts.  Dulnain picked up the first slain Nordlander's longsword, transferring his shortsword to his left hand.  He hefted the longsword, testing its weight and balance.  It was much lighter than a Caledon broadsword; Dulnain was sure he could use it one-handed.  Thus armed, he came silently upon the three men, hoping to kill or wound at least one of them before the others turned on him.  If he had to die this night then he'd at least take some of his enemies with him, and hopefully save the cattle.  His father would send someone to look for him—and the cattle—if Dulnain did not return.  Hopefully his family would learn of Dulnain's actions, and understand why he'd chosen this path.

"Follow them, Valtos," the largest of the Nordlanders said, pointing after the ghosts.  "See where they are going."

The warrior he'd named shook his head.  "Go after them yourself, Tolsta," he growled.  "Show us all how brave you are."

"Damn you, Valtos, if you were not my brother—"

Their speech shocked Dulnain.  He'd expected to hear strange foreign accents, but these men might well have originated from Caledon lands, so familiar was their tongue to his ears.  And they carried longswords, yet it was a known fact that Nordlanders fought with the terrible double-headed broadax, and regarded swords as lesser weapons fit only for boys and women.  King Dughal had showed them the error of their thinking at the Blood Moor, when Caledon sword had triumphed over Nordlander ax.

The warrior called Valtos either heard or sensed Dulnain's approach for he spun suddenly, lifting his sword to block the overhead stroke that Dulnain aimed at his skull.  Iron shrieked upon iron and Valtos cried out in alarm.  But Dulnain, instead of trying to renew his attack with the longsword, stabbed him through the heart with his shortsword instead.  Valtos fell dead without another sound uttered.

The other two warriors leapt back and faced Dulnain.  The larger one—Tolsta—grinned ferociously, his teeth shining in the firelight.  Scarred covered his face, as if a thousand angry birds had scratched him.  No, not birds—a woman's fingernails.  One of the villagers had raked Tolsta's face as he'd ravaged her.

"And who might you be, lad?  You're not one of these soft village cowards, by the look of you.  From the mountains, are you?"

"Come and find out," Dulnain invited, his words belying his fear.

Tolsta laughed.  "What think you, Badral?" he said to his comrade.  "Are we dealing with a wolf, or is he just a sheep howling at the Moon?"  He beckoned to Dulnain.  "Come on, lad.  Let's see what you're made of."

Dulnain attacked Badral instead, shifting rapidly so Badral stood between him and the larger, more dangerous Tolsta.  The Nordlander warrior, if such he was, snarled and swung at him but Dulnain crossed his swords above his head, catching Badral's blade between his two.  He slipped his shortsword free and brought the blade down upon the astonished warrior's neck.  Badral dropped to his knees, trying to staunch the leak, but the wound was mortal and he pitched forward, his lifeblood emptying into the earth.

Dulnain, surprised again by how easy it was to kill, now faced Tolsta.

"Very good, lad," Tolsta said.  He'd made no move to help Badral but had instead hung back and observed Dulnain, measuring him so that he might defeat him all the more easily.  "But you're up against old Tolsta now.  I know all the tricks.  Aye, and I've made up a few of my own, as you'll find out."

Tolsta took a step toward Dulnain—and leapt back in fright as Valtos's spirit rose from the slain warrior's corpse.  A heartbeat later, Badral's did likewise.  The ghost warriors stared at Dulnain, who wanted to throw down his swords and run away, but did not.  The ghosts turned away from him and, ignoring Tolsta completely, walked toward the low hill.

"What wizardry have you set upon them?" Tolsta demanded of Dulnain.  "How is it that we can see the spirits of the fallen?"

Dulnain couldn't answer his questions.  "I do not know, nor do I care.  It is enough for me that they are dead."

"Ah, lad, what a cruel thing—"

Tolsta leapt in mid-sentence, twisting in the air, his sword arcing toward Dulnain's neck—but Dulnain dived to one side, his longsword opening a deep cut in Tolsta's left thigh.  The larger man bellowed in pain and rage as Dulnain rolled to his feet, amazed he'd got the better of Tolsta so easily.  He was no swordsman—but he was young and fast, reared in the Caledon Mountains and hardened by the land from an early age.  His reflexes were a match for Tolsta's and the longsword fitted his hand comfortably, as if it were made for him.

Tolsta snarled and hacked at him, missed, limped after him and cut again.  Any of these stupendous blows would have slain Dulnain had they landed, but he used his speed and agility to avoid them, all the while gaining the measure of his enemy.

He saw the murderous light in Tolsta's eyes fade, to be replaced by something else.  The truth of it struck Dulnain like cold sleet on an icy winter's morn.  It was fear!  Tolsta had judged Dulnain to be easy prey, young and inexperienced, a callow youth who should have fallen to his first stroke.  Now Tolsta was slowing, while Dulnain remained fresh and strong.

"Ransay, Tirgmor, to me!" Tolsta bellowed at the top of his voice.  "Giuran, Eishkar, to me!"

Dulnain's heart sank as more warriors came running in response to Tolsta's call.  Tolsta retreated every time Dulnain pressed him, keeping him at sword's length while he waited for help to arrive.  "You've had your chance, lad," he said.  "Now I'll have mine.  You'll pay for what you've done, mark my words."

Four warriors joined Tolsta, two of them carrying burning torches, all four armed and ready for a fight.

Dulnain spat at Tolsta's feet.  "You are a coward who lets other men fight his battles," he said.

"Willingly," Tolsta said.  "I'll even let them die for me."  His smile broadened.  "As long as you die, too."

"He'll not die alone," a familiar voice called, surprising Dulnain.  It was Grigor's daughter.  She stepped forward to stand on Dulnain's right, armed with the sword she'd taken from the warrior she'd brained with the wooden stool.  Firelight caught the metal so it shone as if made from the stars themselves.

"You think you can stand against us?" Tolsta demanded as his warriors spread out to form a loose fighting line.  They were grim men, spattered with the blood of innocents and still eager to shed more.

"We can, and we will," Grigor said.  He moved to stand on Dulnain's left.  He'd brought his longbow with him from the inn and had already notched an arrow, though he hadn't yet drawn the string and taken aim.  Dulnain knew why; Tolsta did not.

Tolsta laughed.  "Five proven warriors against a boy, an old man and a girl," he said.  "Hardly fair odds."

"You've seen how this one fights," Grigor said, nodding toward Dulnain.  "The ghosts of three of your best warriors go to the King's barrow, cursing the day they met Dulnain of the Caledon.  The fourth was slain by my daughter Gela, who carries his sword.  As for me, I fought alongside King Dughal at the Blood Moor and I slew thirty Nordlanders before I ran out of arrows.  Which of you wants to die first?"

"Let us talk no more, Father," his daughter said.  Her voice was cold as ice, but the fire in her eyes touched Dulnain's soul.  "They have murdered and sullied our folk, and must now pay the price."

The effect of their words upon the four warriors quickly became apparent.  The men exchanged wary looks—and glanced at the wounded Tolsta, then at the bodies of their dead comrades lying about them.  Dulnain was unwounded and ready to fight, as was Grigor's daughter—Gela, her father had named her.  Dulnain regretted comparing her to the cattle in the byre.  She wasn't the prettiest he'd ever seen, but she was handsome in her own way, standing there with her hair streaming in the wind, ready to die protecting her village.

"It takes more than words to frighten warriors, old man," Tolsta said, trying to put on a bold mask but making no move against them.

"Warriors?  The lad called you coward to your face but still you would not fight him, man against man."  Grigor spat loudly, giving his opinion of Tolsta.  "You are not Nordlanders.  You are outlaws pretending to be Nordlanders, scum who have forgotten your oath of service to your own King."

"Talk not to me of oaths," Tolsta snarled.  "Dughal broke his oath to me before I broke mine to him.  The gods bear witness to this."

Tolsta's words puzzled Dulnain, but he was wise to Tolsta's trick of attacking in the middle of a sentence.  As if reading his mind, a warrior leapt just as Tolsta finished speaking, intending to slay Grigor.  Dulnain met his attack, turning the man's longsword with his own and gutting him with the shortsword.  The warrior screamed and fell.  His death prompted the others to charge.  A scarred warrior hurled himself at Dulnain.  Instead of trying to stab him, as Dulnain expected, he cunningly swept Dulnain's swords aside.  The warrior's head snapped forward and his studded iron helm struck Dulnain full in the face.

Dulnain reeled, off-balance and blinded, his nose surely broken.  The warrior slammed into him, sending him sprawling in the dirt.  Grigor cried out and, a moment later, Gela screamed.  Dulnain's crimson pain was nothing against the knowledge he'd failed them.  His vision cleared just in time for him to see the warrior standing over him, framed against a background of stars, his teeth bared and his longsword ready to cleave Dulnain in half.

A biting chill touched Dulnain.  The warrior looked up, his surprise turning to terror in the space of a heartbeat.  And then he died as a glowing sword swept completely through his body.  He toppled backward and crashed to the ground like a felled tree.

Dulnain heaved himself up onto his knees and blinked until his vision cleared.  Grigor stood a short distance away, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted in pain.  Tolsta lay on the ground before him, a black-feathered shaft sticking out of his stomach.  Grigor had launched his arrow as Tolsta bore down upon him.  At that range the archer couldn't have missed, even with a partial pull of the bowstring.  The deed had caused Grigor great suffering but he was still alive, while Tolsta was dying.  And so were Tolsta's men.  The ghosts were murdering them.  The shades of the warriors Dulnain and Gela had killed had returned to slay those who still lived.

Gela moved to stand beside him.  Blood covered one side of her face, streaming from a gash on her forehead.  They watched in frightened silence as the ghosts drew back from those they'd killed.  It was not long before the spirits of the newly slain rose from their bodies.  Dulnain could hardly bear to look at them; their wounds were hideous.  They joined their former comrades and together they stood waiting.  For what?

"I remember you now," Grigor said, and Dulnain and Gela looked at him.  The innkeeper was speaking to Tolsta.  "You are the traitor, Tolsta the Raven, who was banished by King Dughal."

Dulnain also remembered.  The story of Tolsta the Raven's treachery had reached even the far corners of the Caledon Mountains.  Tolsta had conspired to murder his friend Dughal, but had himself been betrayed and forced to flee into exile.

Tolsta chuckled, then winced in pain, clutching the arrow in his belly.  "Aye, Innkeeper, you saw me the night Dughal's ship was wrecked," he said, hissing the words.  "We doused your signal fires, and lit other fires further up the coast.  His ship broke its back upon the rocks.  The fishes feasted upon his body.  I die happy, knowing that Dughal's death was my doing.  When I reach Valhalla, I'll seek out his rotted shade and laugh at him."

Grigor slowly shook his head.  Dulnain thought at first that he was saddened by Tolsta's news, but then the innkeeper pointed past the gathered ghosts, at the flat-topped hill that lay between the village and the ocean.

"Dughal's body was pulled from the sea, unspoiled and whole," Grigor said.  "We built yonder barrow so that our High King might have a fitting grave—and to remind ourselves of our part in his doom.  We thought we'd failed to keep the beacon fires lit, thus causing his death.  But now we know the truth of it."

Dulnain stared at the ghosts and slowly began to understand.  They weren't here to exact vengeance upon Dulnain for slaying them.  They were waiting for Tolsta the Raven to die.

"Our High King still protects his folk as best he can," Grigor said softly.  "He has taken your dead into his service.  You shall join him in his chambers beneath the barrow instead of journeying to Valhalla.  It is fitting."

"No," Tolsta groaned.  His head fell back and his eyes closed.  His breath came in short gasps.  "Not that.  I am a warrior.  I have earned my place in Wotan's Feasting Hall."

"You are a traitor and a coward," Grigor told him.  "And worse, a murderer of your own people, driven by hatred and animal blood lust.  You will serve the High King you betrayed, which is more honor than you deserve."

Grigor turned and walked back toward his inn.  Dulnain wanted to remain and see what happened next, but Gela pulled him around and followed her father.  Dulnain was too dizzy and too weak to resist.  She was strong and bore his weight upon her shoulder with ease.  Dulnain felt sure his father would approve of his bringing such a woman home.  It was time Dulnain built his own house and reared his own cattle and had a wife to cook his meals and raise his many sons.

A terrible scream pierced the night.  Dulnain stopped and looked back.  The ghost warriors were dragging a kicking, struggling shade toward the High King's barrow.  Tolsta the Raven did not go willingly.

§

Five villagers had been killed, three men and two women.  Others were injured but they bore their wounds without complaint, as Dulnain's folk would have done.  The villagers buried their dead with due ceremony, while the bodies of their attackers were cast into a crab-filled pit and forgotten.

The next day, traders began arriving in the village, which was host to this month's market.  Grigor, his arm in a sling, introduced Dulnain to his cousin, who liked the look of Dulnain's strong, mountain-bred beasts with their shaggy coats and long horns.  Dulnain received fair coin and was able to purchase the supplies his family needed for the winter.  Padraig would help him convey the supplies home on Grigor's pony-cart.  Grigor refused to accept payment for the use of the cart.  His longbow again hung above the fireplace, with Tolsta's sword beneath.  He would have a tale to tell any customer who asked why.

Before he left the village, Dulnain searched for Gela.  He found her in the inn's kitchen, preparing food for the traders who now occupied the upstairs rooms.  She saw him standing at the door, and took off her apron and came outside to speak with him.  Her mother and her younger sister looked on curiously.

"I am Dulnain of the Caledon," he said, beginning the formal ritual.  "I intend to ask your father for your hand.  Know that my father will give us one-quarter of his herd and good grazing land as wedding gifts.  I will build up a herd of my own and be a rich man."

"I have often wondered what it is like up in the mountains," Gela said.  "But, tell me this, Dulnain of the Caledon.  If my father agrees to your proposal—which I think he might, since he is fed up with three women nagging him all his waking hours—what do I gain?"

Dulnain was taken aback, but tried not to show it.  "Aside from a handsome husband, a good house and a sizeable herd of cattle, you mean?" he said, pleased with the wit of his reply.

"Is the house built yet?" she said.

"No," he admitted.

She pursed her lips.  "Even if you started building now, you'd be unlikely to finish it and gather enough supplies before the winter set in.  I'm curious about the mountains, but I've no wish to die up there, frozen like a lump of ice.  And cattle are hardly a reliable source of income.  There are good seasons and bad."

He sighed.  He hadn't realized she had this side to her.  "I cannot deny any of what you say," he said.  "But I will build a house and I will breed a herd."

"I believe you, Dulnain of the Caledon.  When your house is built, come back and fetch me, if you're still interested.  I'll be here next Spring, same as usual.  But perhaps some pretty Caledon filly will catch your eye between now and then?  Someone who doesn't look like a cow's backside?"  The corners of her lips curled upward.  "Oh aye, I know my own faults.  You needn't think I don't.  We fought Tolsta the Raven and you're smitten with me because of that.  But will you be just as smitten when the Winter snows melt next year?"

"Would you wish me to be?"

She looked at him thoughtfully, her head cocked to one side, appraising him as if he were some bull in the market place.  He felt himself blushing and wished his nose wasn't broken and his face wasn't bruised, so she could see him at his best.

"I think so, aye," she said.  "You have rocks in your head, but that's because you're still young and daft.  I'll knock some sense into you, Caledon, if you dare come calling again."

With this she turned and went back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her with her foot.

Dulnain smiled, then lifted his longsword, his war trophy, and rested it upon his shoulder.  He'd show it to his father when he got home, and tell him the tale of Tolsta the Raven, and the High King beneath the barrow.

He went off to find Padraig and the pony cart, whistling as he walked, and looking forward to the Spring thaw.

The End

Nostalgia Trip #17: THE CORPSE

2008-06-23T12:12:00.004+01:00

First published in 2004 by Thomas Deja as a Cyber Pulp Chapbook Thriller! Not for the squeamish!

The mail coach arrived in Guttzeig in the late evening and deposited Drubber at the only tavern.  He asked for a room, signed the guest book and was escorted upstairs by a bow-backed servant with creaking knees.  Drubber elected to carry his own travel bag lest the old man collapse halfway up the stairs.  Upon arriving at the attic room the servant lit the oil lantern with a quivering hand, left a small parcel upon the table beside the door, then bade Drubber a polite good night.

Drubber surveyed his accommodation and judged it adequate, though somewhat lacking in comfort.  The parcel contained half a loaf of black bread and a wedge of pungent cheese with a hard skin.  Hardly a gourmet feast, but after the long journey he was grateful for the cold supper.  He washed it down with tepid water from his canteen flask while he pondered what his next step should be.

He'd only just finished eating when there came a knock at the door.  Drubber opened it.  A tall policeman stood in the hallway, the Imperial eagle crest on his polished black helmet gleaming in the lantern light.

"Herr Drubber?  I am Hans Kramer, personal assistant to Chief of Police Obel.  Chief Obel regrets being unable to call upon you himself, but the current situation bears careful watching."

"I have only just arrived," Drubber said, stifling a yawn.  His back still ached from the mail coach's swift journey through the high mountain passes.  "Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what the 'current situation' is?"

"Certainly, sir.  The murderer, Karl Stutmann, is being held at Police headquarters.  A number of townspeople gathered in the square yesterday morning, shortly after Stutmann was formally charged with murder.  They continue to demand his release, and say they will not leave unless their demands are met."

"They think Stutmann is innocent?"

Kramer looked surprised.  "On the contrary, sir.  They know he is guilty and wish Chief Obel to release him so they can effect their own brand of wild justice.  Burgermeister von Dorndt is held in high esteem, and his daughter, Claudia, was very popular."

"So I understand, having read the report Herr Obel sent to High Sazburg.  This fellow Stutmann, is he a local, a native of Guttzeig?"

"He belongs to a respected family that owns two mills further down the valley.  As far as we know, he has never been in any kind of trouble.  Until now."

"He was discovered at the scene of the crime?"

"Yes, sir.  In an alleyway just off the town square, his clothing completely drenched in the young lady's blood."

It sounded like a straightforward, if bloody, crime of passion to Drubber.  Yet Obel had sent a request for help, which had resulted in Drubber being dispatched to Guttzeig by fastest available transport.

"Lead the way," he said.  "I'll unpack later."  Drubber put his coat back on, adjusting the heavy pockets so their contents settled more comfortably, and followed Kramer downstairs.

§

Instead of using the main streets Kramer kept to the quiet side alleys, stopping finally at the back door of a red brick building.  He rapped upon the wood.  Suspicious eyes peered through a narrow spy slot, then heavy bolts were drawn and the door creaked open.  The policeman on sentry duty quickly closed the door behind them, as if he feared unseen demons might follow them inside.

Kramer strode along a narrow corridor and climbed a flight of stairs leading to an upper hallway with several doors on either side.  He stopped outside one of these and knocked politely.  A muffled, "Come in!" invited them inside.

Obel got up and came around his desk to greet Drubber.  He was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties, with a shaven head and a missing front tooth that marred his otherwise perfect smile.  He offered his hand and Drubber shook it.

"Welcome to Guttzieg.  Heinz Obel, Chief of Police."

"Thank you.  Kapitan Franz Drubber, Ministry of State Security."

The color drained from Obel's face.  He let go of Drubber's hand as if he'd realized he was touching a snake.  He managed to say, "M-ministry of—?" before his voice failed him.

Drubber sat down in one of the chairs and unbuttoned his coat.  "Your mail dispatch to Police Headquarters in High Sazburg created quite a stir, Herr Obel," he said.  "Naturally, a copy was passed to the Ministry.  My superiors decided I should jump on the first coach to Guttzeig and take a look for myself.  You have no objection, I hope?"

Obel and Kramer glanced at each other.  Until Drubber had introduced himself they hadn't until this moment realized they were dealing with a Nosey.  They'd assumed he was a policeman, like them.  In actual fact he had been a policeman, until certain events brought him to the attention of the Ministry.

"Of course not," Obel said, his expression belying his words.  "You are most welcome, Herr Drubber.  May I offer you some refreshment after your long journey?"

"No, thank you," Drubber said, wanting to get down to business.  "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?  The matter as it stands seems perfectly straightforward according to what your assistant has told me."

Obel sat down behind his desk.  "Ah, Herr Drubber, if only it were that simple," he said, smiling weakly.  "There is a complication in the fact that young Stutmann is no killer.  He was quite devoted to Claudia."

"The Burgermeister's daughter?"

"Precisely."  Obel ran a hand over the top of his shaven head.  "I have known Stutmann and his father for years.  They are a good family and it seems unlikely he would—"

The sound of breaking glass interrupted him.  Footsteps echoed in the outer hallway as men ran to investigate.  Kramer quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.

Obel said, "I have insufficient men to turn such a large crowd away.  It was my hope that they would lose their zeal and return to their homes last night, but this hasn't happened.  Instead, they have organized a mobile kitchen that serves soup and hot brandy around the clock.  It is rather frustrating."

Drubber was surprised Obel was sitting here complaining about the situation instead of outside with his men, bashing the troublemakers over the head with clubs and using muskets if necessary to drive the crowd away from the building.  But Guttzeig was Obel's town so Drubber kept his opinions to himself, at least for the moment.

Kramer returned.  "Someone threw a stone, Herr Obel," he reported.  "No one was hurt."

Obel nodded.  "It isn't the first window that has been broken and it will not be the last," he said to Drubber.  "The townspeople are crying out for blood.  They want Karl Stutmann strung up from the nearest lamp-post and will not leave until justice—mob justice, that is—is done."  He sighed as if their unruly behavior gave him cause for disappointment, like an adult disapproving of a particularly boisterous child.

"You were talking about Stutmann's family, Herr Obel?"

"It is a good family, Herr Drubber.  Karl Stutmann is not the type to harm anyone.  Frankly, I do not believe he could have murdered Claudia.  They were very much in love."

"Do you have another suspect?"

Obel shook his head.  "No."

"I understand Stutmann was found at the scene of the crime.  Covered, in fact, with blood?"

"Yes, this is so.  There are no witnesses to the murder, but Karl was indeed found at the scene."

"Then you will pardon me if I say that things are looking particularly bleak for young Stutmann."

Obel spread his hands in a gesture of complete helplessness.  "I know this, but I cannot bring myself to accept that Karl murdered Claudia.  Everything was going well for them.  Her father let slip only last week that he planned to announce their engagement shortly.  The entire family liked Karl."

Drubber held up a hand.  "Please, Herr Obel.  Of course you are entitled to your opinion as regards the suspect's worthiness, but nothing you have said thus far would convince anyone that Stutmann is not guilty of the crime.  How did the victim die?"

Obel hesitated, licking his lips nervously.  Then he said, "Claudia—the victim sustained a number of grievous injuries, any one of which would have been fatal."

"Inflicted by a weapon, one presumes?"

"Yes."

"What kind of weapon was used?"

"I don't know, Herr Drubber.  We have not found it yet."

"Stutmann didn't have the weapon in his possession when you arrested him?"

"My men searched diligently but found nothing at, or near, the scene of the crime."

"I see.  Yet Stutmann was there.  He'd made no attempt to run?"

Again, Obel nodded.

"Did a physician inspect the victim's body?" Drubber asked.

"Doctor Ziegler obliged us, though his examination was perfunctory.  You see, the poor girl was so mutilated that the cause of death was apparent for all to see.  I have a copy of his report here."  He opened a drawer, took out the report and gave it to Drubber, who quickly leafed through the handful of pages.  There was surprisingly little to read.  As Obel said, the examination had been perfunctory.  The report listed the number of wounds in order of severity.  The list occupied an entire page.

"I would very much like to have Doctor Ziegler carry out a full autopsy, Herr Obel."

"An autopsy, Herr Drubber?  Is there really any need?"

"If we are going to do this, Herr Obel, then we will do it properly.  Whether cause of death was obvious or not, you know very well that there are procedures laid down for this kind of thing.  Should questions be asked later and it comes to light that you have for any reason deviated from these procedures, it would be embarrassing for you.  I know it is getting late, but perhaps Doctor Ziegler is still awake?"

"You want this done tonight, Herr Drubber?"

"Unless you have any objections, yes."

Obel sighed.  "Very well," he said.  He looked at Kramer.  "Apologize to Doctor Ziegler for disturbing him at this late hour, and ask him to bring his butcher's tools.  Herr Drubber wants him to examine the body again.  Tell him that this time it is to be a full examination."

Kramer saluted and went out, closing the door again.

Obel said, "We are fortunate that Doctor Ziegler offers his services to us.  He is retired now.  Our usual physician, Doctor Steiner, is at this time touring Europa with his new wife.  They are on their honeymoon."

"How delightful.  What about Karl Stutmann?"

"He is in being held in a cell downstairs."

"I should like to speak with him."

"That may prove difficult, Herr Drubber," Obel said.  "Karl is in no condition to answer any questions.  He is quite devastated by the death of his beloved—"

Drubber banged his fist down upon Obel's desk, causing Obel to start in surprise.  "Herr Obel, I do not care a peacock's feather how upset he is.  There has been a murder! It will be investigated fully, and if Stutmann is found guilty he will be executed, regardless of your sympathies and doubts.  Lead the way, if you please."

§

Drubber's first impression of Karl Stutmann was that the boy would benefit from several years' service in the Imperial Army.  Stutmann sat, or rather slumped, on the cot inside his cell, a forlorn, rumpled figure with unkempt ginger hair, haunted eyes and downturned lips.  He looked like a sad scarecrow rather than a murderer.

Obel unlocked and opened the barred gate.  Stutmann didn't even look up as they entered his cell.  Obel said, "Karl, this is Herr Drubber from the—"  He caught Drubber's warning glance, and cleared his throat.  "From High Sazburg," he concluded.  He might as well not have spoken; Karl Stutmann gave no response.

"Stand up," Drubber ordered, his voice low and dangerous.  At last Stutmann raised his head.  He glanced uncertainly at Obel, then obeyed.  He stood with his large feet apart and his long arms hanging loosely by his sides.  His shoulders remained slumped and he stared at the floor, not meeting Drubber's cold gaze.

"I will now ask you some questions," Drubber said.  "You will answer them truthfully, or I shall turn my back on you and walk out of this cell, leaving you to your fate.  Which, judging from what I have heard thus far, will be to have your neck stretched by the hangman's noose."

Stutmann inhaled sharply, horror in his eyes.  His hand went to his throat and he swallowed hard.

"Answer yes or no.  Did you murder Claudia von Dorndt?"

"Yes, I did."

Drubber stared at him, uncomprehending, then turned to Obel.

"Outside, please, Herr Obel."

He left the cell and Obel meekly followed him, closing and locking the gate.  Stutmann sat down again and put his head in his hands.  Drubber walked to the end of the corridor and impatiently waited for Obel to arrive.

"Call me old-fashioned, Herr Obel, but I have always thought that someone who is innocent of a crime of which they stand accused, is supposed to say they did not do it?"

Obel shrugged.  "That's not always the case, Herr Drubber."

"Oh?  Are there instances where proclaiming one's innocence is not the norm?"

"Yes, Herr Drubber.  I should have thought it obvious."

"Enlighten me, please."

"When the accused is in no fit mental condition to make sane and logical judgment as to his own guilt."

"And you think young Stutmann falls into that category?"

"Yes, I do."

"He seems perfectly sane to me."

"Outwardly, perhaps.  But the person he loved most dearly in all the world has been taken from him.  You must bear this in mind.  The boy is devastated.  He blames himself for her death, even though he cannot remember the exact circumstances because of the terrible shock.  It is obvious, if not to you then at least to me."

Drubber stifled the impulse to tell Obel to stop wasting his time.  Instead he drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, calming himself.

"Herr Obel, I must tell you, things are looking bad, both for young Stutmann and for yourself.  When I return to High Sazburg and submit my report, my superior will very likely make a complaint to the Commandant of Police about this entire shoddy business."

Obel's face took on a pained expression.  "I understand how it must look.  If I were standing in your boots and you in mine, then I would very probably feel the same way.  But I ask for your patience and, indeed, for your understanding, Herr Drubber.  Karl Stutmann no more murdered Claudia von Dorndt than I did."

"In your opinion."

"Yes, in my opinion.  Damn it, I know it sounds ridiculous! But I also know I am right.  Karl Stutmann is innocent, he did not murder Claudia.  I am certain of it."

"Assuming for one moment that what you say is true... have you any clues as to the identity of the person who did murder her?"

"None whatsoever."

Drubber stared at him for long seconds, then said, "Let's go back inside, Herr Obel.  I have more questions for him."

Obel obligingly unlocked the cell again.  This time Drubber didn't bother asking Stutmann to stand up.  "You were with Fraulein von Dorndt on the fateful night she died," he said.  "Tell me what happened."

Stutmann shook his head.  "Please, I do not wish to speak about it, or even remember."

"You have no choice, Karl," Obel said.  "Herr Drubber will help you if he can, but you must answer his questions."

"What do you want me to say?  It's my fault she's dead."

"The weather that evening was very mild for the time of year," Drubber said.  "A new Moon had risen.  It must have been very pleasant, walking arm in arm through the quiet streets."

Stutmann stared at the floor for long moments, then gave a barely perceptible nod.  "Yes, it was.  Claudia was so happy.  We talked about the wedding."

"Which route did you take?"

Stutmann looked up at him.  "Why, we came down through the Blumestrasse and across the square, heading toward the church."  He frowned, remembering.  "Claudia said she felt chilly and wanted a shawl.  We turned back to her father's house.  The moonlight illuminated everything as though it were day.  We walked alongside the cemetery, arm in arm, toward Prinz Wilhelm."

Drubber glanced at Obel.  "The public stairway that connects the lower section of Guttzeig to the upper town," the Chief of Police explained.

"And then what happened?" Drubber asked Stutmann.

"I—cannot remember."

"Tell me about the knife."

The question hung in the air for long seconds, unanswered.  Drubber was unprepared for what came next.  Karl Stutmann screamed and leapt, his hands flailing at something unseen.  Drubber opened his arms instinctively and Stutmann fell against him, his eyes wide with terror.  He struggled as if trying to escape and Drubber didn't hesitate to drive his fist into the boy's jaw.  Stutmann slumped lifelessly, his eyelids fluttering.

"My Gott!" Obel cried, moving in to grab hold of Stutmann from behind.  Together they laid him down upon the cot.  Drubber took care to turn Stutmann over onto his side lest his breathing became restricted.

"Are you all right, Herr Drubber?" Obel said, panting with the effort.

"Perfectly.  I do not believe the boy intended to attack me.  I simply happened to be standing in front of him when a very unpleasant memory surfaced."

"He has not done anything like that before, I assure you."

Drubber nodded thoughtfully.  "I believe you, Herr Obel.  We're finished here, I think.  Let's go and see if the doctor has arrived, shall we?"

§

Doctor Ziegler was in his sixties, white-haired and quite unintimidated by Drubber, even after Obel introduced him using his full title.  Ziegler stared at Drubber over the top of his half-moon spectacles and said, "Have you ever received medical training, Herr Drubber?"

"No, Herr Doctor."

"Then when I tell you that this poor girl was hacked to pieces by a knife, or perhaps a military bayonet, I should expect you to accept my professional judgment, not argue against it."

Drubber smiled without humor.  "I am not arguing against your judgment, Herr Doctor.  I agree, it is quite likely that Claudia von Dorndt was murdered with such a weapon, wielded by a maniac."

Ziegler looked at Obel, then back to Drubber.  "Then, pray, why have you summoned me here?  Would you not do better to look for the murderer, rather than drag an old man out of his house on a cold night?"

"Perhaps there is something you may have overlooked in your initial examination, Herr Doctor.  I would like to be sure."

Ziegler pulled back the sheet covering the body that had been laid out for re-examination.  Plainly he meant to surprise and shock Drubber with the sight of the hideously mutilated victim, but that didn't happen.  Drubber kept his expression impassive as his gaze drifted down over the girl's torso, abdomen and legs.  He'd seen similar before.  Had seen worse, in fact.

"Whoever killed her certainly did a thorough job," he said.

"Indeed," Ziegler agreed.  "There are thirty-seven deep cuts and over a hundred minor lacerations.  Although not individually fatal, the latter would collectively have resulted in the victim's eventually bleeding to death."

Drubber stared at the torn flesh in the middle of the dead girl's chest, and his stomach knotted.  Memories of Konigshaven came flooding back, the pain and the fear.  He had to take several breaths before he could bring himself to say, "Aren't you going to mention the obvious, Herr Doctor?"

"What do you mean?"

"Someone tried to cut Fraulein von Dorndt's heart from her chest.  I should say that's the most likely cause of death, wouldn't you?"

Ziegler leaned over the body and tentatively touched the torn flesh about the chest area.  The dead skin opened like the petals of an orchid and he stared at the deep, ragged wound, open-mouthed with surprise.

"How did you—?"

Obel gagged; a moment later the Chief of Police ran from the room.

"Working behind a desk for so long appears to have lent Herr Obel a weak disposition," Drubber said.  He looked at Ziegler.  "The risks involved in carrying out the most cursory medical examination are evident, Herr Doctor.  You didn't really spend much time on this one, did you?"

Ziegler sighed.  "No, I did not, Herr Drubber.  I can offer no excuses."

"I am not asking for any.  I notice that the stomach has also been opened.  Did you perform an internal examination?"

"No, I did not."

"Please do so now, Herr Doctor."

Ziegler raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told.  He opened the flap of loose skin, revealing the deep wound.  Then he pushed his hand into the opening, angling his arm while he felt around inside the cavity.

Finally he withdrew, looking somewhat paler than before.  "There is nothing in there but what Nature intended," he said gruffly.  "What exactly did you expect me to find?"

"The murder weapon."

Ziegler fixed him with a withering stare.  "You have a most vivid and unpleasant imagination, Herr Drubber.  What if I had found the weapon, and cut my hand?"

"If it had been hidden in the body cavity then you would have encountered the handle first, not the blade."

Ziegler nodded slowly.  "You are probably correct, although I still wish you had told me.  Is there anything else you wish me to do?"

"As distasteful as it must be, I require that you examine the body's natural openings, Herr Doctor."

"Distasteful is insufficient to describe my feelings, Herr Drubber.  I am revolted by the very thought that the murderer may have thought to conceal his weapon within this innocent girl's body."

"Believe me, I share your revulsion.  Nevertheless, it must be done."

"What if we find the weapon?  What does it prove?"

"I won't know that until I see it, but I am reminded of a particularly brutal murder case in Dorfund, where the murder weapon turned out to have the murderer's initials engraved upon the handle.  This evidence proved instrumental in sending the murderer to the gallows.  Please proceed as I have directed, Herr Doctor."

"Under protest, Herr Drubber."

"So noted," Drubber said wearily.

Ziegler did what Drubber had asked of him, then turned to the sink, pumped water and began washing his hands.

"How long have you lived here in Guttzeig?" Drubber asked.

"Nearly ten years, if you must know.  Before that, I served with the Imperial Medical Corps for over thirty years."

"Then you are intimate with the local community, which allows me to ask my next question.  Have you ever seen anything like this before in Guttzeig?"

"Good heavens, no.  It is uniquely appalling."

Obel emerged from a door further along the corridor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  "I am embarrassed beyond words, Herr Drubber," he said.

"A distressing situation, Herr Obel, which has happened to us all," Drubber said.  He stepped aside to allow him to enter the room again.  "I wondered whether the victim was wearing any jewelry?"

"I will have Kramer check.  Is this significant?"

"Probably not, but I would appreciate your finding out."  Drubber smiled at Ziegler.  "You have been most helpful, Herr Doctor.  Given the circumstances, I've changed my mind about the autopsy.  An amendment to your report detailing the attempt to remove the victim's heart will suffice."

Ziegler nodded, but said nothing else.  Drubber led Obel along the passageway, back to the stairs.  Given Obel's present condition, Drubber thought it best to keep him on the move and occupied, rather than allowing him to dwell upon what he had witnessed.

They found Kramer in his small office next to Obel's.  Obel gestured to the desk.  "Kramer, the list of the deceased's possessions, please?"

Kramer opened a drawer and extracted a file.  He opened it and turned the top page around so that Drubber could read it.  There had been three gold rings, two gold bracelets and a gold neck-chain.  The jewelry had been promptly returned to her family.

Obel was fidgeting impatiently.  "May I ask why—?" he began, but Drubber already had an answer prepared.

"I merely wished to know whether the girl had been robbed as well as murdered, Herr Obel," Drubber said, pondering Claudia von Dorndt's fondness for gold.  "How are things looking outside?"

"The good citizens of Guttzeig are still there, if that is what you mean.  Once night falls, they will be at it again."

"At what again?"

"Last night they threw an oil lamp onto the roof, attempting to start a fire.  No doubt the same thing will happen tonight.  Or worse."

Drubber nodded thoughtfully.  "How many would you say are gathered in the square, Kramer?"

"I would estimate sixty or more, Herr Drubber."

"Thank you.  Shall we say seventy for the sake of argument?  How many men are under your command, Herr Obel?"

"I have ten effectives, including Kramer."

"Let's have them all downstairs inside the main entrance in, oh, ten minutes?  Make sure each man is armed with musket, bayonet and club."

Obel blinked in surprise.  "I don't understand.  You surely cannot be suggesting I order my men to fire upon the crowd?  That's absurd.  I will not do it."

"I am not suggesting any such thing, Herr Obel.  But I am suggesting your men give the impression they mean business.  You see the necessity, I hope?"

Obel sighed.  He had little choice in the matter, and he knew it.  "Very well."  He nodded to Kramer, who went to the door.

Drubber called after him, "Kramer, if you would be so good as to draw an additional musket from the armory for myself, I should be grateful."

Kramer nodded.  "Certainly, Herr Drubber."  He went out, leaving them alone.

"What exactly is your plan, Herr Drubber?" Obel demanded.

Drubber's answer was to pull the leather blackjack from his coat pocket and strike Obel squarely across the skull.  Obel dropped like a stone and lay sprawled upon the carpet.  Aside from a devil of a headache when he woke up, he would suffer no permanent ills from the blow.  Effective use of the lead-ball blackjack was a skill Drubber had acquired while working as a policeman in the rowdy port of Konigshaven, before his unusual experiences and his exemplary record drew him to the attention of a recruitment officer from the Ministry of State Security.

Drubber used the ten minutes wisely.  He opened Obel's filing cabinets and went through his records, searching for events that fell into a particular category.  Guttzeig's Chief of Police kept excellent records, and Drubber found what he was looking for in no time at all.

§

Kramer and the others were understandably nervous as Drubber carried out his inspection.  Most of them had never seen a Nosey before, though of course they had heard the usual stories about the Ministry of State Security.

Drubber made the most of it, berating one man for having his collar unbuttoned and another for having his ammunition pouch open.  He scribbled their names in his notebook and both men jumped when he snapped the notebook shut and returned it to the inside pocket of his coat.  Drubber had no intention of reporting any of them, but he had their full attention now.  They were not exactly the cream of the Empire's fighting elite.  Most were beyond military service age and one was old enough to be Drubber's grandfather.

"How many of you have served in the Army?" he asked.  "Raise your hands."

Five out of the ten had served in the Army and could be expected to know how to competently handle their muskets.

"What about you others?" he said, slowly walking down the line and picking out those who hadn't raised their hands.  "You first.  What's your name, and why are you wearing corporal's stripes if you haven't served?"

"Jahn, sir.  Did serve, sir.  Imperial Kriegsmarine, sir."

"I beg your pardon, Corporal Jahn.  I should not have been so presumptuous.  Gentlemen, a show of hands for service in any branch of the Imperial Armed Forces, if you please?"

Nine out of the ten raised their hands this time and Drubber smiled.  It was much better than he'd expected.  Kramer was the odd man out.

"Straight out of University and into the Police, eh, Herr Kramer?"

"Yes, sir."

Drubber took the musket Kramer had brought for him.  He cocked the hammer and peered down the barrel.  It was clean and the mechanism appeared well-oiled.  He thumbed the hammer closed and took the leather pouch Kramer offered him, which contained cartridges and percussion caps.

"Have you any experience in suppressing riots?" he asked Kramer.

Kramer's eyebrows shot up.  "Riots, sir?"

"Over sixty people are gathered outside.  They have been breaking windows and trying to set fire to this building.  How would you describe that sort of behavior?  I call it rioting, therefore I consider my question a pertinent one.  Have you any experience?"

"No, Herr Drubber."

"Well, no matter—I shall instruct you.  If you carry out my instructions to the letter then possibly you may live to see the dawn.  On the other hand, should you for any reason hesitate to obey my orders promptly then it's likely that your lifeless body will pass into the hands of Doctor Ziegler, for post mortem examination.  Do you understand what I am saying, Herr Kramer?"

Kramer gulped.  "Yes, sir.  May I ask where Herr Obel is, sir?"

"Herr Obel argued that he should be the one who leads you outside to confront the rioters, but I managed to convince him someone must stay in the building to guard the prisoner.  He will see to that task, while I have the honor of leading you instead."

Kramer might have said more, but Drubber held up a hand, demanding silence.

"Gentlemen, load your muskets."

The veterans set to work at once.  Kramer was much slower, his hands making a fumbling job of the ritual.  Drubber loaded his musket at the same time, pushing the thick wax paper cartridge—soldiers called this the "Sazburg Sausage"—into the breech, thumbing a percussion cap against the end of the cartridge, then pulling the brass locking ring shut, trapping the cap.  The process required a certain dexterity, and much practice.  He grounded the weapon to show he was ready.  The tap of his musket's butt against the floor was echoed by taps of the veterans' muskets.  They grinned at him, recognizing his familiarity in handling the weapon.  With a relatively simple set of actions, Drubber had convinced them he wasn't a soft desk clerk from the big city.  He'd evidently had military training, and they respected that.

"Here's what we're going to do," Drubber said.  "As soon as we go out that door, you three"—he picked the men—"will go left and march to block the square's west exit.  At the same time, you three"—he selected three others—"will go right and block the east exit.  When you get there, you will fix bayonets and snarl at anyone who comes near you.  No one leaves the square, got it?  Corporal Jahn, you and two of your men will remain at the bottom of the steps.  Should anyone try to enter this building, you will shoot them."

Jahn nodded to acknowledge Drubber's instructions.

"Herr Drubber, are you certain Herr Obel has approved this action?" Kramer said, a high note of desperation in his voice.

"I can tell you that he has definitely not approved it, Herr Kramer.  Which should not affect you in the slightest.  You are under my orders now.  From this moment on, you will not speak unless I ask you a direct question.  If I give you an order, you will obey immediately and without discussion.  You understand?"

Drubber stared at him until Kramer lowered his gaze.  "Yes, Herr Drubber," he said softly.

"Good.  Hold this for me."  He passed Kramer his musket.  "Open the door, Corporal, and let's get on with it."

Jahn slid the bolts and pulled the door open.  Angry faces glared at them as they emerged from the building and went down the steps fast, splitting up as Drubber had specified.  The Burgers didn't realize what was happening until the west and east exits were blocked, at which time Drubber had walked into the center of the square and climbed up onto the base of the fountain, which carried a statue of a large fish blowing a stream of water from its open mouth.

Kramer was right, there were at least sixty men gathered in the square.  Some of them carried pitchforks and others lengths of wood that served as clubs.  Many had brought oil lanterns, which were already lit in deference to the failing light.  At the back of the crowd sat a wagon containing two large soup pots, which he assumed were filled with the soup Obel had mentioned.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear.  "My name is Drubber.  I am only recently arrived in Guttzeig and I am not entirely clear on what is going on here, but I do know one thing."

"And what's that?" someone shouted at him.  They shuffled closer to the fountain.  Some of them were looking over at the entrance, calculating the disposition of Drubber's small force. Only Kramer, Corporal Jahn and two policemen prevented them from forcing their way inside and reaching Karl Stutmann.  If they made a concerted charge, they could easily overwhelm the men guarding the stairs.

Drubber smiled at the man who had spoken.  "You are all under arrest, every last one of you.  Should you resist, the Army will march into Guttzeig, either tomorrow or the day after, and you will all be lined up against a wall and shot without trial."

He let that threat sink in.  When they began looking at each other in confusion, he said, "On the other hand, if you put down your weapons, you may live to see another day.  The choice is yours."  He paused, then added, "Oh, and by the way, there is something I forgot to mention.  I am an officer of the Ministry of State Security.  I think you know what that means?  If anything happens to me, the Army comes in.  If I don't report back to my headquarters on schedule, the Army comes in.  If I have a runny nose and no one offers me a clean handkerchief, the Army comes in.  Think it over, why don't you?"

He climbed down off the fountain and walked back to the stairs.  No one tried to stop him.  Without turning to look back at the crowd he said to Jahn, "What's happening, Corporal?  What are they doing?"

"Most are considering your warning, Herr Drubber," Jahn said, "but some are angry."

"Is there an obvious ringleader?"

"I would say yes.  His name is Vogel.  He owns leather shops in Guttzeig and Dorfund.  He is easily identifiable—he has the largest mustache I have ever seen.  They seem to be listening to him.  He is not happy, Herr Drubber, and neither are they."

"May I borrow your club, Corporal?"

Jahn pulled the long wooden stick from his belt and gave it to Drubber.  "Do you need assistance, Herr Drubber?"

"No.  Remain here."  He looked at Kramer, who was pale and shaking with fear.  "For goodness' sake, Kramer, try to look as if you are a policeman, not a frightened schoolboy."  Drubber turned away before Kramer could reply and walked across the square, toward a large group at whose center stood the mustached man Jahn had identified.  A space opened as Drubber approached.  Reaching Vogel, Drubber placed a hand upon his shoulder and said, "If you will be so kind as to come with me, Herr Vogel?  The charges are incitement to riot, causing civil unrest, and failing to have your mustache trimmed regularly."

The man growled and slapped Drubber's hand away.  Drubber immediately cracked the club against Vogel's right kneecap and the man yelped in pain, bending forward to clutch at his knee.  As he did so, Drubber raised the club and brought it down across Vogel's broad shoulders.  Vogel sprawled on the cobblestones, groaning feebly.

Drubber looked at the astonished, fearful faces around him.

"Would anyone like to join this idiot in the cells?  No?  Then stand back, if you know what is good for you."  He turned and shouted, "Kramer! Come here, please."

Kramer ran forward, still carrying Drubber's musket.

"Escort Herr Vogel inside and lock him up.  If he gives you any trouble, shoot him."

Kramer gulped and said, "Yes, Herr Drubber."  He grabbed hold of Vogel's arm and pulled the dazed man to his feet.  Vogel swayed and Kramer had to support him.  Drubber hadn't wanted to pull Jahn or any of his men out of position, so Kramer was the obvious choice for this task.

Drubber walked through the crowd until he reached the wagon containing the metal pots.  He lifted one of the lids and sniffed the contents.  A thick broth, heavy with pepper and spices.  He pulled the pot over onto its side, then did the same with the second.  The soup ran steaming and hissing among the gaps between the cobblestones.  Drubber turned to face the angry crowd again.

"Let's have a show of hands," he said.  "Raise your hand above your head if you intend to resist arrest.  That will make it easier for us to know who to shoot."

"You're bluffing," a voice said.  He couldn't identify the speaker, but that wasn't important.

"Why don't you put your theory to the test?" Drubber said.

"You don't have enough cells to hold all of us," another man called from within the crowd.

"I'm not going to lock you up.  We're just going to stand here for a while, and wait.  We're going to wait quietly, and without interruption."

He knew they wanted to ask, Wait for what? but that would be telling, and he didn't want them to panic, not just yet.  He looked to the west.  The sun was sinking below the horizon and night's black shadow crept over Guttzeig.  A soft glow began to appear behind the eastern mountains as the Moon rose.  Drubber watched the crowd and they watched him with equal suspicion.  They were growing restless; it was only a matter of time before some fool decided to take reckless action.  Then the dam would burst and he'd lose his tenuous authority.

"Can't you hear that noise?" he asked, holding a hand to his ear in a pantomime gesture of listening.  "Heavy boots, marching into Guttzeig.  You must hear them, surely?  They're coming for you, unless you behave yourselves like good lads."

The glow behind the mountains was growing steadily and he saw the first sliver of the Moon as it rose clear of the jagged peaks.  Damn, but it was taking forever.

"What I would like you to do, gentlemen, is move over to the other side of the square."  He directed them with his arms. "Just move around the fountain, quick as you like."

But they were growing even more angry and resentful and they didn't shift.  Drubber walked forward and tapped a Burger on the chest with his club.  The man glared, but sullenly did as he was told.  Others followed him.  Drubber walked slowly around the edge of the crowd, shooing them as if they were stubborn mountain goats and he the goatherd.  Pale moonlight touched the rooftops and upper floors of the buildings.  Sunset had turned the western horizon dark crimson and the clouds there appeared black against the fading light.

"What the devil are we waiting for?" someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

"Quiet, there!" Drubber shouted back at him.  "Keep your mouth shut.  You'll wait here all night if I say so.  Corporal Jahn!" he shouted across the square.

"Sir!" came an answering cry.

"If any of these idiots tries anything stupid, shoot them."

"Yes, sir!" Jahn shouted.  "I'm to shoot them if they try anything stupid, sir!"

Jahn wanted to know what Drubber was up to as much as any of the townsfolk, but he knew better than to ask—Drubber was in command and Jahn and the other veterans would do what they were told without questioning his orders.  Kramer was the unknown quantity but he was now inside, locking Vogel up.  With luck, Drubber might just get away with this.

He had pushed the crowd into the west half of the square and now, at last, the light from the new Moon fell upon them.  One or two raised their hands to shield their eyes from the glow so they could continue to scowl at Drubber, who stood in the shadowed east half, watching and waiting.  Drubber tensed as he saw the Moon's reflection in an upper floor window—that of a swollen yellow disc, surrounded by a ghostly halo.  Moonlight suddenly caught the stream of water flowing from the fish statue's mouth and turned it into green liquid fire.  Long moments passed, but nothing happened.  Drubber began to wonder if he might be wrong.

A horrendous scream from inside Police headquarters sent Drubber running for the entrance.  Jahn snapped an order to his men to remain where they were and ran up the steps.  Drubber joined him and they burst into the building together.  Jahn passed Drubber his musket, which he'd taken from Kramer.

"You check upstairs," Drubber said.  "I'll check the cells."

Jahn nodded and set off.  Drubber cocked his musket and went to the stairs that led down to the cells and the medical examination room.  The stairwell was lit by a single oil lamp that cast a weak and flickering yellow glow.  The shadows down there could easily hide a company of troops.  Drubber cautiously descended.  Jahn hadn't fired his musket, which suggested all was well upstairs.  Where the devil was Kramer?  Nowhere to be seen.  Had the scream been his?

Drubber descended cautiously to the bottom of the stairs, and immediately stopped.  Two of the cell doors lay open.  He stepped smartly forward, his musket pointing into Stutmann's cell.  Empty.  He quickly moved to cover the second cell with his musket.  A shape lay upon the floor.  Vogel, the leather shop owner.  His throat had been torn out.  His final expression was one of absolute terror.

A noise made Drubber spin round, his finger already on the musket's trigger and squeezing, but he released the pressure in time to avoid putting a lead ball into Karl Stutmann's heart.  The boy sat curled up at the far end of the corridor, sobbing like a helpless child, his arms covering his head and face.  Had he seen Vogel die?  Trying to question him at this time would be useless and extremely dangerous, Drubber knew.  Whoever had killed Vogel had to be found and stopped.

Drubber slowly advanced to the room where Ziegler had examined Claudia von Dorndt's body.  A thought occurred to him then.  Had Ziegler left the building?  Possibly not.  Which meant that Ziegler was now a suspect, too.  Drubber looked into the room.  Lamplight revealed Claudia von Dorndt's corpse still lying beneath its white sheet.  Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision.  He strained to see a familiar shape in the shadows—Ziegler, or perhaps Kramer, whom he had never dismissed from his list of suspects.  One of them was surely responsible for Vogel's terrible death.  He remembered once again the horror of Konigshaven, of being pinned beneath the snarling, half-glimpsed beast that slashed at him with its razor-sharp claws, shredding his clothing and his flesh as it frantically tried to tear out his heart.

A floorboard creaked and he turned, bringing the musket up and around as fast as he could, but a powerful blow tore his weapon from his hands and sent him reeling.  Medical instruments clattered to the floor as Drubber crashed against the table, pulling the sheet from the corpse.  His breath caught in his throat.  Instead of Claudia von Dorndt it was Hans Kramer who lay upon the table, his eyes wide and unseeing.  Like Vogel, his throat had been torn out.  Blood had spread over the table and down onto the floor, which felt sticky beneath Drubber's boots.

A shadow stood just outside the circle of light.  Drubber squinted, trying to make out its features.  Ziegler?  No, and not Karl Stutmann either.  He looked down and found himself staring at a pair of pale, bare feet.  Suddenly all the clues came together.  He had to swallow hard before he could speak.

"Fraulein von Dorndt, I presume?" he said, marveling at the fact his voice didn't betray his rising fear.

Claudia von Dorndt stepped forward, naked and obscene, her body made hideous by her wounds.  She must have been a beautiful young woman before.  But not now.  The hairs on the back of Drubber's neck stood on end and his bowels threatened to release, but he controlled himself and avoided that ultimate embarrassment.  It hadn't happened in Konigshaven.  It wouldn't happen here.

"I saw what you were up to in the square," she said, her voice a throaty whisper.  "Very clever.  What a pity your plan came to nothing."

"But I was right, wasn't I?" Drubber said, desperately playing for time so he could think of a way out of this fatal situation.  "There is a werewolf, isn't there?"

She laughed, though he didn't know why.  Then she glanced over her shoulder and said, "Come in, Karl.  Herr Drubber would like to meet you."

Karl Stutmann entered the room as if he'd been waiting for her signal.  Drubber recoiled in horror at the change in him.  Stutmann grinned hugely, his lips stained with Vogel's blood.  Gott in Heaven, he'd torn Vogel's throat open with his teeth.  Stutmann's glittering eyes and the high-pitched giggling noises that escaped his throat were evidence of the fact he was quite mad.  And who could blame him?  Certainly not Drubber, who felt uncomfortably close to the edge himself.

"You are going to die, Herr Drubber," Claudia von Dorndt said.  "Nothing is more certain.  If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them."

He shook his head.  "I would only like to say that knowing you, Fraulein, even for the briefest period, has been no pleasure whatsoever."

She laughed again.  "Karl—bite him!"

Stutmann snarled like the rabid animal he resembled and leapt at Drubber.  Corporal Jahn chose that moment to fire from the hallway, putting a ball into Stutmann's head.  Stutmann collapsed in a tangle of long limbs.  Jahn immediately set to reloading his musket, working at a furious pace while he watched Claudia von Dorndt with narrowed eyes.

"You'll find I'm not as easy to kill, Herr Drubber," the girl said.  She showed not the slightest remorse at Stutmann's death, nor any interest in Jahn.  It was as if the corporal's musket posed no threat to her.  Which might very well be true, Drubber realized.

"We shall see," he said.  He pulled the twin pistols out of his coat pockets.  He'd had them specially made by a craftsman in Konigshaven some years ago.  Their short barrels and miniature locks made them perfect weapons for concealment.  He cocked the hammers and fired both at point-blank range.  The din in the enclosed room was deafening.  Seen dimly through the smoke, Claudia von Dorndt staggered.  Because of what had happened to him in Konigshaven years ago, Drubber had taken the precaution of loading his pistols with specially poured lead balls containing silver and wood fragments.  He'd come prepared, not only for werewolves, but also for vampyres.

Drubber expected her to burn and perish but to his surprise she remained standing, staring incuriously at the twin bullet holes in her chest.

Jahn finished loading.  He raised his musket to his shoulder and cocked the hammer.  Long seconds passed and Drubber, exasperated, shouted, "Shoot her! Don't you understand?  She is vampyre! Shoot her, man!"  But Jahn swallowed hard and in that awful moment Drubber knew he was doomed.  Jahn simply couldn't shoot the young woman he knew as Claudia von Dorndt, the Burgermeister's daughter.

She took another step toward Drubber.  "I told you, Herr Drubber, I'm not so easy to kill."

Doctor Ziegler wrenched the musket from Jahn's trembling hands, took aim and fired.  The heavy bullet entered the girl's back and came out through her chest, hardly slowing at all.  It struck Drubber with the force of a sledgehammer, spinning him around and throwing him down.  His head made painful contact with the hard floor.

He lay there, stunned and helpless, looking up at the girl in fascinated bewilderment.  Even now, with three gaping bullet holes in her body, she showed no sign of experiencing pain, never mind dying.  She bent forward until her face was only inches from his own.  "You have no idea how this is," she said.  "No idea at all.  If you perceived only one-thousandth of my torment, you would find a way to put me out of my misery.  Do you not understand, Herr Drubber?  I cannot die."

The depth of her suffering touched Drubber, who didn't understand any of it but nonetheless experienced a deep empathy for Claudia von Dorndt, who bowed her head and sobbed.  He wanted to reach up and touch her, wanted to brush her hair away from her tortured face and assure her that all would be well.

The barrel of the musket touched the side of her skull but she made no attempt to draw away or otherwise save herself.  "May Gott forgive me," Ziegler said.

Drubber squeezed his eyes tight shut and turned his head away an instant before the musket fired.  Jahn must have reloaded his weapon in record time.  Drubber's world turned crimson.  He floated in a kind of warm darkness, and then the ringing pain slowly faded until he could hear Jahn's voice somewhere in the distance, filled with concern:  "Are you all right, Herr Drubber?"

"No, I'm bloody well not," he said.  Jahn helped him stand.  Claudia von Dorndt lay at his feet, her head a bloody ruin, her eyes open and staring, yet seeing nothing.  A queer thought occurred to Drubber then, that Claudia von Dorndt might finally have found peace.

"What on earth just happened here?"  He directed this question at Ziegler.  "You wouldn't care to explain, would you, Herr Doctor?"

But whether Ziegler could explain or not had to remain a mystery, at least for a time.  The room spun wildly and Jahn cried out, catching Drubber as he sagged, his senses fleeing him.

§

Bright daylight shone between a narrow gap in the curtains. Drubber stared at the ceiling, trying to get his bearings, and finally realized he was in his room at the tavern.  His clothing had been neatly laid out over the back of a chair.  He lifted the duck feather quilt.  He wore a long nightshirt.  His shoulder was heavily bandaged, and throbbing dully.  He remembered the musket ball, and everything else that had happened.

Drubber lay there for a while, thinking, and then someone knocked gently on the door.  Ziegler opened the door a crack and peered into the room.

"Ah, you are awake, Herr Drubber.  I hope I have not disturbed you?"

"No, Herr Doctor, come in, please."  Ziegler did so, closing the door behind him.  "What hour is it?" Drubber asked.

"A quarter after five in the evening."

Drubber was surprised to learn he'd slept all night and most of the day.  "Are you here to inquire after my health?"

Ziegler smiled.  "On the contrary.  I am here to tell you that you will recover fully and should have nothing to worry about.  I removed the ball from your shoulder and cleaned the wound.  No bones were broken.  I expect it to heal nicely."

"Thank you.  Now that's out of the way, why don't you sit down and tell me what happened last night?"

Ziegler lowered himself into the chair.  "There really isn't much to tell.  I enlisted the aid of some of the townspeople to carry you here.  With Jahn's help, I tended your wound and put you to bed.  He's Sergeant Jahn now, by the way.  Herr Obel is rather annoyed with you for confining him to his office—those are his words—but he says he understands your actions, and he has acknowledged Jahn's role in the drama.  Doubtless he'll visit you and tell you all this yourself, once he learns you're awake."

Drubber nodded; he would thank Jahn personally later.  "That isn't what I meant, Herr Doctor, and well you know it," he said.

"Ah.  The Von Dorndt girl."

"Yes.  And Karl Stutmann, of course."

"May I ask a question, Herr Drubber?"

"If you must."

"Those scars on your chest and shoulders.  Where did you get them?"

Drubber smiled as if it meant nothing to him, when in fact the memory of the savage attack haunted his dreams every night.

"Inflicted by a werewolf I had the misfortune to meet when I worked as a policeman in Konigshaven," he said.  "The beast tried to tear my heart out, and very nearly succeeded.  I understand they regard the human heart as a delicacy.  As soon as I saw someone had attempted to remove Claudia von Dorndt's heart—"

"Come now, Herr Drubber, surely you cannot be serious?"

"About what?"

"Werewolves, in this day and age?  I should hope you are joking—but I can see from your expression that you are not."

"If you prefer to believe I was attacked by some madman who dressed himself in animal furs and wore gloves with razor-sharp claws then that is your choice, Herr Doctor.  As for me, I know what I know."

Ziegler nodded slowly, clearly disturbed by what Drubber was saying.  "The business in the square becomes self-explanatory.  You expected one of the townsfolk to change into a werewolf when the full Moon rose, didn't you?"

"I thought it a reasonable plan.  At worst I'd be made to look a fool if a werewolf didn't appear."

Ziegler chuckled dryly.  "Well, one did appear, after a fashion, though not quite in the way you expected?"  He shook his head in disbelief.  "Karl Stutmann.  I know the boy's father well.  You have no objections, I hope, to my fabricating a story concerning how the son died?"

"None whatsoever.  His family would not thank us for telling them the truth.  Although that truth is still hard to accept."

"The boy was insane," Ziegler said.  "Let us close the book on Karl Stutmann and allow him to rest in peace."

"I would like to, but there are still certain aspects that bear further discussion.  I should be interested to know what you think caused Stutmann to become insane.  Herr Obel was willing to risk his career to defend him."

"I remind you that I am a doctor, Herr Drubber, not a soothsayer."

"There are those who believe that the mind is the most important organ in the human body, and strive to unlock its secrets.  Unfortunately they are not yet ready to share their knowledge with us.  But I have a theory of my own.  Would you like to hear it?"  He waited, but Ziegler didn't answer.  Drubber gave him it anyway:  "I believe that his seeing Claudia von Dorndt apparently commit suicide in the most horrific manner imaginable—she literally slashed herself to death before his eyes—and later, seeing her apparently return from death—was enough to push Stutmann into a state of bestial madness from which there could be no return."

"Suicide."  Ziegler whispered the word.  "I never once considered that possibility."

"Unfortunately such an attempt was doomed to failure," he said.  "Claudia von Dorndt was unable to kill herself, although she made what can only be described as a damned good attempt.  What kind of weapon was employed, Herr Doctor?  A knife?"

Ziegler showed surprise.  "How should I know?  Herr Obel will confirm that the murder weapon was not found."

"It was not found because you concealed it—after you used it to try to remove the girl's heart.  But you were forced to flee the scene before you could complete your grisly task.  And, since Herr Obel has not released the body for burial yet, you've since been unable to get your hands on it."

Ziegler rose out of his chair, giving as fair an impersonation of outrage as Drubber had ever seen.  "How dare you make such an accusation?" he said.  "You have no proof—!"

"Sit down, Herr Doctor.  I may be lying in bed but make no mistake, this pleasant conversation has turned into official Ministry business.  Consider yourself under arrest until told otherwise.  If necessary, I'll have Herr Obel hold you in a cell until I'm fit enough to interview you."

Ziegler hesitated, then sat down again.  "You have no proof, Herr Drubber," he said.  "No proof whatsoever."

"True, and the only witness was Karl Stutmann, who is now dead.  But you do not stand before a judge.  Only you and I are in this room.  I have asked you a question—I should very much appreciate hearing a truthful answer."

"You ask too much."

"Do I?  The records in Herr Obel's office show that seventeen of Guttzeig's citizens died of heart-related causes in the past year.  In all seventeen cases, you were the physician who performed the post mortem examination.  Not Doctor Steiner, who was doubtless only too pleased to take advantage of your able assistance while he courted his future wife.  The less interesting cases, you left to him.  Is this not so?"

Ziegler's eyes narrowed and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.  "You are altogether too clever, Herr Drubber."

"Shall I take that as a compliment?  No, I don't think I will, it was certainly not offered as such.  Let me guess how it was, Herr Doctor.  You came upon Claudia von Dorndt and Karl Stutmann.  She appeared to be dead and Stutmann, covered in blood, was evidently her murderer."

Long moments passed.  This time Drubber waited for Ziegler to answer.

"Stutmann was in deep shock," Ziegler said at last.  "I don't think he even knew I was there, not at first."

"Not at first?"

"Karl began to show signs of awareness."

"So you fled, but without her heart—more's the pity, eh?"

"You make me sound like a butcher! Everything I have done, I have done in the name of medical science.  What I learn from my research may one day save lives.  So very few appreciate the enormous benefits.  The very idea of permitting their deceased relatives to be dissected and examined for the future good of all is anathema to these primitive, superstitious Burgers.  It is the work of the Devil himself.  They cannot understand, let alone—"

"A fine speech, Herr Doctor," Drubber said, interrupting him.  "But that does not excuse the fact that what you have done is highly illegal.  Tell me, did you know Rudolph von Dorndt?"

Ziegler frowned, clearly caught off-guard by the unexpected change of subject.  "Only by his formidable reputation.  I never had the pleasure of meeting him."

"Claudia von Dorndt's older brother was a brave man and a fine officer, by all accounts.  His name appeared in the Ministry report I read on the way here.  He died a matter of days ago, leading his cavalry squadron in a suicidal charge against a battery of Moskovian artillery.  He was literally blown to pieces by massed cannon fire."

"How is this relevant, Herr Drubber?"

"Rudolph von Dorndt's medals spilled off his chest and ran down both arms.  His courage was beyond question.  He personally led numerous assaults against Moskovian positions during the Siege of Volgrad, receiving multiple wounds—most of which should have been fatal, according to notes made by his regimental surgeon.  And yet, in all instances he recovered.  Neither bullet nor sword wound stopped him from performing his duty, the report said.  Given what we know of his sister, I am inclined to believe that nothing short of a direct cannon barrage could have killed him."

Ziegler pursed his lips thoughtfully, but did not comment.

"Of course, all this only becomes evident with hindsight," Drubber said.  "I had no way of knowing, when I asked you to examine Claudia von Dorndt's body, that she was—in her own peculiar and inexplicable way—still alive."

The full horror of what was being suggested came to Ziegler at last.  The color drained from his face.  "She just lay there on the table," he whispered, "and allowed me to violate her."

"Oh, yes.  It is obvious that she did not feel pain in the same way as you and I.  Did news of her beloved brother's death bring about her madness?  We will never truly know.  But I believe she may have hoped your post mortem would finish the job she started herself."

Emotions played over Ziegler's face:  surprise, realization, shock.  Silence hung in the air between them for a while, and then Ziegler spoke.  "That is the most awful thing I have ever heard.  Truthfully, Herr Drubber, I wish you had not shared your ghastly theory with me."

"Consider it a form of punishment, Herr Doctor.  I fear it is the only punishment you will receive.  I have considered all aspects of this affair, and have come to the conclusion that you are correct.  I have no proof.  Nothing, in fact, that I could present to my superiors, much less to a court of law.  This interview is at an end.  You may leave."

The fob-watch in Ziegler's waistcoat pocket chimed the hour.  Ziegler gave a long, shuddering sigh, and got up.  "Thank you, Herr Drubber," he said.

"Oh, don't thank me, Herr Doctor.  I must inform Herr Obel of your activities.  He may have something to say to you about that.  And I dare say Doctor Steiner will have to put in more working hours when he returns from his honeymoon.  An unfortunate but necessary inconvenience, since you will no longer make your services available to him.  Do you understand what I am saying, Herr Doctor?"

Ziegler bared his teeth.  "Do you think, Herr Drubber, that I could ever perform a post mortem upon a human corpse again?  If so, then you are very much mistaken.  I will not... cannot...."  He broke off his anguished statement, wrenched open the door and stumbled outside.  The door slammed and his rapid footsteps faded down the hallway.

Drubber lay back against his pillows and sighed.  He doubted the wisdom of his decision, but what was done was done, and hopefully for the best.  Ziegler's name would not appear in his official report, but Drubber would ensure that Obel forwarded regular updates on Ziegler's activities directly to him at Ministry headquarters.  If and when the need arose, he'd return to Guttzeig and deal with the matter personally.

The End

...Heh, I just found the Fictionwise stats for this bestselling novelette via a cached Google page, read these incredible numbers and weep! Hey, who said it was crap? WHO SAID THAT?!

Nostalgia Trip #16: DOUBLE OR QUITS

2008-06-15T12:45:00.003+01:00

published by SDO DETECTIVE Issue #5, April 2004. Mark Anthony Brennan, Fiction Editor.

Malone searched his jacket pockets, inside and out. Then his pants. Nope, they were all empty. He sighed. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't work. Tonight it hadn't. He'd learned to be philosophical about it, although he would have appreciated having the price of a cup of java.

Just as he was about to unlock his car door and head on home, a voice behind him called out, "Hey, Lucky!"

He turned around in time to meet a fist the size of a ten pound coffee can. Malone experienced a wonderful moment of weightlessness, then he opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, a blonde with her hair piled high on top of her head. She wore a black sleeveless dress and long gloves like she was going to the opera. His head lay upon the soft pillow of her lap.

"Are you an angel?" he said. He wasn't sure if he said the words right. His jaw hurt and his tongue felt too big for his mouth.

She looked down at him and the light angle altered her appearance. She was good looking, all right, but there was ice in her eyes as she studied him like an insect under a microscope. She was either a good girl turned bad... or she'd always been bad. They were together in the back seat of a moving car. She said, "Hey, Frankie, our boy's awake." She flicked cigarette ash onto Malone's face. "Rise and shine, honey." She helped Malone to sit up—or rather, she pushed him away and then elbowed him sharply in the ribs when he started to sway back.

"I must be losing my touch," the big guy who filled the front passenger seat said. He looked back over his shoulder. Hard eyes peered out from underneath a ridge of healed scar tissue. The guy with the coffee can fists. "Okay, here's how it is. You keep quiet and behave yourself, maybe you'll live to see tomorrow. Tell me you understand what I just said."

"I understand what you just said," Malone said.

"That's a good boy," the blonde said. She patted his thigh like he was a pet. "You know, you've lived up to your name already. Frankie used to be a contender. Some of the guys he met in the ring didn't get up again."

"I could'a maybe won a trophy, but they took my license away," the big man said.

"That's a cryin' shame," Malone said. He stared at the blonde. "Any chance you snatched the wrong guy?"

She chuckled. "You wish."

"What do you want me for? What did I do?"

"It's what you're gonna do, honey."

The car turned into a wide driveway that led to a big house with palm trees and a pool, the kind of house Malone had always dreamed of living in. Only he didn't want to live in this particular house because he knew who owned it.

"That's right, honey." She was watching him closely. "Jimmy the Nose wants to see you. You be sure and make a good impression, now. Oh, and let me warn you. Jimmy don't like smart mouths."

Malone knew for a fact that was true. Jimmy the Nose was king of the gambling rackets on this side of the river. Rumor had it he was spreading his wings, muscling in on neighboring territories.

The city morgue had been doing good business for a while now. Some of the victims had their noses cut off and their tongues cut out, which was a sure sign they'd said something to displease Jimmy the Nose.

The car stopped and Frankie got out. He opened the blonde's door and offered her his hand. She stubbed her cigarette out on his palm and climbed out by herself. Frankie smiled crookedly, shaking his head. He beckoned to Malone. Malone slid across the seat, got out and walked inside after the blonde. Frankie brought up the rear.

Jimmy the Nose kept a nice place. Tasteful statues and pictures decorated a living room big enough to host a baseball game. The blonde sat down on one of the black leather couches and crossed her long legs. Malone couldn't help but look. She smiled, letting him know she liked him looking. Frankie stood by the door, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression blank. Malone could live or die here tonight and Frankie wouldn't give a damn one way or the other.

"It's so good of you to come." Jimmy the Nose looked every bit as handsome as his newspaper photographs. He'd flown down to a clinic in Rio after rival gang boss Rocky "The Rock" Gumbo cut his original nose off, and got the doctors to graft on a new one. The skin looked a couple shades lighter than the rest of him but that was because the reluctant donor was younger than Jimmy. The Nose walked over to the couch, leaned down and kissed the blonde on her cheek. Instead of turning into him she turned her face away. He plainly didn't like that but he didn't say anything. Maybe having an audience put him on his best behavior.

Instead of saying, "I didn't have much of a choice, your goons kidnapped me," Malone waited patiently to hear why Jimmy the Nose had had him brought here.

"They call you Lucky Malone, don't they?"

"That's right."

"How come? I mean, you lose all the time. You live in some pokey little dump that overlooks the garbage recycling plant. You can't afford to feed your cat, it has to go scrounge for food. Jesus."

Malone was impressed by how deep the Nose had delved into his private life. Impressed, and a little bit annoyed.

"Well?" Jimmy the Nose sat down on another couch and stared at Malone, waiting for his answer.

"It's like that dame in the ancient Greek legend," Malone said. "You know, she could see the future, only no one believed a word she said."

The Nose looked at Frankie. "What the hell is this guy talking about?"

"I dunno, boss," Frankie said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" the Nose demanded of Malone.

"I don't lose all the time," Malone said. "I always win... at first. But I never get to hold onto my winnings. Not all of them, anyway. Sometimes loose change finds its way into my pockets. Enough to pay the rent and keep me and the cat in TV dinners."

"You don't know when to quit. You've got to go back to the tables and try to win more. Is that it? You're one of those compulsive gamblers."

"Something along those lines, yeah."

"Cassandra," the blonde said. The Nose looked at her. She got up and poured herself another drink, threw it back like there was no tomorrow.

"That stuff'll kill ya," the Nose said.

Malone didn't know if this was a general observation or intended for the blonde. She didn't seem to notice.

"It's getting late, boss," Frankie said.

"I know it's getting late," the Nose said, annoyance in his voice. "Okay, Malone, you're wondering why you're here. I'm gonna spell it out, and you're gonna tell me if there's maybe something to all this, like Velma thinks there is. But first, we're gonna play a little game."

The Nose opened the lid of a carved wooden box and took out a deck of playing cards. He tore off the wrapper and shuffled the cards expertly, watching Malone the whole time. He stopped shuffling, cut the cards and held them so Malone couldn't see the card at the bottom of the cut.

"Tell me what it is."

Malone shook his head. "I don't do freebies. A thousand bucks says I know what it is."

The Nose considered this. "How do I know you can afford a thousand bucks."

"If I can't pay, Frankie breaks my fingers."

The Nose smiled. "Okay, you got a bet."

"Eight of Diamonds," Malone said.

The Nose glanced down at the revealed card. He didn't say anything, he just shuffled again, then cut. "Call it out, Malone."

"Double or quits," Malone said.

The Nose thought about it, then nodded.

"Three of Spades."

The Nose glanced down again. He shuffled a third time and cut. Malone said, "Double or quits again?" The Nose nodded. "Six of Clubs."

The Nose's hand trembled, although you'd have to look hard to notice. Malone was looking hard. He tried not to smile in case the Nose ordered Frankie to rough him up a little.

The Nose shuffled, cut the cards, zipped the two halves together and shuffled them again, then cut a fourth time.

"Same deal?" Malone asked. The Nose nodded.

"Jack of Diamonds, and you owe me eight gees."

The Nose let out a deep breath. He put the cards down, looked speculatively at Malone, then beckoned to Frankie. Malone watched as Frankie produced a fat money clip, counted out a wad of lettuce and offered it to Malone—who didn't take it.

"What's the matter?" the Nose demanded. "My money isn't good enough for you?

Malone shook his head. "It's not that. If I take it, something will happen. Don't ask me what, I don't know. But I won't walk out of here with that money in my pocket."

The Nose gestured. Frankie put the money away.

"You got a weird sense of humor, Malone. I like you. Now you've proved yourself to me, I'm gonna tell you why I invited you here tonight."

"I was kinda hoping you would."

"You know Rocky Gumbo? What am I saying, of course you know Gumbo, you were in his joint tonight. How much did you take him for?"

Malone divided the actual amount by ten so he wouldn't look too stupid. "Twenty thousand, at one point."

"You won it, then you lost it again?"

"That's right." He'd turned away from the roulette table, actually turned away with the bundle of big denomination chips in his hands, ready to take them to the bird cage and cash 'em in, when someone bumped his elbow and someone else nudged him the other way, and he lost his balance and stumbled over his own big feet and emptied the chips back onto the table, covering thirteen numbers at random. The wheel was already spinning and he heard the fatal words: "No more bets!" Not even enough left for a cup of java.... And Rocky Gumbo, making a rare personal appearance in his own casino to watch Malone's performance, had shaken his head and retreated into his inner sanctum, his shoulders heaving with suppressed laughter. His parting comment echoed in Malone's ears: "Throw dat loser out of here."

"Gumbo's been a bad boy," the Nose said, bringing Malone back to reality. "A little bird tells me he's got friends up in the Big City and they're looking to muscle in down here. If I go to the Bosses without proof, they'll slap me good. That's where you come in."

"You think I have proof?"

"Shut up. I talk, you listen. Gumbo wouldn't be involved in this for nothing. When it goes ahead and the territories get split up, he'll get his share, don't worry about that. But Gumbo doesn't trust his own mother, see? Verbal promises don't mean a thing to him. He must've got something from those guys... and I know what it is."

"The Ace of Spades," the blonde, Velma, said.

"That's right," the Nose said, glancing at her. "The Ace of Spades, their marker, with their names written on the back. It'll be in Gumbo's safe, behind the picture in his study. I can get someone in there, only they wouldn't be able to open the safe. It's a real tough job. One mistake, one wrong number, and all kinds of alarms go off."

"So you want me to...?"

"I want you tell me if you can guess the combination and open the safe. If you can't, our business is concluded. Frankie will take you back to where he found you. Won't you, Frankie?"

"Sure thing, boss."

Malone read the silent message that passed between them. He wouldn't be seeing his cat tonight, that was for sure. Frankie would cruise around until he found a quiet landfill, and that would be the last anyone ever saw of "Lucky" Malone.

Velma was watching him, reading his mind. Malone thought she might say something but instead she poured herself another drink.

"I don't know," Malone said. "I've never tried anything like that before."

The Nose thought about it for a moment. Then he said, "Bring him, Frankie." He got up and left the room. Frankie pushed Malone after him. They gave him a brief tour of the house and ended up in the Nose's study, a tastefully decorated temple of contemplation. Malone looked around for a lever but didn't see one. Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't standing on a hidden trapdoor above a crocodile pit.

The Nose stepped behind his desk, reached up and pulled a framed landscape painting away from the wall. The painting was hinged so it swung open like a door, revealing the Nose's private safe, a twelve-inch cork of gleaming steel.

"Come on up here, Malone."

Malone went around the desk and joined the Nose. The combination dial was surrounded by tiny numbers counting up from zero to ninety-nine. The Nose sat down on the edge of his desk and played with a gold paper knife, rolling it up and down his fingers. Frankie stayed just inside the door. He was curious, but not curious enough to want to know what his boss's safe combination might be.

"Open it," the Nose said.

"What happens if I can't?"

"Nothing happens. I just want to see if you

can do it."

Malone took a deep breath and placed his thumb and forefinger upon the dial. He turned it to zero, then willed himself to guess the first number of the combination string. The study became uncomfortably hot. The Nose's eyes bored into his head and the gold paper knife became a blur, rolling down his fingers and rolling back again like it had a life of its own.

"Hurry it up, Malone," the Nose said. "There's a time limit to this caper. Gumbo stays at his gambling joint until two in the morning to count his takings. Then he heads home. If you're there when he arrives, you can bet he'll want to ask you questions." He looked at his watch. "It's fifteen after one. It'll be close, but you can still make it. In and out, like a ghost." His brows came together. "What's the matter with you? Why don't you open the damn safe?"

Malone shook his head. He was about to say, "I can't!" when Velma said, "Hey, Malone." She leaned against the doorway, fanning herself with a wad of money she must've got from Frankie. His money—the eight gees he'd won from the Nose but refused to take.

The Nose waved her away. "You're disturbing his concentration."

"Offer him double or quits," Velma said.

"What about it, Malone? Eight'll get you sixteen. Just do your thing."

The Nose opened his mouth to speak again but Malone spun the dial, Left 19, Right 37, Left 13, Right 71, Left 57. The locks clicked and the steel door swung open. Malone found himself looking at a pistol lying on top of papers bound with a ribbon, plus stacks of green bills with that unmistakable hot-off-the-press new smell, the kind of smell men killed for.

The Nose grinned and looked at Frankie and Velma. "Did you see that? Did you see that?" His grin faded. He slammed the safe door shut and spun the dial. Malone didn't know if he was angry or pleased. "Okay, Malone, I guess those cards weren't a trick after all. Velma was right, you can do the biz. So here's the deal. Frankie takes you to Gumbo's place. We got a man on the inside, see? He'll unlock the back door and let you in. You open Gumbo's safe and bring me that Ace of Spades. What could be simpler?"

Malone nodded. What could be simpler, indeed?

"You're forgetting just one thing," he said.

"What's that?" the Nose said.

"Why the hell should I risk my neck stealing stuff from Rocky Gumbo's safe? A man would have to be crazy to even think about doing something like that. I might be a loser, but I'm not a crazy loser."

The Nose laughed, producing an unpleasant whining sound that suggested anything but amusement. "Even a loser needs a stake to get into the next game," he said. "You got sixteen gees held in trust. On top of that, you get another hundred gees. And it ain't no bet, so it can't slip through your fingers. Wha'd'ya say, Malone? Five minutes of your precious time gets you a truckload of TV dinners, and maybe enough left over for a couple tins of cat food."

"You seem awful concerned about my cat."

"Yeah, well, I had a cat of my own when I was a kid. It was the only friend I had. Now I can buy as many friends as I need, but they'll never love me the same way my cat did."

"I love you, boss," Frankie said.

"Shut up, Frankie, you're embarrassing me. Waiting for your answer, Malone."

"A hundred gees sounds real good to me," Malone said. "I'm your boy, if you can get me in and out of Gumbo's house in one piece."

"I guarantee it," the Nose said. "I guarantee it. Frankie, get the car. Tell Fast Eddie to take the rest of the night off, you're driving this time, slow and careful."

"I think I'll go with them," Velma said.

The Nose looked at her. "Now why would you do that?"

She waved the money. "Someone's got to make the bet, remember?"

Understanding spread slowly across the Nose's face. "Yeah, I get it. You gotta make the magic work. Okay, you go with them, just don't get in the way." The Nose clapped Malone's shoulder. "If this goes off, and there's no reason why it shouldn't, maybe you and me can think up some other way to make a few bucks together. Wha'd'ya say, Malone?"

"Sure, why not?" Malone said, but the act didn't fool him for a moment, the dice were rolling and Frankie already had his orders. Whether Malone opened Gumbo's safe or not, he had a date with a landfill.

Velma took him by the arm and led him out into the hallway, leaving Jimmy the Nose alone in his study. Despite her soft touch Malone felt trapped. Even if—somehow—he could get away from Frankie, the Nose would just send someone after him. He'd end up in the morgue with a John Doe tag on his big toe because they'd never find his face or his fingers, the Nose would make sure of that.

"Don't worry, honey," Velma said as they moved outside into the garden at the back of the house. "You and me together, we'll figure something out."

Frankie pulled up in the car before Malone could ask her what she meant by that. He opened the door for her and Velma climbed in. Malone sat down heavily beside her when Frankie stamped his foot on the gas. Velma looked at him oddly and Malone realized she must have felt the bulge in his pocket. He inched away from her and played innocent, staring out the window, but he could feel her curious gaze on the back of his skull. She didn't say anything to Frankie but Malone didn't know if that was because she wasn't entirely sure, or because she wanted to play some game of her own.

They passed through familiar streets. The bars and clubs had closed a while ago and they only met a couple of cars on the road. This was Malone's favorite time of night, when the city settled down after a hard day, and the smell from the garbage recycling plant faded until you could almost breathe normally.

Eventually they moved into the rich part of town, where the successful businessmen lived next door to the A-list actors and actresses, all with their electric gates and private security. Frankie stopped outside a big house and said, "This is it."

"How do I get in?" Malone said.

"The side gate's unlocked. You walk up the path and knock on the back door. Our man will open it and show you where the study is."

Malone sighed. "Okay." He opened the door and went to climb out but Velma put her hand on his arm, stopping him. She fished into her purse and brought out the lettuce. His lettuce, the sixteen gees he'd won from Jimmy the Nose.

"Double or quits, Malone," she said. "Thirty-two big ones just for opening the safe. Remember that. The bet's on."

He nodded his thanks and braced himself to exit the car but Velma put her hand on the back of his neck, drew him down and kissed him. "For luck," she said. Her eyes were like deep pools, inviting him to climb up onto the high board and dive in. It took all his strength just to step out of the car.

Malone looked back when he reached the gate. Frankie and Velma were watching him from across the street, half-seen shadows inside the car.

The path beyond the gate wound through manicured bushes and past an ornamental pond stocked with gleaming fish. Anyone who happened to look out any of the windows would see him right away. Malone tensed, expecting to feel sharp pain followed by the crack! of the firing gun, but nothing happened and he reached the back door without shedding a drop of blood.

The door opened before he could knock. A little guy stood there, dressed in a white jacket as if he was a waiter or something. He stepped aside and motioned for Malone to enter. The waiter didn't have to tell Malone to keep quiet, that was a given. They crept through the dimly lit house until the waiter stopped at a door. Malone nodded. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

He had to wait until his eyes adjusted to the almost total absence of light. Then he figured it was okay to switch on a lamp because the heavy drapes would prevent anyone outside from seeing the light inside. He felt his way forward, encountered the desk, searched for the lamp and found it without knocking it over. He had the sense to shut his eyes before he switched it on. He looked around the study, which seemed oddly familiar.

Maybe Gumbo and Jimmy the Nose used the same decorator. Malone found the picture and swung it away from the wall. Gumbo's safe gleamed invitingly. Malone turned the dial to zero, then closed his eyes and waited for the first number to pop into his head.

Sweat broke out on his brow and trickled into his eyes. He stepped back from the safe, sat down in the big red leather chair and tried to figure what the hell was wrong. Velma had offered him the bet, hadn't she? Then why wasn't it working?

The waiter opened the door and looked in. His eyes widened when he saw Malone sitting in Gumbo's chair. Malone held up a finger, asking for another minute. The waiter nodded and closed the door again, albeit with reluctance.

It wasn't working because Velma had jinxed him. Malone slapped his forehead. How could he be so dumb? Luck wasn't something that could be forced, it was a free spirit. Malone didn't decide which way a coin landed or what number came up on the roulette table or what card came out of the pack, that happened by itself. His talent was guessing the result a few seconds ahead. But Velma had given him a good luck kiss, intending to push matters in his favor. Thinking back, Malone had felt the subtle shift in the whirring gears of the cosmic slot machine, only her hot kiss distracted him so much he hadn't realized what the repercussions might be. He couldn't predict the safe combination even if Jimmy the Nose put a gun to his head and thumbed the hammer back.

He could try Velma again. If he could make another bet with her, with no good luck kiss this time, maybe that would do the trick? Or would his luck remain stale because it was really the same bet?

There was only one way to find out. He switched off the lamp and headed for the door—just as the drapes lit up. A car rolled past the window and moved to the front of the house. Malone didn't think many vacuum cleaner salesmen would come calling at this time of night, which meant that Gumbo was home early. The Nose's prediction was 'way off. If Gumbo had his bodyguards with him, as he surely would....

Malone reached into his pocket for the pistol he'd taken from the Nose's safe when he'd turned away to look at Frankie and Velma—the pistol that Velma had brushed against in the back seat of the car. Gone! In its place was something else, lighter and a lot less useful to him given the current situation. What the hell kind of game was Velma playing with him? She'd picked his pocket like a pro, probably while she was kissing him.

He opened the door and looked up and down the hallway for the waiter. The guy was gone. Voices reached him from the front door. He caught a glimpse of Gumbo and his Sumo wrestler bodyguards, who had to turn sideways to fit through the door.

He heard Gumbo say, "I'm gonna put dis in the safe."

Malone swallowed hard and tried to figure where he could hide. The study wasn't that big. Either he crouched down behind the desk, or he squeezed himself into the narrow space behind the door. Gumbo's heavy footsteps got closer. Malone pulled in his stomach and stepped behind the door just as it opened. The door sandwiched him against the wall. Gumbo's shadow fell across the floor and climbed up the desk. Malone got ready to move as soon as Gumbo came inside. If Gumbo turned around Malone would lay one on his jaw, never mind that the guy weighed two hundred fifty pounds, all of it solid muscle. If he didn't turn around then maybe Malone could make it into the hallway without being seen. His legs wanted to start moving right now but he told them they'd have to wait. Some things couldn't be hurried.

"Hey, what gives?" Gumbo said to no one in particular.

Malone would have kicked himself if not for the fact he was squished flat. He'd forgotten to close the picture over the safe.

Gumbo turned and ran down the hallway, shouting to his men. Malone decided it was time to blow this joint. He moved to the desk, picked up the big chair and heaved it at the windows with all his strength. It hit the heavy drapes, which drained it completely of its momentum. The chair hit the floor with a resounding boom that echoed through the house and brought Gumbo's men running this way.

Malone pulled the drapes open, bent over and picked up the chair. Then a thought hit him. He put the chair down, gripped both handles, turned them and opened the unlocked French windows outward. He felt like a real chump. An alarm bell started ringing but that didn't matter, they knew he was here anyway. The night air cooled his sweat as he hurried across the garden, searching for the gate he'd come in through. A gun shot from the study caused him to duck instinctively but not before a lead-winged insect buzzed over his head, giving his hair a new parting. Gumbo's harsh voice demanded the shooter hold his fire but shadows played across the garden, suggesting they weren't giving up that easily.

He discovered some of the bushes had thorns. They dragged at his clothes and his skin, determined to stop him. He broke through, saw a set of headlamps flash through the gate, and charged headlong in that direction, stepping into the fish pond on the way. Bleeding, disheveled and wet, he staggered through the gate and collided with the side of the car. Velma opened the back door for him. He dived inside and she slammed it behind him.

Frankie wasn't saying much but that was because he was hunched forward over the dashboard, dripping blood and brains onto the floor. Velma came around to the driver's side, opened the door and pushed Frankie over. She squeezed in beside him, started the engine and floored the gas, taking them out of there on clouds of burning rubber.

Malone stole a look out the back window. Gumbo's men came out the side gate and pointed their guns, but Gumbo must have shouted them back inside. They put their guns away and disappeared.

Malone couldn't stop staring at the hole in the back of Frankie's head. He wanted to believe that while he was inside the house, one of Gumbo's men had sneaked up on the car when Frankie wasn't looking and popped him. But when Velma looked at him in the rear view mirror he saw the truth in her eyes.

"Just shut up and sit there," she said.

She drove back to Jimmy the Nose's place like it was a race and she'd seen the checkered flag. She took some corners on two wheels and others on just a wing and a prayer. Malone liked fast women but not this fast. Asking her to slow down might have had serious repercussions however, so he contented himself with reflecting on the good life he'd had and on making his peace with the big guy upstairs.

Velma hit the brakes and approached Jimmy the Nose's house at a more leisurely pace. When the gates swung open she crept up the driveway, a candidate for Safe Driver Of The Year. She flashed the headlamps three times which must have been the OK signal. When they got to the door Jimmy the Nose was waiting for her together with Fast Eddie, his driver, who came around the car, opened the passenger door and dragged Frankie's body out.

"What the hell happened?" the Nose demanded, helping Velma out of the driver's seat.

"Gumbo came home early," she said. "His guys started shooting. Poor Frankie took one in the head. I got us out of there, but it was damn close."

"What about the Ace of Spades?" The Nose wrenched Malone's door open, leaned in and grabbed the front of his jacket. "Did you get into Gumbo's safe? You better tell me you did, you schmuck, or I'll—"

"Look in his left jacket pocket," Velma said.

The Nose did like she said. He straightened, holding up the card. He turned it around so it caught the door light and he could see the Ace of Spaces clearly and read the handwriting on the back. "Son of a gun," he said. "You did it."

"You gonna pay him his hundred gees?" Velma said.

"Yeah, sure I am." The Nose wrenched his gaze away from the card and grinned at Malone. "The two of you can wait here. I got some business to attend to but I'll be right back. Maybe you can do something with Frankie. Then get yourselves a drink and relax. You deserve it."

Malone took the hint and climbed out. He and Velma watched as Fast Eddie got into the driver's seat and the Nose climbed in behind him. The car turned around and went down the driveway.

"Looks like it's just you and me," Velma said. "Come on, let's get that drink."

Malone indicated the dark lump lying at the side of the driveway. "What about Frankie?"

"He's not going anywhere." She went inside, hips swaying. Malone hesitated, but he had to play this through to its conclusion unless he wanted to spend the rest of his short life looking over his shoulder. He followed her into the house. By the time he reached the big living room she was pouring two Jack Dees. She offered one to him. Malone took it and watched as she knocked hers back in one.

"Where'd you learn to drink like that?" he said.

"Like what?" She refilled her glass.

"Like a professional."

She raised the glass to her lips, then thought twice and put it down again. "I wasn't always like this, you know."

"Let me guess. You were a nun, then Jimmy the Nose came along and corrupted you."

She turned to face him. "Oh boy, are you looking for a slap."

"That sounds a lot better than a bullet in the head."

She took his glass out of his hand, put it down beside hers, then grabbed Malone and kissed him hard. When she was finished, about two days later, he said, "What's that for?"

"For not turning me in to Jimmy."

"Forget it. He wouldn't have believed me anyway, I'm the one who would have ended up underground, pushing up daisies. Are you going to tell me why you did it?"

"Frankie followed you up to Gumbo's house, you sap. You didn't see him looking in the window? He came back to the car, told me you couldn't open the safe."

Malone shook his head, still not able to figure things out. "You had that Ace of Spaces with the names written on it, ready to slide into my pocket as soon as were in the car." Malone glanced at the pile of cards the Nose had discarded after testing him earlier. "Out of the Nose's own pack, no less."

"That's right. His card, my handwriting. Frankie would have blabbed about how you didn't get it from Gumbo's safe, so it was him or you. Personally, I'm glad it was him."

"Me, too. But that doesn't explain why. And where's Jimmy the Nose driving off to in such a hurry at this time of night?"

"Where do you think? He's waking up the Bosses. Calling a special meeting. Telling them Gumbo's stabbing them in the back, selling them out to his friends in the Big City. He's got proof. The Ace of Spades... the marker they gave to Gumbo. With all their names written on the back."

Malone thought about that. "What'll happen when they find out it's a fake?"

"The Bosses don't like being played for saps. And Gumbo might want his pound of flesh, too. But just to make absolutely sure...."

She opened her purse and took out the pistol Malone had taken from the safe. The pistol she'd used to blow Frankie's brains out. He thought she was going to use it on him, but she wiped it clean and dropped it onto the couch instead.

Before Malone could say anything else Velma picked up the phone and dialed a number. She stared at him while she waited for someone to pick up. "Hello, Police? I want to report a murder. Send a squad car over to Jimmy the Nose's place. Yeah, that's right. Better watch you don't run over the body on the way in." She hung up. "There's another car in the garage. You better come with me before the cops get here. I'll drop you off where we found you, okay?"

"Sure." He wondered what might happen if he didn't agree with her.

They made their way out to the garage and drove out of there, leaving Frankie behind for the police to find... along with the Nose's pistol, lying on the couch. Velma didn't look back. Malone did, when he caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue lights in the side mirror. The cops weren't wasting any time.

"When did you think up this sweet little plan?" he said.

"Last night, when Jimmy told me about you."

"You still haven't explained why."

Velma shrugged, trying to be casual about it, but he saw through her disguise. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her perfect lower lip trembled. "I've had enough of being hurt. I can't take any more. It's guys like Jimmy the Nose. It's this damn town. It's eating me alive, see?"

"Yeah, I see. Where will you go?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere. I haven't decided yet. But I'm leaving, and I'm leaving tonight." She let out a long sigh. "I should have done it a long time ago, but I was afraid he'd come after me."

She found the alley behind Gumbo's gambling joint. Malone's car was still there, which in this neighborhood was something of a miracle. Velma switched the engine off and they sat there for a while listening to the ticking, creaking music of cooling metal.

"I know what you're thinking," she said at last.

"You wanna bet?"

She smiled and it changed her again so he caught a glimpse of the good girl who'd been trapped inside the bad girl for too long. "That reminds me." She dipped into her purse and came out with the money. "Yours, I believe."

He shook his head. "Why don't you keep it?"

"I can't do that, it's yours. You won it fair and square."

"Sure I did, but now I'll just lose it again. Maybe my car will catch fire, or maybe someone will put a gun in my back and rob me, or maybe the cops will pull me over and take a donation for the police retirement fund. Believe me, you'll be saving me a whole load of grief if you get rid of it for me."

She thought about it for a moment. "You said loose change sometimes ends up in your pockets."

"Yeah. Sometimes."

She slipped a couple of notes into his jacket. "Does your cat like fish?"

Malone smiled. "I think he does."

"Give him a special treat, on me. I gotta go, Malone. And no, you can't come with me."

"I know," he said. "But it's a nice thought. Listen, when you get to wherever you're going, give me a call, will you? Just so I know you got there safely."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Sure I will."

Malone got out and watched her lights disappear into the night. He was happy for her, but he also felt lonely and sorry for himself, even though he knew she couldn't ever be the woman for him. Velma was femme, all right, but she was also fatale, and he liked to fall asleep at night without having to worry about whether he'd wake up in the morning alive.

He patted his other jacket pocket, making sure that the bundle of notes he'd slipped from Jimmy the Nose's safe along with the pistol was still there. A hundred gees, unless he was mistaken, exactly what he'd been promised if he brought an Ace of Spades back from Gumbo's place. The Nose was right, he was a loser, and a loser needed a stake to get into the next game.

He'd only driven a couple of streets before he stumbled across an all-night fish market. Sometimes Malone's cat got lucky, too.

The End

published by
SDO DETECTIVE
Issue #5, April 2004
Mark Anthony Brennan, Fiction Editor

Nostalgia Trip #15: THEM'S THE BREAKS

2008-06-01T23:21:00.006+01:00

Published by SDO DETECTIVE Issue #1, April 2003

The view of Great London at night from the cockpit of the Police patrol car was both startling and beautiful. It was almost enough to make North forget his fear of flying. Almost. The pilot effortlessly guided his machine between the towering obsidian blocks, each course correction flipping North's stomach over. Then they were suddenly hovering above a triangular patch of blackness amid the sea of artificial light. The patrol car dropped like a stone while North held on for dear life. If the pilot noticed his passenger's terror, he gave no sign.

Macauley of all people was waiting for him, a cup of tea in one hand and a sandwich in the other. Heaven forbid that Macauley should be denied his midnight snack—he'd fade away to a shadow. North climbed shakily out of the cockpit and lurched toward him, relieved to be on solid ground again.

"Good of you to drop in, Laddie," Macauley shouted above the rising din of the patrol car's thrusters. "The rest of us can go home now that you're here."

North didn't smile. He didn't like Macauley or the way the man worked. Macauley was a dinosaur who still thought detective work should rely upon gut instinct instead of systematic and exhaustive microanalysis of data gathered at the crime scene. In North's opinion, Superintendent Morgan should have bounced him off the team long ago. They watched in silence as the patrol car lifted off and swung back to retrace its path, its navigation lights flashing like miniature explosions.

"What's this all about?" North asked wearily once the noise of the thrusters had faded. When Morgan had called to tell him the patrol car was on its way to pick him up, he'd neglected to provide any details, or warn North that Macauley was already at the scene. Deliberately? North couldn't help but think so.

Macauley nodded toward a mock wrought iron bridge that crossed a narrow river with shallow banks. Through the trees on the other side, North could see the forensics team moving about, dressed like spacemen. Harsh floodlighting cast elongated shadows as the team checked out the area. The place was called Vader Park, named after some obscure VR actor whose face eluded North.

"Male, aged forty," Macauley said. "Name's Jessica-Ann Smythe. Apparently he was cruising the park looking for company. A Police patrol saw him two hours ago. He tried to tempt both constables into the bushes but they turned him down. According to them Smythe had already had three liaisons with passers-by. He must have been saving it up for tonight, hmm?"

North nodded, accepting it all without comment. It didn't affect him any more. In this sprawling city whose population was three-quarters gay, boygirls like Smythe were the norm rather than the unusual.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

Macauley swallowed the last of his sandwich and licked his fingers before answering. "Why don't you come and see for yourself?"

North followed him across the bridge and past the flashing blue POLICE LINE beacons. The electrical barrier switched off for a moment, long enough for North and Macauley to step through. There was no one around but you never knew when sightseers might appear to ogle the corpse and tramp all over the crime scene. Chinese tourists were the worst, with their satellite-linked cameras which relayed everything they saw live to the news channels. They even had a retired Chief Inspector of New Beijing Police on hand to laugh at lamentable Western procedures. North didn't need any of that going on while he was trying to work.

He stopped in mid-step when he recognized Samantha Harley, the forensics team leader. They'd shared an apartment for six months before they got bored with each other. At least, that was what North kept telling himself. The bitter truth was, Harley had left him for some skinny girl in Uniform Division. As far as he knew they were still together.

Her smile, when she looked round and saw him, was genuine enough. "Peter, hello. How are you? They've got you working the graveyard shift now?"

"Not really," he said, aware of Macauley's leering smile. "They woke me up especially. Must have decided I'm the only policeman in the entire bloody city." He glanced at the bundle beneath the plastic sheet. "I assume that's the body?"

She nodded, and they went over to where the corpse lay. Crouching down, Harley lifted the sheet back.

Jessica-Ann Smythe was a knockout, a stunning redhead wearing a shimmering purple lame dress that showed off every curve and bump. The black-stockinged legs and the rocket red stilettos completed the vision of blatant transsexuality. Macauley gave a low whistle of appreciation, which brought another smile to Harley's lips. North still missed those lips. He crouched down beside Harley, careful not to brush against her. "Is the jewelry real?" he asked.

Harley nodded. "Yes, it's real, all right. Matching necklace, nose ring, ear rings and wristlets, designed by Kamaahl of Rio de Janeiro. Valuation is around one hundred and fifty thousand Adjusted Euros. Jessica-Ann was also carrying six hundred A-Ds in her—sorry, his—purse."

"So it wasn't a robbery," Macauley said. North slowly turned his head and looked up at him. Macauley shrugged and grinned. "Well, someone had to say it."

"It doesn't look like it," Harley agreed easily.

"What killed him?" North asked softly. The too-bright lights were giving him a headache. He should have thought to bring sunglasses along.

"Listen," Harley said.

He waited, but surprisingly she didn't say anything else.

"I asked you what killed him," he said, suddenly annoyed with her, and with Macauley, and especially with Morgan for not picking someone else for this middle-of-the-night wild goose chase.

Harley gave him a look that said, You haven't changed.

"I said, listen. Don't you hear it?"

He didn't, not at first, but then he perceived the faint sound. It put him in mind of pieces of broken glass being ground together. He looked around for source, confused.

"Where is it coming from?" he asked.

"Where do you think?" Harley indicated the corpse. "Miss Smythe died of a massive calcium deficiency. That's something you don't hear every day—at least, I don't. The removal of over ninety-seven percent of calcium hydroxyphosphate from his body has rendered all his bones super-brittle. Outwardly, you can't see the damage. But go beneath the skin and you'll find almost every bone broken, and in some cases shattered, just by the pressure of his own body weight. That's the grinding noise you're hearing. Technically speaking, Miss Smythe is a bag of jelly."

She stood up and unclipped her data plate from her belt. "Have a look, Inspector. It makes fascinating reading." She turned away to talk to her forensics people. North read the text, then switched to graphic mode and studied the chemical analysis. As always, Harley's work was meticulous. She'd been a doctor for nine years before switching to forensic pathology. It looked like she was right. Smythe was a perfectly healthy male specimen with superclean DNA, who might have been expected to live to one hundred and twenty. Or even longer if he could afford longevity treatment, which wouldn't have been a problem judging from his designer jewelry and the amount of loose change he carried in his purse.

The forensics people began packing their equipment. North stood up and gave Harley her plate back. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have snapped at you."

Her smile returned as if it had never been away. "It's the middle of the night, you're entitled to be irritable. What do you make of it?"

"I don't know what to make of it. I can't very well argue with your analysis. But is that really what killed him?"

"There's nothing else I can detect that could have caused premature death. No marks on the body, no poisons in the bloodstream, no damaged internal organs. I don't think the autopsy analysis is going to reveal much else, but you never know."

North contemplated this for several seconds before he said, "When you say the removal of calcium hydroxyphosphate, what exactly do you mean?"

Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully. North wondered whether they performed the same miracles for the girl in Uniform Division as they used to do for him.

"Something like this just doesn't occur naturally, not this quickly, not all at once," she said. "There has to be an external cause. I've checked for traces of foreign chemicals, diotoxins, anything that would cause a breakdown on this scale—but there's nothing. Which is the point where forensic analysis stops and detective work begins, I think." She bent down and pulled the sheet up to cover the late Jessica-Ann Smythe's beautiful face. "She's all yours, Inspector."

§

The body was flown off to the City Morgue for full medical analysis before recycling. North and Macauley returned to River Tower, where they each occupied a viewer booth and got down to business. There were seventeen Police surveillance cameras in and around Vader Park, which gave them thirty-four hours of vid-chips to watch, since the deceased could have died any time during the two hours between trying to entice the police constables to have sex in the woods and being discovered dead. This was tedious detective work, but North accepted the necessity. There were times when human eyes were the best tools.

Three hours later, having fast-speeded five vid-chips and found nothing of interest, his eyes needed a rest. He wondered how Macauley was doing, but didn't want to ask. He sat back in his chair and idly glanced at the police report, which contained the name of the person who'd found the body. Police cameras had confirmed that Kirsti Monroe—nineteen years old, student, too young to engage in open sexual activities in public but old enough to get a kick from watching—had entered Vader Park, skirted around the trees, crossed the bridge and stopped as soon as she saw Smythe lying there. She hadn't gone near the body. Instead she'd located the nearest public vidphone and called it in.

Maybe she could shed some further light on the incident. He pasted her home number into his vidphone and selected the CALL button before it occurred to him that it was still the middle of the night. To his surprise the call was answered immediately. She was fully clothed and didn't appear to have been asleep. A large coffee mug filled her left hand.

"Yes, who is it?"

"Inspector North, calling from River Tower," he introduced himself. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Miss Monroe?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. I just couldn't sleep, not after. . . . Well, you know. How can I help you, Inspector? That's why you're calling, isn't it?" She was talking so softly that North had to adjust the speaker volume control to maximum. He suspected she'd turned her own volume down because she didn't want anyone else in the house to hear his voice. Her personal file listed her as still living with her parents, an old-fashioned arrangement that was rare these days but certainly not unheard-of. Maybe she didn't want her parents to know she was a voyeur?

"I'd like to ask you who and what you saw on your way into Vader Park, Miss Monroe."

"Please, it's Kirsti," she said. "Every time you call me 'Miss Monroe' I feel like I'm a hundred-year-old spinster." She took a sip of coffee. The sky blue dinosaur painted on the mug was the same color and shade as her eyes. North found himself appraising her in what could only be termed an unprofessional manner. He chided himself for being a pervert—she was half his age. Well, almost. Ten years of difference, which meant that any kind of relationship would be illegal. He blamed it on fatigue.

"I remember there were two constables in a patrol car, near the park gates," she said. The same pair who'd seen Smythe, presumably. "An old man was out walking. He wasn't too steady on his legs. He had a dog with him."

"You mean a guide dog?"

"Of course. If it had been a real dog in a public park, I would have called the Police right away. It was talking to him, telling him watch his footing."

"Did you see anyone else?"

"I heard someone moving around in the trees near the fountain, near the park gates. They sounded like they were having a jolly time. I went over to look, but they shooed me away."

"Are you in the habit of watching other people copulate?"

She shrugged, not at all abashed. "There's no harm in it, is there? I don't think so, anyway. Last I heard, it's not illegal."

"What about near the bridge?"

"No, I didn't see anyone near the bridge. I admit I was nosing around, looking for some excitement. That's when I saw the body. Poor woman." She stared at her mug for a moment, a sadness in her eyes. "I hope you get whoever did it."

"The deceased's name was Jessica-Ann Smythe," North said. "You don't happen to know him, do you?"

"Him? Oh, I see. No, sorry, I'm sure I don't. None of my friends are into dressing up, and my parents and their friends aren't, either. My parents hold to the old values, Inspector. That's why I'd rather—"

"I have no need to involve them, Miss—sorry, Kirsti."

"Good. I wouldn't want them to know what I get up to."

Her blue eyes shifted and North knew she was glancing at Macauley, who'd just come into the booth behind him and would be visible to the camera lens.

"If you think of anything else, anything at all, will you please call me?" He sent his number through. She copied it to her wristwatch and nodded goodbye. North closed the connection and turned his chair around to face Macauley.

"Tell me you've found something," he said wearily.

Macauley nodded. "Oh, I've found something, all right. While you've been chatting up underage girls, I've been working my buttocks off. Do you want to come and take a look?"

North followed him through to the next room and sat down as Macauley replayed the section of vid-chip he'd been examining. North watched the miracle happen while Macauley sat on the edge of the table and chuckled.

"Told you I'd found something," he said. "You get the teas, I'll sign out a car. See you on the roof in five minutes?"

"Can't we just take the tube?"

"We're detective inspectors, remember? We always have to arrive in style." He was still chuckling when the door swung shut behind him.

§

Police pilots were made of stern stuff and didn't throw up no matter how many gees they had to pull. Unfortunately North wasn't cut from the same block of granite. He filled his empty tea cup all the way to the top, then filled Macauley's cup, too.

Dawn's early light had touched the distant horizon when they finally landed in Vader Park and the cockpit swung open. North headed for the river and emptied the cups, then threw them into a recycling bin before crouching down and wiping his fingers clean on the dew-soaked grass.

"You're a swine, Macauley, do you know that?"

Macauley locked the patrol car. "The old man went this way," he said, pointing along the path.

They set off past flower beds and bushes and trees, walking until they found the fountain Kirsti Monroe had mentioned. From here they could see the building they were looking for. It was one of the few constructions in the area still owned by the City instead of some corporate giant. They had various queer nicknames—funny farms, chicken coops, wrinkle bins—and their occupants bore similarly uncomplimentary nicknames like cottonheads, coffin dodgers and zimmer dimmers, to name but a few. Old people lived here, spending their reclining years in protective custody, being looked after by caring nurses who sent their charges across to the park to be exercised by robot guide dogs.

The same two police constables were still on duty, sitting in their patrol car by the park gates, the cockpit open. One appeared to be asleep in his seat, his helmet visor covering his eyes. His partner nudged him and they both sat up straight, pretending to be alert. North wasn't going to bother them, he knew how tough it could be having to watch the Police cameras all night. By the end of your shift your eyes were ready to fall out.

"Morning, Inspectors," the pilot said. His partner, the systems man, just nodded.

"Morning," Macauley said, leaning nonchalantly against the side of the vehicle. "Camera Echo Baker Five Six Three. Index time zero-one-two-seven."

The systems man set to work, punching up the named camera's records which now resided in Central's permanent database. He selected the correct time frame and fed the results to the main screen, which the pilot obligingly tilted so Macauley and North could also see the results.

An old man and his guide dog came out of Vader Park. The dog paused to look left and right, scanning for traffic, then barked a warning when its human stepped out onto the road before it gave the all-clear signal. At this time of night there was no ground traffic, but this wasn't what had attracted Macauley's attention when he'd watched the sequence. The stooped old man suddenly straightened and set off across the road like someone half his age. The guide dog had to break into a run to keep up with him. They both went up the wide rampway that led to the wrinkle bin—the old folks' home—opposite Vader Park.

"Do you remember seeing him last night?" Macauley asked.

Both constables shook their heads. "We weren't here all the time," the pilot said. "We circled the park once or twice, and there was a disturbance by Heathrow Spaceport—nothing serious, just some spacemen on shore leave letting off steam, but it took us off station for twenty minutes." He shrugged. "Anything could have happened then."

"All right. Thanks." Macauley moved away from the patrol car. North followed him, wanting to hear what was on his mind.

"We need help with this," Macauley said.

"Who?"

"Your friend Samantha."

"Harley? Why her?"

"Because she has all the right equipment—and I don't just mean her anatomy, which is impressive, incidentally." He looked at North. "Let me put it this way. If we go through channels and call in a medical team, and it turns out we're wrong, we're going to be scraping egg off our faces for the next six months. We'll be the laughing stocks in every Police station from here to the coast, and all the way down into the Atlantis colonies."

"Then you're thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Maybe. Why don't you call Samantha? Then we'll go and knock on the door. With luck, whoever's on duty will recognize the old man with the guide dog."

§

North moved away from Macauley and stood beneath one of the permanently flowering trees, looking across to the spot where Jessica-Ann Smythe had died. Reluctantly, he made the call.

"Yes, what is it, who's this?" the unexpected face that filled his wristwatch display demanded. North felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He wasn't talking to Harley, he was talking to her lover, the girl from Uniform Division. What was her name? Huxbridge.

"I'm looking for Samantha Harley," he said.

"I'm her live-in, Moya Huxbridge. May I ask why you're disturbing us at five in the morning?"

"Police business."

Huxbridge swept her long blonde hair away from her face and peered suspiciously at her vidphone camera lens. "Who are you?"

"Inspector North, River Tower, requesting Doctor Samantha Harley."

She glared at him for long seconds, willing his head to explode, then she turned away from the lens. North caught a flash of naked back and buttock, and heard muted voices. Then Harley came into view, wearing a black towel dressing gown with a silver S sewn over her left breast.

"Peter, why are you calling me here?"

"Sorry," he said quickly, sensing her anger. "How quickly can you get to Vader Park with your equipment?"

Harley blinked. "What have you got?"

"Something we wouldn't want to appear in an official report until we're sure it's solid. I'm not trying to mess you about, honest. I'm in Vader Park now. Macauley's with me."

Huxbridge said something he couldn't make out. Whatever it was, it didn't sound too friendly. Harley spoke to her over her shoulder, her voice lowered. The harsh tone of Huxbridge's reply told him she wasn't pleased.

"Fifteen minutes," Harley said tersely, and she angrily stabbed the OFF button, closing the connection.

North returned to where Macauley stood waiting, his hands thrust into his coat pockets, still watching the old folks' home. North could see a sign beside the arched front entrance that read, Tranquility House.

"What did your girlfriend say?" Macauley asked.

"She said if you call her my girlfriend again, I'll knock your teeth out."

"Goodness, we're a little touchy, aren't we? Is she coming or not?"

"She's coming."

"I can't say I blame her for giving you the heave-ho. That Huxbridge is a good-looking girl."

North glared at him but Macauley made a drama out of picking a piece of food from between his teeth, studiously ignoring North while he engaged in this absorbing activity.

While they were waiting for Harley to arrive, North watched the park cleaners at work. They emerged from a slow-moving truck that stopped at the park gateway, and rolled across Vader Park with a single-minded robotic determination that he found fascinating. Some emptied the recycling bins, others swept the grass and paths for foreign matter. North found their smooth choreography almost therapeutic.

Leaving Macauley alone again, he wandered over to where one of the machines had stopped on the edge of a flower bed. The hybrid flowers, like the trees, were in a state of permanent bloom, which was possibly why the cleaner hesitated to intrude, it case it damaged the bed. North squatted down beside the machine. Its twin camera eyes, set wide apart so it could judge distance accurately, looked up at him questioningly.

"Police. I'll handle this," he said. The cleaner moved off like an obedient dog and continued working its pre-defined pattern, before returning to the slow-moving truck along with the other robots.

Macauley ambled over, overcome at last by curiosity.

"Something interesting?" he asked nonchalantly.

North saw Harley emerging from the tubeway exit outside the park. "We'll find out soon enough," he told Macauley. She hurried across the road and came in through the gates. North stood and waved to her. When she arrived she was red-faced and out of breath. He helped her take her heavy equipment pack off and put it down on the grass.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

"I'm telling you, Inspector North, this had better be good," she growled threateningly. In reply, he indicated the object the robot cleaner had found in the flower bed. Harley pulled a pair of transparent gloves out of her pocket and slipped them on, then extracted a long-necked probe from the top of her pack and used it to pick the object up.

"Do you know what it is?" he asked.

"Of course I do, I'm a doctor, remember? It's a ten-shot hypo-syringe. It's used to administer a variety of medications that must be taken regularly. Insulin, vitamins, AIDS blockers and the like." She turned the object around and peered at it closely. "There's a chalky residue."

"Aren't you going to dust it for fingerprints?" Macauley asked.

"Thanks, I never would have thought of that. How come you never applied for a job in Forensics, Inspector? We're always looking for clever people like you."

Macauley didn't reply. Maybe he wasn't used to someone answering him back. Ignoring both of them now, Harley bent over her pack, sprayed something onto the syringe, then dropped the plastic cylinder into a wide slot. Green lights winked on the pack's mini control panel. North had once heard a lecturer complain that technology took the thinking out of Police work, but there was nothing vacant about Harley's expression as she studied the pack's display. When the analysis results began scrolling into view her eyes widened and she swore softly.

"What is it?" North said, beating Macauley by a half-second.

She pointed at the display. "Influenza vaccine."

"Is that all?" He didn't bother telling her he was in no mood for jokes.

"That's what the syringe contained originally. Whoever decided to re-use it didn't do a very good job of sterilizing it. There are two different skin tissue samples on the injector nozzle." Her pack pinged. "They're on the Police database. I've got DNA matches for both of them."

"Keep this up," Macauley said, "and we'll all be tucked up and cozy in our beds before you know it." He winked at North behind Harley's back. "Some of us more cozy than others, of course," he added, just loud enough for Harley to hear.

"Who's the second match?" North asked, wishing Macauley would choke on his attitude.

Harley raised an eyebrow. "You're assuming the first is Miss Smythe?"

"Isn't it?"

"You take the fun out of everything. Yes, it's the deceased's DNA. The second DNA on the syringe belongs to a woman. Her name is Margot Fyfe." Harley had transferred the information to her plate and held it up for him to read. "Age one hundred and twelve, registered severely disabled. Just make sure we're there when you make the arrest. These old folks fight like trapped rats when they're cornered. You'll need all the help you can get."

North pressed his lips tight together and exhaled through his nose. "Damn. I was sure—" He looked at Macauley, who shrugged.

"You were sure it was what?" Harley demanded.

"The cameras caught an old man walking in Vader Park with a guide dog. An eye witness told me he wasn't too steady on his legs. When he left the park, he suddenly began walking like someone much younger and healthier."

Harley almost laughed, but not quite. "And you thought—?" She looked at Macauley, who shrugged and spread his hands as if to say, Don't look at me, this was his idea.

North's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I thought the old man had discovered a way of stripping the calcium out of Smythe and injecting it into his own body," he said, talking to Harley while looking daggers at Macauley. "Isn't that what cripples old folks? Bone decay?"

Harley's smile faded. "In a general sense, yes. But what you're suggesting isn't possible. Not under these conditions."

"What's the chalky residue?"

"Just that, a residue."

"Thanks, that helps enormously."

"There are traces of calcium, but I really can't break it down any further."

Harley's wristwatch chose to give a soft musical chime at that moment. She turned away to answer the call and spoke in low tones so North couldn't hear. Huxbridge, he assumed. North sighed with frustration, then caught Macauley grinning again.

"What are you so happy about? This puts us back to square one. We haven't the faintest idea how Smythe died. We can't even say for sure whether he was murdered, or whether he died of natural causes."

"Natural causes?" Macauley said. He pointed his chin at Harley. "Maybe your girlfriend has put a stake into your bone vampire theory—"

"My bone vampire theory?"

"—But something killed Smythe, and we still have to find out what that something is. It's back to watching vid-chips for us, Laddie." He smiled. "Superintendent Morgan is going to be very disappointed with you come morning."

"With a partner like you, Macauley, who needs enemies?"

Harley had terminated her call. She closed her pack, hefted it and slung it over her shoulder. "Well, thanks for the early morning exercise. Maybe we can do this again sometime." Her tone said otherwise.

"Sorry, Harley," North said, feeling the need to apologies again. "I thought we were on to something."

But she was already moving toward the park gates, ignoring him. He cursed under his breath and turned to go back to their patrol car, but Macauley remained where he was, hands still thrust into his coat pockets, looking across at Tranquility House.

"What's the hold-up?" North demanded.

"We're here anyway," Macauley said. "Let's knock on the door and see who answers?"

"Harley said we're wasting our time."

"You weren't listening, Laddie. She said the bone stuff was impossible under these conditions." Harley had already passed through the gates and was jogging toward the tubeway, working off her anger. "Which suggests to me that it might be possible under other conditions. Maybe she meant a laboratory."

"So you haven't dismissed the theory completely?"

"Did I say I had? Come on, Laddie, the night's not over yet."

§

Their IDs got them in to see the home's nursing sister, who took them into her office and closed the door so as not to disturb anyone. She invited them to take a seat. North explained why they were here and asked whether anyone in Tranquility House might have seen anything unusual in Vader Park? Sister Bernice O'Hanlon told him she hadn't seen anything herself, and the sleeping residents were unlikely to have been looking out of the windows in the middle of the night.

"Police cameras picked up an elderly gentleman walking in the park a short time before the deceased was found," North said. "He had a guide dog with him."

Sister O'Hanlon shook her head, causing her curly red hair to jiggle. She was perhaps forty or forty-five, heavy yet still very shapely, the kind of mature woman North had fantasized over in his early teens. Her name and appearance suggested Irish ancestry but her accent was clipped New England. Like Kirsti Monroe, Bernice O'Hanlon lay outwith his legal relationship boundaries because of her age.

"That's very unlikely. We are not in the habit of sending our residents outside in the middle of the night."

"Is there any way you could check, Sister?"

"I can't see any point—"

"We really would appreciate your making the effort."

She made a fuss of it, punching her desk touchpad hard and squinting at the displayed results, then sighing heavily before performing another query. North studied the diplomas hanging on the wall behind her chair, and a painting of a yacht in mid-bay, its rainbow-striped sail at full spread, taking it ahead of the other yachts that were following. He wished he was there instead of here—at least it would take him further away from Samantha Harley.

"One of our residents left Tranquility House at five o'clock yesterday evening," Sister O'Hanlon said, just as his patience was fraying. "Mrs. Rubenstein was taken out by an assistant nurse and they returned at six-twenty. Mrs. Rubenstein requires a wheelchair at all times. The assistant nurse did not leave her unattended."

"The time we're interested in is between midnight and two in the morning," he said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. "We're sure someone from Tranquility House was over in the park then, being walked by a guide dog. They were seen coming back here."

"I came on duty at ten last night," she said. "The doors were locked then. There are only two keys. I have one and the other is in the safe, which can only be opened by two other trusted staff members who are not on duty tonight. The safe will only open automatically if there is a safety alert, such as a fire alarm. There have been no such alerts."

"You're saying that none of your residents could have left the building?"

Sister O'Hanlon nodded. "That is exactly what I'm saying, Inspector. I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. No one could have left the building, and no one could have entered either, without my knowing about it. They would need my key, you see." She lifted the chain around her neck and showed the key to him, proving she still had it in her possession, and also proving that it would be difficult to get hold of unless Sister O'Hanlon were unconscious.

Remembering the front door, a heavy synthetic wood affair with mock iron hinges and a double security lock, North seriously doubted whether it could be forced open by anyone who didn't possess the key.

"There's a doggie door, isn't there?" Macauley said. He'd been so quiet that North had almost forgotten he was there, which was not an easy thing to do.

Sister O'Hanlon looked at him. "There is an access hatch which allows our guide dogs to come and go as required, yes."

North tried to imagine why guide dogs would be sent out alone. The answer struck him a second later. "They retrieve patients from Vader Park?"

"Why, yes." She appeared surprised by the question. "Of course. Sometimes our residents need help in finding their way back. We haven't enough staff, so we employ the guide dogs. It's standard procedure."

"What if the person falls and is injured?"

"Don't be absurd, Inspector. In such rare instances the guide dog will transmit an emergency signal and paramedics will attend immediately. We have a contract with one of the best ambulance services in Great London. Their response times are a matter of public record."

Macauley leaned forward in his chair. "We're not here to question your procedures. The fact is, a Police camera saw a man leaving Vader Park. He crossed the road, with a guide dog, and walked up the ramp to your front entrance."

Sister O'Hanlon pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I imagine you wouldn't be here unless that were true," she said. "But I still find it very hard to accept anyone could have entered the building at that time." She glanced from Macauley to North and back again. "Did your camera actually see him enter Tranquility House?"

After a long pause, Macauley said, "No. The trees lining the front of the building blocked the camera's view at that point. We didn't see him open the door and come inside. But there's nowhere else he could have gone."

"Then I am at a loss to explain. As I said, there are only two keys, and I know where both are."

"Can you open the safe and show us the second key?" North asked.

Sighing again, Sister O'Hanlon rose from her chair. She passed her hand across the painting of the yacht, which rolled aside to reveal a polished square hatch. She pressed her hand against a sensor square and punched a code into an old-fashioned numerical keypad, shifting position so they couldn't see the numbers. The safe hatch popped open.

"See for yourself," she said.

North and Macauley looked. The second key was there, a twin of the one Sister O'Hanlon wore around her neck.

"Sorry to be a pain, but do you have a bathroom I could use?" Macauley asked. He looked apologetic and uncomfortable.

"Outside and turn left. The bathroom is two doors down."

"Thanks. Perhaps while I'm gone you can show my colleague a list of all your male residents over five feet six inches in height. The man we caught on camera was quite tall."

Before she could reply, Macauley had opened the door and exited.

"I really don't see why such information would be useful to you," Sister O'Hanlon said to North. "We've already established that none of our residents was outside at any time during the night."

"Do you have monitors in every resident's room?"

"We'd lose our license if we didn't," she said flatly.

"Then I'd appreciate seeing the list my partner asked for, and I'd also appreciate your checking the room monitor of each resident as you go through the list."

"Heavens, you're not suggesting one of our residents might have been accidentally left outside? We check them every fifteen minutes, and sometimes even more frequently. Every bed is occupied, I can assure you. This is a complete waste of time. I have far more important work to do."

North silently cursed Macauley for dumping this on him while skipping out to the toilet. "I hope you can see the necessity, Sister. I'm more than willing to take your word for it, but we either do this now, or your employer will receive a cooperation request from River Tower within the hour."

She sat down at her desk again and punched her touchpad even harder than before. Her display cleared, then showed four neat columns of names with associated room numbers plus seemingly random strings of letters, which North assumed meant something to Sister O'Hanlon and the staff of Tranquility House.

"I'm setting up a command subset," she told him. "It will cycle through all the names on the list. You'll see I've sorted our residents by height. As the subset runs you'll receive a five-second feed from each room monitor, allowing you to check the residents are where they should be."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she said through clenched teeth. She got up and gave him her chair. North sat down just as the loop began. Arnold Sternhaser, one hundred and eighteen years old, height six feet seven inches, Room 132 West, asleep and passing into dream cycle, bladder full, nurse flagged to attend. Martin Sanka, one hundred and three years old, height six feet six inches, Room 178 West, asleep (delta), bladder full, nurse flagged to attend. John Chisolm, one hundred years old, height also six feet six inches... nurse flagged to attend. Faceless bundles beneath heavy blankets, constantly scanned by their beds, the information relayed to the duty operator in the control room.

"How many nurses are working right now?" North asked, not taking his gaze from the display.

"Six, including myself. We have two hundred and twenty residents at the moment. Every room is occupied."

"You must be run off your feet."

"Exactly so. We don't even have the opportunity to go to the little girl's room—we all wear urine bags instead. It's much more efficient. You ought to try it."

North felt suitably sheepish. "I should be apologizing for taking up so much of your time, Sister."

Macauley opened the door and came in. "Everything okay?" he asked casually.

"I'm checking through the list now," North replied.

"Good. We'll need to take a copy with us."

"The information in our database is confidential," Sister O'Hanlon said.

"I applied for a data warrant while I was in the bathroom. It's been approved. If you check your mail, you'll see a copy. Don't worry, Inspector North knows how to download your data without breaking anything. At least I think he does."

North kept his anger in check as he transferred the database to his plate, while continuing to watch the room monitor feeds. There were forty-six male residents over five feet six inches in height. The command subset expired in just under four minutes. He got up and nodded his thanks to Sister O'Hanlon. She'd been right, they were all safely tucked up in bed—which didn't exactly make things any easier. They were still looking for a nameless unknown who'd apparently returned to Tranquility House, but couldn't have got inside because the door was locked. And everyone who matched his height was accounted for.

Sister O'Hanlon showed them out and bade them a frosty good morning before closing and locking the door behind them. It was morning in the truest sense now; the sky was light pink turning to blue and a thin black line angling upward into the distant horizon marked the departure of the early transAtlantic stratoshuttle from Gatwick Hub.

North felt defeated. They were no nearer to suggesting how or why Jessica-Ann Smythe had died.

"Let's get some breakfast," Macauley suggested.

"All right. Do you have somewhere special in mind?"

"Any place that has a bathroom will suit me perfectly. My bladder's fit to burst."

"I thought you just went?"

"I got distracted."

§

The cafe was two streets away from Vader Park, on the corner of a busy intersection that linked to the English Channel Bridge. Traffic was light, just the occasional Europe-bound truck and family cruisers heading out of the country for the weekend before the roads got busy. The tinted cafe windows deadened the noise from outside.

They punched their orders into the table waitress after Macauley returned from the toilet. North selected coffee and a hot bagel. Macauley chose for a Double-B with extra eggs and bacon and a Big Bucket of Fries. North's arteries hardened at the very thought.

"What did you think about the nurse?" Macauley asked while they waited.

"I don't think she was lying, if that's what you mean."

"No, I was talking about that oversized bottom of hers. I'll bet her chair was nice and hot when you sat down."

"You're a sick man, Macauley."

"It's been said before. Let me see the list of patients."

North slid his plate across the table. Macauley scrolled up and down the list, his expression showing his disinterest. What was there to see? They'd have to go back to the vid-chips and try to guess where the man with the guide dog had gone. He'd pulled a clever vanishing act, leaving North and Macauley with absolutely nothing.

"You pulled the entire database," Macauley said, surprised.

North shrugged. "Force of habit."

A human waitress brought their trays, unloaded them onto the table and wished them bon appetit. North sipped his coffee and nibbled his bagel, while trying not to watch Macauley stuff all his breakfast into his mouth at the same time. Macauley wiped up the remaining yoke with a handful of fries, closing his eyes and savoring the moment when he scooped the mess into his mouth. He washed his stomach-destroying breakfast down with several cups of tea, then ordered a refill. The human waitress brought a new pot over. She looked at North's empty cup questioningly but he shook his head, no.

Macauley gave North back his plate. He'd managed to get some egg on it. "I've marked a couple of entries," he said. "You might find them interesting. Oh, and you might want to take a look at this, too." He pushed a vid-chip across the table.

North used his napkin to wipe off the egg, then read the index and saw the red flags. He punched them up and studied the entries with a growing sense of disbelief. Then he inserted the vid-chip into the slot, only it wasn't a vid-chip, it was a data drive, which shared the same universal format. When he looked up, Macauley was grinning again.

"Let me finish my coffee, Laddie, and we'll go back and try again. Why don't you give your girlfriend another call? That should be fun."

"Harley? You're not serious. What makes you think she'll even talk to me?"

"If you have to ask, maybe you don't know her as well as you think you do." He turned and stared out the window, watching the traffic go by while he drank his tea. North sat in silence, grinding his teeth, wondering when Macauley had become such an expert on women.

Then he gave up and made the call.

§

Harley had answered her vid-phone this time, but hadn't said anything. She'd just listened while North explained what was on the Tranquility House database, then closed the connection without a word.

"She'll come," Macauley had said. North wasn't as certain, but they waited at the entrance to Vader Park. People were already out walking, not really doing anything except enjoying the scenery before going to work.

Harley came bounding up out of the tubeway, no less angry than before. She looked around and saw them. North swallowed hard as she approached. She was wearing sunglasses that hid her eyes, but her lips formed a tight line, telling him exactly what she thought about him.

"Here," she said, unslinging her pack and handing it to North. "You can carry this." He took it without protest.

"Shall we go?" Macauley said, obviously enjoying himself.

They climbed the wheelchair-friendly ramp and North pressed the door buzzer. The vidphone screen lit up and Sister Bernice O'Hanlon stared at him, surprised.

"Inspector North. What do you want?"

"We need to speak with you again, Sister."

"I'm very busy. We're getting ready for breakfast."

He could only imagine what it must be like trying to feed two hundred and twenty people, but this wouldn't wait.

"Please, Sister," he said.

Macauley leaned forward. "Open the door now, or you'll be arrested for obstructing a murder investigation."

The door clicked open. They went inside and along the corridor, passing by an empty staff room with a coffee waitress and magazines on a table, then a room containing racks of guide dogs on recharge. Sister O'Hanlon was waiting for them outside her office, looking none too happy.

"This had better be good," she said, glancing uncertainly at Harley.

"Where's Kirsti Monroe?" North asked.

"Kirsti? Why, she's. . . ." Sister O'Hanlon's eyes widened. "Why do you want to know?"

"Answer Inspector North's question," Macauley said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Nurse Monroe is in the East Ward, attending to her residents. She only started work half an hour ago."

"Take us there, please," North said.

"I wish you would tell me—"

"What Inspector North means, Sister, is take us there now, not sometime tomorrow," Macauley said. "Tempus fugits, as the Romans once said."

Sister O'Hanlon blinked, confused, then turned and led the way. They passed along a wide corridor with numbered doors to left and right. Some of the doors were open. They glimpsed elderly residents being washed and dressed by nurses. In one room an old man perched on the edge of his bed while a guide dog sat at his feet; it wagged its tail like a real dog while the old man spoke to it gently, as if it were a pet.

"There's something to look forward to," Macauley said quietly.

They turned into another corridor just as Kirsti Monroe stepped out of one of the rooms. She and North recognized each other at the same time. Emotions washed across her face, surprise turning to realization in the space of a heartbeat.

Macauley had her cuffed with her hands behind her back before she could even think of running. "Your rights are herewith suspended," he told her. "You are under Police arrest until such time as a Judge restores your rights."

North and Harley found Room 14 East further along the corridor. The small, frail-looking woman occupying the bed was awake and her gleaming, suspicious eyes said she was more than aware.

"Margot, this is—" Sister O'Hanlon began, but North stepped past her.

"I'm Inspector North, River Tower," he said. "This is Doctor Samantha Harley. She's going to take some samples for analysis, Mrs. Fyfe. You won't feel a thing."

"I refuse permission, and will not say anything without my lawyer being present."

North and Harley looked at each other.

"Sorry, Mrs. Fyfe, you're a little out of touch," he said, trying not to smile. "Fifty years out of touch, to be precise. In a Police investigation, you are required by law to cooperate fully and in any manner so directed by the authorities."

He put Harley's pack down beside the bed, and looked up in time to see the punch coming. Fyfe would have brained him if he hadn't jerked his head to one side so her tiny fist glanced off his jaw instead of shattering his temple. He staggered back, raising his hands to defend himself as she threw the blankets aside and jumped up, moving with a fluid grace that defied her years. Registered disabled, Harley had said. Margot Fyfe leapt into the air, cocking her leg beneath her twisting body, and North knew that when her foot flashed forward it would bring down the curtains.

Macauley's shot from the doorway came as a complete but welcome surprise. The heavy bullet thundered past North's head, changing shape in mid-flight so it was half a meter wide and thinner than a sheet of paper when it struck her, slapping her back down onto the bed. Fyfe lay on her back, stunned and unmoving, her eyelids fluttering. The bullet had accumulated 50,000 volts en route to its target.

"Jesus, Peter, are you all right?" Harley asked, moving in to steady him, while Macauley shifted position to cover the old woman who'd come within a hair's-breadth of killing him.

"T'ink m'jaw's broke," he managed to say through the pain. Harley swung around and thumbed her pack open, extracted a syringe, touched it against his jaw and thumbed the trigger. It dulled the pain instantly, though his jaw still felt like it was the size of a large melon.

Macauley cuffed Margot Fyfe, securing the cuffs to the bed frame with a locking ring. He checked for a pulse and nodded, confirming she was still alive and breathing. Then, while Harley fussed over North, he went around the room, opening cupboards and drawers, searching for. . . .

Man's clothing. Padded, of course, the back and shoulders cleverly shaped. The shoes were high platforms with ankle braces like stilts. The combination would have made Margot Fyfe appear taller, heavier; they would have transformed her into the old man Kirsti Monroe had reported seeing in Vader Park, the old man who'd appeared on the cameras. Was there irony in the fact Jessica-Ann Smythe had dressed like a woman, and Margot Fyfe had dressed like a man to murder him? No, North concluded, just a strange kind of sadness.

Harley guided him to a chair and made him sit down. "Do you still want me to take the samples?" she asked.

"They can wait," he replied, surprised he could still talk. His words sounded slurred, inhuman. "Fix me up first."

"Fix you up? I'm a forensic pathologist, remember? I only had that syringe in my pack because I got a sore shoulder from carrying it the last time. Luckily for you." She looked at Macauley, who was holding up the padded jacket Margot Fyfe had worn last night when she'd left Tranquility House, went across to Vader Park and murdered Smythe. "That answers the who," she said. "But not the how, or the why."

North didn't have all the answers—not yet, anyway. "Macauley will tell you," he said, shifting the responsibility squarely onto his partner's shoulders.

Macauley chuckled. "I wouldn't want to spoil anything," he said. He put down the jacket, went out into the corridor and spoke with Sister O'Hanlon, who was still visibly shocked by what had happened.

"Damn you, Peter, you have to tell me. How did you know?" She'd taken a portable X-ray scanner from her pack and now held it to his face, ignoring him as he flinched away.

"Too sore to talk," he said.

"It shouldn't be. It's only bruised, not broken."

"Oh."

"You said this place was sealed tight as a drum at night. How did she manage to get out?" Harley jerked her thumb at Margot Fyfe, who still lay unmoving on the bed.

"The doggie door."

"What?"

"Look at her. She must weigh less than eighty pounds. She's small enough to have squeezed through the doggie door. After she took her padded clothes off, of course."

"Clever. You figured that out all by yourself?"

"No, Macauley did," he replied, knowing it was the truth. Macauley had asked Sister O'Hanlon about the door the guide dogs used. He'd been on the right track all along, while North was still clueless and looking around for signposts. And while North was talking with Sister O'Hanlon, Macauley had gone into the room where the guide dogs were left to recharge and checked their data drives. He'd found the one that had been outside with Margot Fyfe and confirmed the path they'd taken around Vader Park—and also that the guide dog had been trying to convince Fyfe to return to Tranquility House, not encourage her to go for a late-night walk. But the dog couldn't furnish any information on how the deceased had died.

"Who's the nurse Macauley cuffed?" Harley asked.

"Kirsti Monroe. She found Smythe's body. It still hurts like hell."

Harley applied two more hits from the syringe, numbing the side of his face. He nodded his thanks.

"Is she involved?"

"I'm betting Margot Fyfe paid her to provide the padded clothing and platform shoes. It's unlikely she could have made them herself in here."

"Does that mean Monroe is an accomplice to murder?"

"I really don't know. That's for a Judge to decide." He didn't think the charge would stick. All Kirsti Monroe had done was bring Margot Fyfe some unusual clothing. When she'd told North she'd seen the old man with the guide dog in Vader Park, had she known who it was? Possibly. But there was no way of telling whether or not she knew Margot Fyfe had murdered Jessica-Ann Smythe.

Harley's wristwatch chimed. She said, "Excuse me," and went out into the corridor to take the call. He watched her, his gaze following the line of her back, down over the curve of her well-defined buttocks and onto her shapely legs. She shook her head several times and spoke in whispers, plainly not wanting anyone to hear, although it was obvious she was arguing with someone. Huxbridge? It went on for a while, then Harley's shoulders slumped and she terminated the call.

North didn't ask and she didn't volunteer any information. Macauley followed her in. "Central is sending a unit to pick them up," he told North. "When she wakes up, Mrs. Fyfe may not find her surroundings quite so pleasant. Not to mention the permanent cuffs she'll have to wear. How long has it been since martial arts were outlawed? I thought all those psychopaths would be dead and buried by now." He shook his head. "Oh, bad news about your friend Miss Monroe, by the way. The Judge restored her rights. Insufficient evidence of knowledge or involvement."

"I thought so," North said. "You've released her?"

"Didn't have a choice, Laddie. So, how did she do it?" He indicated Margot Fyfe with a nod.

"I'm about to try to find out," Harley said.

"Hurry it up, will you? We're dying to know." He looked at North. "How's the jaw, Laddie?"

"Sore."

"It's not broken," Harley said. "He's just being a baby." She pulled her pack's hinged doors open and began connecting up her gear. Her pack was a miniature standalone laboratory, equipped with the latest analysis tools. The bad old days of scalpels and bonesaws were long gone, and good riddance. One of his lecturers at the academy had complained about technology taking the thinking out of Police work. Perhaps he was right, but it had also taken the blood and guts out of it, too.

"I'm not being a baby," he said. "It's bloody painful."

"How hard can a little old lady punch?" Macauley wondered aloud. Harley smiled, while North ignored the question with the contempt it deserved.

Harley slipped a tube over Margot Fyfe's forefinger and hooked it up to her pack, then began adjusting the controls on her panel.

"Why her finger, why not a spinal probe?" Macauley asked.

"Because she's not dead," Harley replied without any change of expression, and without taking her eyes off the display. "I always like my subjects to be dead before I start bombarding their spinal cords with radiation." She frowned, then tapped the control panel. "Something's wrong here. Readings are too low." She looked around the room. "I've isolated the bed monitors, so that can't be what's causing the interference. Can you look around for anything else that might be generating an electromagnetic field?"

Macauley began opening the cupboards he hadn't checked yet, while North, for no good reason, bent forward and looked under the chair he was sitting on. "Harley?"

She came over and bent down to examine the object, removing and opening the canvas bag surrounding it.

"What is that?" North asked, standing up.

"It's exactly what it appears to be." She knelt down on the floor and pulled the thing forward so they could see it. "It's a field medical pack, the kind used by paramedics. If I'd known it was in the room with us I could have isolated it, but I didn't." She popped the pack's doors open.

"It's not something they'd use here?" North asked.

"No, they have trolley-mounted equipment here instead of the streamlined portables. Oh, my." She sat back on her haunches, studying the medical pack's innards with a professional eye.

"What is it?"

"The contents have been substantially modified. For example, that's not a stomach pump, it's a skin-graft kit. And that's not a cellular probe, it's an accelerator."

Macauley said, "Should we care?"

"Yes, we should," North said. "You're looking at the tools that were used to extract calcium hydroxyphosphate from the deceased and reconstitute it in Margot Fyfe's body. Harley, that syringe we found in Vader Park? It contained influenza vaccine, you said?"

"Yes."

"One of the broad-spectrum types?"

She blinked in surprise, then nodded in understanding. "Damn it all, I need my head examined. I'm sorry, Peter, I should have made the connection."

"You've been up most of the night. No apology needed."

"Would anyone care to let me in on the secret?" Macauley said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and waiting.

North nodded. "The influenza vaccine is one of the newer types, designed to combat all strains. It's such a potent soup that it's delivered along with an anesthetic, so as to avoid patient discomfort. Several shots delivered one after the other would act as a tranquilizer. Enough of those would knock out an elephant." He saw how it must have been. Fyfe had rendered Smythe unconscious with the syringe and then set to work with the modified medical pack. Perhaps, during the horrifying process, Smythe had begun to recover, requiring Fyfe to administer more influenza vaccine shots? That would explain the chalky residue found on the syringe, evidence that the calcium hydroxyphosphate in Smythe's body had begun to break down. "My guess is that skin kit was used to conceal any puncture wounds inflicted during the assault. Why don't you make yourself useful? Go and arrest Kirsti Monroe again. Suspend her rights, and tell her she's going to prison with Margot Fyfe for the murder of Jessica-Ann Smythe."

Macauley got up again. "If you say so. Are you sure it'll stick this time?"

"Supplying outsize clothes to a resident is one thing, but illegally supplying a registered field medical pack which has been used to murder a person is something else entirely. While you're at it, ask Sister O'Hanlon whether Nurse Monroe has a boyfriend who's a paramedic. If she talked him into letting her borrow this pack then he's in trouble, too."

"Sounds like you're on a roll, Laddie. Anything else?"

"Yes. Call River Tower and tell them to send a ground car to pick me up. I'm damned if I'm going to allow you to fly me back there."

"Forget the ground car," Harley said. "Traffic will be too heavy by now. The tubeway is a lot safer." She deactivated the field medical pack, returned to her own, and ran the tests on Margot Fyfe. None of them were surprised by the results.

§

Superintendent Morgan called and congratulated North on the fast result, then gave him the rest of the day off. "Make sure you get someone to look at that jaw of yours," he said just before he cut the connection. Evidently he'd already received a full report from Macauley, a fact which irked North more than somewhat. Partners were supposed to work together, and that included submitting case reports.

A second call came through on North's wristwatch moments later, from Thames Valley Legal Office. The sysop confirmed that convictions had been obtained for both Margot Fyfe and Kirsti Monroe, and requested North's closing remarks. It took North a few moments to realize that Macauley must have put him down as the arresting officer.

"We don't know if Monroe knew the medical pack would be used to commit a murder," he said. "She may have been an innocent party in this respect." The court sysop agreed and reduced sentence by 15 years. But Kirsti Monroe would still be confined for thirty months. Most of that time would be spent in solitary with only a Talking Bible for company.

"Anything to add to Margot Fyfe's file?" the sysop asked.

"No. Let the punishment fit the crime."

"Understood and recorded. Have a nice day, Inspector."

North sat back in the tube car, finally allowing himself to relax. Harley, sitting opposite him, smiled.

"It turned out well," she said.

"Better than I'd expected," he admitted. He glanced up at the tube car's location display. "It's your stop next."

She nodded thoughtfully, and at that moment the tube car began to slow to a gradual and effortless halt. The doors opened and some passengers further along the car got out.

"The least I can do is carry your pack for you," he said.

"Yeah, you're right. Make yourself useful, Laddie." She grinned, got out and climbed out. He followed her, the heavy pack over his shoulder. They went up the steps and into her building. The mock antique elevator took them up to the 151st floor without a sound, riding on an invisible magnetic field. Neither of them broke the silence.

She unlocked the door of her apartment and went inside, not inviting him to come in, but not denying him, either. He lugged the pack over into a corner and put it down beside a giant rubber plant.

"Huxbridge isn't here, is she?" he asked, as Harley went through into the kitchen and started making coffee.

"No, she isn't."

"How are things between the two of you?"

"Bad."

"Nothing I did, I hope?"

"No, it's something I did. When I came home last night and we made whoopee, I called out your name. Or at least she says I did. I thought I shouted 'Moya' but she heard it as 'Peter.' The names don't sound the same to me no matter what way I try to pronounce them. Maybe she was just looking for an excuse." To his surprise, tears were running down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. "Them's the breaks, huh?" The kettle began to hiss.

"Did she move out?"

"Yes. In five minutes she had everything packed and ready to go. She didn't even say goodbye. I think she did that deliberately, just to hurt me."

"I'm sorry, Harley."

"Don't be, it's not your fault. You probably never liked her anyway, did you?"

"No, but I like you. Does that help any?"

She smiled. "Thanks. Listen, thanks for carrying my pack up. My shoulder's still killing me."

"Don't mention it. It made me feel useful for a second."

His wristwatch beeped again.

"Don't answer it," she said, but he'd already raised his forearm and touched the receive stud.

Macauley's distorted face grinned at him from the oval display. "Did you get a call from the Legal Office?"

"Yes. Everything's approved."

"Good result, eh? It'll look good on your arrest record."

North shook his head. "Why my record, Macauley? Why not ours? Or yours, since you were the one who put two and two together with the dog."

Harley was listening while pretending to make tea.

"What the hell," Macauley said, "my arrest record goes up one arm and down the other. The sysops keep complaining they can't fit any more commendation data into my file. You take this one. We'll split the rest down the middle, hey?"

North returned his grin. "It's a deal," he said.

"Something else you might want to know. I got a call from our lab boys. That's a very interesting box of tricks the Fyfe woman had put together. It turns out she used to be a research chemist with one of the big corporations, which dismissed her because of her age when she turned ninety. Word gets around fast—a couple of universities are already asking for details of the calcium transfer process. The Legal Office is trying to decide if Margot Fyfe owns it or whether it's public domain now. It's out of our hands, but who knows, maybe the old folks will get something out of this. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Yes, it would. I'll talk to you later, Macauley."

"All right. Oh, there's just one more thing, Laddie." His face swelled slightly as he leaned closer to his own wristwatch so he could shout, "GIVE HER ONE FOR ME, WILL YOU?" He broke the connection. North's wristwatch display changed back to a clock face and he looked up at Harley, embarrassed. But she was grinning from ear to ear.

"Is it my imagination, or are you and Macauley getting on okay now?" she asked.

"It seems that way. But I think that's my cue to leave."

She shook her head. "You've got today off, haven't you? You can spend it with me, I'm feeling lonely and unloved."

"What about the tea?" he said.

"Bugger the tea."

They went through to the bedroom, laughing, and didn't even stop to change the sheets.

The End

Published by SDO DETECTIVE Issue #1, April 2003
Mark Anthony Brennan, Fiction Editor
Fiction by: Megan Powell, Stephen D. Rogers, Shawn Madison, Derek Paterson

Nostalgia Trip #14: FOOL PROOF

2008-05-06T19:52:00.004+01:00

Published by the sadly defunct PLANET RELISH - Issue #27, May 2003

Arnold Wurthington XXVIIth, the richest man in the Galaxy, reached out and depressed the red button in the middle of his control panel.

On the surface of the planet below his orbiting luxury cruiser, a mountain cracked open and toppled upon a gleaming black dome.  The final screams of the men trapped inside the dome issued from an overhead speaker in the cruiser's control room.  Then there came a loud plunk!—and the speaker went dead.

Wurthington sighed and turned away from the displays.  His sadness and his disappointment ran neck and neck.  It wasn't the deaths of the men of the dome that made him sad, it was the fact they'd failed to live up to their grand promises.

"They never learn, do they, Fitz?" he said.

His uniformed butler replied, "Indeed not, sir."

"Am I asking too much?  Have I requested the impossible?"

Fitz didn't answer.  It had happened before, and doubtless it would happen again.  Take the previous group of defense system designers, who'd perished earlier that same day because they had forgotten to take earthquakes into account! They'd all vanished, screaming, into a bottomless chasm when Wurthington exploded reaction bombs and created an earthquake so powerful it shook the planet to its core.  Why didn't they understand? If Wurthington could blow up a mountain or cause an earthquake, then so could his enemies!

"All I want, Fitz," he said, "is somewhere I will be safe from those who would destroy me.  Somewhere I can relax, knowing they cannot ever reach me."  He sighed again.  “Not even the most brilliant designers and architects in the Galaxy can give me what I want, it seems."

"It is truly sad, sir."

"When is the next group due to arrive?"

"Tomorrow morning, sir.  I have instructed them to set up on the fourth planet, since the second and third planets are no longer habitable.  They requested a day in which to prepare."

"Do they understand they must be willing to test their own designs with their lives?"

"Yes, sir.  That does not seem to worry them.  Your generous offer of one million starstones to whoever can successfully design and construct an indestructible, foolproof sanctuary continues to attract considerable interest.  There is no shortage of volunteers.  Your agents are carefully vetting the applicants, however.  Only those who actually stand a chance of surviving your extremely clever tests are being permitted to proceed to the final stage."

Wurthington nodded his approval.  Perhaps someone might succeed, after all.

"I'm feeling slightly peckish, Fitz," he said, suddenly cheered.  "Some delicious cream pastries, perhaps?"

"Very good, sir."

§

The fortress certainly looked impressive.  Wurthington looked on impassively as his automatics attacked with nuclear missiles and orbital lasers and a dozen other unlimited tactical weapons.  The fortress survived them all, its shimmering golden walls taking everything Wurthington threw at it.  He activated his viewscreen and the face of the chief designer smiled out at him.

"Well done!" Wurthington said.  "You've come up with an extremely robust design, I must say."

"Thank you," the chief designer said, bowing his head to acknowledgment the compliment.  "Are your tests concluded, sir?  If so then we claim the prize—"

"Actually, no," Wurthington said.  "I have withdrawn my ship from orbit above the planet upon which your fortress is located.  If you turn your telescopes skyward you will see an approaching asteroid, which possesses near-planetary mass.  It should arrive in—oh, let's say five minutes.  I shall be very interested to see whether you survive."

The chief designer's face paled.  "Sir," he said, "this is really quite impossible.  Your specification stated that—"

"My specification was for an indestructible, foolproof sanctuary," Wurthington said.  "A sanctuary which would be immune to any conceivable assault.  If I can throw an asteroid at your fortress, then so can my enemies! To be blunt, sir, if your design is so flawed it cannot withstand such an attack then the failure is yours, not mine.  Call me back in six minutes—if you're still alive, that is."

Wurthington cut the link and slid down into the steaming waters of his bath.  He closed his eyes and hummed a merry tune.  The hot water relaxed him.  He floated on his back, and lost all track of time.   Only when Fitz spoke did he open his eyes again.

"Sir, I regret to inform you—"

"I know, Fitz.  Thank you."

Wurthington climbed out of the bath and allowed Fitz to help him on with his robe.

"When does the next group arrive?" he asked.

"The day after tomorrow, sir.  I have redirected them to the sixth planet, since the fifth no longer exists, save as cosmic flotsam and jetsam."

"How poetic of you, Fitz.  I wonder what variation on a theme this new group will bring, hmm?  We'll find out soon enough.  I'm feeling rather peckish.  Some chocolate eclairs perhaps, Fitz?"

"Very good, sir."

§

The sixth planet was duly transformed to radioactive rubble two days later.  Wurthington was pleasantly surprised when his viewscreen lit up and the sweating face of the chief designer of the latest group grinned at him.

"Well, Mr. Wurthington, we've taken your best shot, and we're still alive," the designer said with considerable pride and satisfaction.  "Our force shields provided adequate protection with a suitably wide safety margin.  I believe we have met your every requirement.  Therefore I should like to claim—"

"There's one more little test," Wurthington said.  "It won't take long, and I do apologize for the inconvenience."

"Not at all, Mr. Wurthington.  May I ask what this test will be?  You've expended asteroids and planets against us—what else can you possibly do?"

"I've put a ring of exciters into orbit about the sun.  They are generating an intense magnetic field, creating a solar flare that will extend for several hundred million kilometers.  Fitz is feeding your computers the math now, so you can prepare for the event.  You have about eighteen minutes before the flare reaches you."

The designer studied his instruments, and promptly burst into tears.

"Mr. Wurthington, this is simply awful. Our force shield generators will overload as soon as the flare hits us.  We're all going to die.  We'll be incinerated."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I really thought you might have succeeded where others had failed."  He cut the link, and sat back to watch the stellar phenomenon he'd created.  The solar flare licked out to consume the latest group of designers, whose force shield did indeed overload, with sadly fatal results.

Wurthington slumped into his huge chair and sighed again.  "Another failure, Fitz.  How many is that now?"

"Six hundred and seventy-three, sir."

Fitz's voice was uncommonly close.  Wurthington looked up.  Fitz stood beside him, holding a silver tray, upon which lay a SlowPost telegraph flimsy.  Wurthington hadn't seen one of these in years, not since the much faster, though infinitely more expensive hyperwave communications network had been created.

"What the devil is that, Fitz?" he demanded.

"A message for you from your accountants on Earth, sir."

Wurthington frowned.  "My accountants?  Why didn't the idiots just call me on the hyperwave transceiver?"  He snatched up the flimsy, settled himself into a more comfortable position and read the SlowPost message with mounting incredulity and disbelief.

"Fitz!" he gasped.  "What does this mean?  Tell me what it all means! Surely there's been some dreadful mistake?"

The manservant's metal face was unreadable as always, but his eyes glowed with undisguised pleasure.

"No, sir, there is no mistake.  Your business empire has been drained by the enormous expense of these defense system tests, and has collapsed completely.  Your companies are all bankrupt.  You are no longer the richest man in the Galaxy.  In fact, according to your accountants, you are destitute.  Even this beautiful ship will have to be sold to settle your debts.  May I be the first to offer you my heartfelt congratulations, sir?"

"Your congratulations—?"

"Indeed, sir! Since you are no longer the richest man in the Galaxy, your business rivals will no longer wish to kill you in order to obtain that coveted title for themselves.  They will fall upon each other instead, ignoring you completely.  Thus your goal has been achieved."

Wurthington swallowed hard.  "My goal, Fitz?"

"Yes, sir.  The foolproof defense.  I knew it would work.  That's why I continued to authorize all those tests in your name, despite the numerous objections from your accountants.  The only foolproof defense, sir, in this day and age, is to not be the target.  May I get you something to eat, sir, by way of celebration?  Some chocolate cake, perhaps?"

"No thank you, Fitz," Wurthington said gloomily.  "I'm not really all that hungry."

The End

Published by PLANET RELISH - Issue #27, May 2003
Mark Rapacioli, Publisher/Editor-in-Chief
Fiction by: Lorie Calkins, Steven Pirie, Leah Bobet, Derek Paterson

Nostalgia Trip #13: RISKS

2008-04-15T22:12:00.004+01:00

Published January 2003 by SBD SF&F another sadly defunct ezine that presented several excellent hard Sci-Fi stories during its brief lifetime. Alas I don't have any of those excellent stories available, so here's mine instead.

The Arj was every bit as repulsive as Svenson had been warned to expect.  Somehow he kept himself from gagging as the thing slithered into the pressurized dome, leaving a glistening silver trail across the metallic floor.  Great Galaxy, he could see its floating organs, its branching arteries, its brain. . . correction, brains.  Svenson swallowed hard.  He couldn't help but wonder what it was thinking.  Did it feel equally disgusted by their physical appearance?  Or was it simply weighing them up as potential foes, considering ways to kill them?

Behind the Arj, visible through the viewports situated around the dome perimeter, starlight illuminated jagged mountain peaks that were alternately hidden then revealed by drifting patches of dense mist.  The dome was supposed to offer a neutral environment suitable for both species, but Svenson had been warned against opening his visor.  The Arj didn't seem to require a pressure suit or any other means of survival.  A hardy species, quick to adapt.

Standing beside Svenson, Falklan grew tense.  His gloved hand strayed to the bolt-gun he wore on his hip.

"Leave it alone, for God's sake," Svenson said, his voice a low, urgent whisper.  "This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission, not a bloodbath."

"Just wanted to check it was still there," Falklan said, staring at the Arj, and there was no doubt about what thoughts were going through his mind.

They were two entirely different individuals, Thor Svenson a Senior Ambassador with Diplomatic Corps, Colonel Brett Falklan a professional soldier serving with STARGUARD.  In Svenson's opinion it was men like Falklan who seemed bent on prolonging this senseless war with the Arj for the sake of personal glory.  Diplomatic Corps had maneuvered the Arj this close to a ceasefire and lasting peace, but STARGUARD refused to let go of this Sector, which bordered on Arj space.  With typical belligerence, the military had chosen Falklan as their representative for this meeting—"No Surrender" Falklan, who'd already lost half his force and seemed perfectly prepared to throw away the rest.

At last they heard the clicking noises they'd been expecting to hear.  The radio code had been developed over a period of years by Human experts and AI language disseminators.  Earth and the Arj homeworld had used it to communicate for all of three months before war broke out over possession of relatively insignificant volumes of empty space.  Insignificant volumes like this Sector, which in Svenson's opinion wasn't worth a single drop of Human blood, never mind thousands of lives.

Svenson had studied the radio code extensively.  It was one of the reasons why he was here.  "The Arj has identified itself as the commander of enemy forces in this Sector," he said.  "Your opposite number, apparently."

Falklan's eyes had narrowed into slits as the Arj approached, but now they widened momentarily, showing surprise.  "A soldier, not a diplomat," he said.  "That should tell us something."

"Oh?  What, exactly?"

"They're no more willing to withdraw from this Sector than we are.  They intend to keep fighting, despite the lickings we've given them."

Despite the horrendous losses you've taken, Svenson thought, remembering the STARGUARD casualty lists he'd reviewed.

More clicking.  When it finished, Svenson's brain was still turning over, digesting what had been proposed.

"What did it say?" Falklan demanded, radiating impatience.

Svenson shook his head.  "You may find this difficult to believe, Colonel—"

"Try me."

"The Arj do intend to fight, but not in the way you think."

"All right.  If they want a fight—"

"No, you don't understand.  What they're offering is—I suppose we'd call it a trial by combat."

"You're right, I don't believe it."

Svenson took a deep breath.  Falklan's attitude was insufferable.  "Colonel, let me spell it out for you," he said.  "You have a choice.  You either order what's left of your fleet to engage the Arj fleet, accepting God-knows-what additional losses, or you go along with what they are suggesting."  He gestured at the alien jellyfish.  "Two Arj against two Earthmen.  Winner takes all, and I don't just mean this planetoid, I mean the entire Sector.  If your men win, the Arj will withdraw.  If your men lose, they will expect you to withdraw your forces."

Falklan frowned.  "Are you seriously trying to tell me I can trust these aliens?  That they'll keep their word if we win this, this trial by combat you're talking about?  That they'll just scoot out of this Sector instead of fighting over every planet and moon in a dozen star systems?"

Svenson nodded.  "From what we know of them, the Arj are an honorable race.  In my opinion, they will keep their word.  Assuming that your men win, of course."

"Assuming—?  You're crazy, and so are they."

"Which would you rather lose?  Two of your Star Marines, or your entire force?  Given your previous record, perhaps that's a redundant question."

Falklan looked at him sharply.  Svenson didn't bat an eyelid.  He'd already made his opinion of Falklan's gung-ho battle tactics clear in his reports, and had called for his dismissal.  No doubt Falklan had already received feedback from Earth.

"Did you know the Arj were planning something like this when they requested this meeting?" Falklan said.

Svenson hesitated.  He could lie, but Falklan might be perceptive enough to read him.  "Yes," he said.  "When we were on friendlier terms with the Arj we gained access to their history files.  There are several recorded instances where the Arj and other races decided to solve long-running disputes by—"

Falklan interrupted him.  "Okay, okay, I get the picture.  Does Diplomatic Corps recommend I accept these terms?"

"It's your decision, Colonel, not ours," Svenson said.  How he'd fought to take that decision out of Falklan's hands! But the military had insisted Falklan's authority in the matter remain absolute.  Damn the man, he'd probably shoot the Arj commander and then order his fleet to attack.

Falklan said, "Very well.  Tell it I agree."

Svenson sucked in a sharp breath.  He hadn't expected Falklan to make his mind up so fast.  Or to make this decision.  "You're sure?" he said, even as he composed the message on his code machine and checked its authenticity.

"I'm sure," Falklan said.

Svenson sent the message, and received a brief clicking acknowledgement from the Arj.  The alien immediately began to retreat toward the airlock, leaving a pool of oozing silver behind.  Svenson shuddered.  Moments later the airlock hatch slid shut, thankfully cutting off his view of the Arj.

Falklan tilted his head to one side, listening to something Svenson couldn't hear.  Svenson guessed it must be a message from his ship, coming in over a private military channel.

"The Arj ship is moving out of orbit," Falklan told him.

Svenson nodded.  "We should return to your ship and set things in motion, Colonel," he said.  "Your men will have to come down alone.  The Arj will scan the planetoid to make sure we don't send more than two Star Marines.  They'll expect us to do the same, of course."

Falklan looked around the empty dome.  Svenson had no idea what he was thinking.  Sometimes Falklan was as hard to understand as the Arj.  Svenson just wanted to get this over with.  As soon as it was settled, one way or the other, Diplomatic Corps could conclude the peace agreement and end the damned war.  And then, if he had anything to do with it, Falklan would never be permitted to command again, and that included kitchen detail.

"Colonel, I said we should—"

Falklan drew his bolt-gun, spun around and fired a burst at the side of the dome opposite the airlock.  The skin shattered and mist boiled through the breach.  Svenson barely had a chance to react before Falklan grabbed his harness and dragged him toward the ragged hole.  Great Galaxy, Falklan had completely lost it! In a couple of seconds he'd have Svenson down on his knees, begging for mercy—the barrel of his bolt-gun pressed against the side of Svenson's helmet, his finger squeezing the trigger—revenge for the report Svenson had sent to Earth!

The dome came apart as other weapons opened fire without warning.  Falklan dived through the hole, taking Svenson with him.  The hard impact drove the air from Svenson's lungs and left him wheezing and stunned.  Falklan rose up onto one knee and fired again, aiming through the collapsing dome.  His lips moved behind his visor.  Svenson thought he'd suddenly gone deaf, but realized his COM must have been knocked off by the impact.  He slapped his helmet, not really expecting this to fix the problem, but an instant later he was rewarded by hearing Falklan's terse voice:

"—I say again, do not interfere and do not engage the Arj vessel.  Break orbit and retire.  I'm squirting you a recording of the last ten minutes.  I want you to flash-transmit to STARGUARD Command.  Whatever happens down here, I want Command to go along with it.  Falklan out."

The mist billowed about them.  Svenson could hardly see beyond the smoking wreckage of the dome.  But inhuman shadows were moving around out there, shadows that could only be the Arj.  Their weapons flashed, tearing holes in the mist.

Falklan pressed himself flat and crawled alongside Svenson.  "Time we weren't here," he said.

"Falklan, wait! There's obviously been a mistake.  We have to let the Arj know."

"I'd say it's too late for that, Mister Ambassador."

"Falklan, please! We have to tell them you haven't selected your men yet."

Falklan took hold of Svenson's pack and began dragging him away from the dome.  Svenson struggled—then wrapped his arms around his helmet and moaned as the ground around them churned, whipped into frenzy by a ferocious Arj salvo.  Falklan's bolt-gun spat flame.  The Arj stopped firing and Falklan began dragging him again, no doubt enjoying Svenson's humiliation.

They reached a line of rocks large enough to give them some cover.  Beyond lay a shallow ravine.  Falklan shoved Svenson bodily into the ravine, then turned back to shoot at the Arj, discouraging close pursuit.

"You're crazy! You can't take them on and expect to win."

"Watch me," Falklan said.

"Damn you, Falklan, if we survive this, I'll see you're kicked out of STARGUARD."

Falklan turned his head to peer at him around the edge of his visor.  "I thought you were planning to do that anyway?"

Svenson sucked in a deep breath.  "Is that what this is all about?  You want to get me killed because I shafted you?"

Falklan opened fire again, then ducked as Arj energy-bolts tore at the edge of the ravine.  He shuffled further along, ignoring Svenson, intent upon the firefight.

Svenson took stock of the situation.  He was caught up in the middle of Falklan's battle, but there was an easy way out.  Their orbit-to-surface lander lay half a klick to the north.  He was sure he could find it.  Using the OSL's autopilot, he could blast off into the relative safety of space.  Falklan's warship would respond to his distress signal and pick him up.  But first he'd have to get away from Falklan.  Damn the man! Svenson was no soldier! He didn't have military training, didn't even have a weapon.  If Falklan insisted upon slugging it out with the Arj instead of requesting a temporary truce so they could explain the mistake, that was his problem.  He'd have to fight them alone.

The ravine they were lying in stretched away in either direction.  Falklan's entire attention was focused on the Arj.  Svenson decided he might never get a better chance.  He took a deep breath and started crawling along the ravine, heading north toward the unseen lander.

He'd gone perhaps a hundred paces when the ravine abruptly stopped.  Dead end.  He climbed up the side, peered over the edge, and almost fainted.  There, not twenty paces from him, was an Arj, perched upon a rocky outcrop.  Two of its—tentacles?—were wrapped around a silver rod which Svenson assumed must be a weapon.  The rod discharged crimson light in Falklan's direction.  Svenson ducked down, more terrified than he'd ever been before in his life.  He forced himself to look over the edge again.  The Arj moved off, gliding effortlessly over the rocks.  Svenson crawled out of the ravine and headed in the opposite direction, moving quickly but carefully in the low gravity.

After what seemed like an age, the OSL loomed out of the mist ahead.  The sight of the cone-shaped craft, with its half-dozen solid fuel lifting rockets, should have filled him with relief.  Instead he crouched down instinctively.  The second Arj was halfway up the OSL's ladder.  Had it seen him?  Svenson had no way of knowing.  He shifted position just as the Arj's weapon flashed.  The energy-bolt that would have melted Svenson's helmet and boiled his brains blew a boulder to fragments instead.  Svenson scrambled to his feet and began running.  How fast could the Arj move?  For all he knew it was ideally suited to the terrain; it could be coming after him like a locomotive at full speed.

He leaped over boulders, zigzagged between broken towers of black rock—then tripped and fell headlong.  He rolled over onto his back and looked around, his ragged breath misting his visor.  Where was the Arj?  Nowhere to be seen.  He pushed himself up, staring in horror at the thing he'd tripped over.  Only for a moment did he think it was a live Arj.  It turned out to be a transparent sac, split down the middle, the tentacles curled in upon themselves and grotesquely shriveled.

And, leading away from the sac, in opposite directions, were at least two sets of—footprints?

No one knew how the Arj reproduced.  Now Svenson had a good idea, and it gave him major cause for concern.  One Arj had suddenly split into two or more Arj.  That meant he couldn't return to the OSL and blast off—one of them might be waiting there for him to show up.  His best bet, like it or not, was to find Falklan and hope that somehow, against all odds, Falklan might defeat the aliens.

"Falklan, can you hear me?" he said, hoping his radio signal would reach Falklan, wherever he was.  "Falklan, there may be more than two of them.  I say again, there may be more than two Arj.  Watch out for—"

A tentacled nightmare emerged out of the mist.  The Arj he'd seen at the OSL.  It pointed its weapon at him.  Svenson took a running jump over the nearest boulder, which exploded behind him.  Fragments of flying rock struck his pack with enough force to spin him around and send him tumbling.  A crevice yawned beneath him, previously hidden by the mist.  He yelled as he began sliding down the steep slope, unable to stop himself.  Rocks fell with him and after him, becoming a miniature avalanche.

The crevice floor rose up and hit him hard.  He lay there for a while, stunned.  Every bone in his body had to be broken.  Gradually he flexed his fingers, his wrists, his arms.  Did the same for his toes, feet, legs.  By a miracle, he still had the use of his limbs.  The pain began to recede.  When he finally opened his eyes he saw his own blood spattered across the inside of his visor, bright red and bubbling. . . .  Cracked visor! He was no spaceman, but at least he knew where the patches were kept.  His clumsy fingers opened the pocket on his right thigh and pulled out one of the tubes.  He brought it up to his visor and squeezed it convulsively.  Thick gunk splashed over his visor and hardened instantly, sealing the crack.  Svenson sighed with relief as the winking red pressure loss warning light along the top rim of his visor went out.  But the LED beside this indicated his air supply had fallen to 20 percent.  That meant his pack must have been ruptured, either by flying rock or by the fall.  Only 20 percent. . . in fifteen minutes from now, maybe less, he'd be gasping for air.

He knew the Arj was watching him from above.  Svenson lay perfectly still, pretending to be dead, praying the Arj would go away.  If it thought he was dead then it would have no reason to return to the OSL.  It would go after Falklan instead—it, and the others.  He'd have to abandon Falklan.  He'd warned Falklan as best he could, hadn't he?  Falklan's warship would have picked up Svenson's desperate transmission, so there was a record of how he'd tried to help.  Now it was every man for himself.

The Arj shuffled away from the edge of the crevice.  Svenson waited for a count of twenty, just to be sure, then pushed himself up and looked for a way out.

There wasn't any.  The sides of the crevice were almost sheer.  If not for the low gravity the fall would have injured or killed him instead of just cracking his visor.  He was trapped in a narrow prison, surrounded by thirty-meter-high walls, without any tools to cut handholds in the rock.  How high could he jump?  Not high enough.

A burst of light illuminated the top of the crevice.  An Arj energy weapon, or Falklan's bolt-gun?  Svenson held his breath.  The answer came soon enough, when a line dropped down from above.  Svenson took hold of it, braced one foot against the wall and began climbing.  When he finally reached the lip, an eternity later, he pulled himself up and over, gasping with the effort.

The Arj that had chased him over the edge of the crevice lay ten paces away, a deflated balloon blackened by gunfire.  Falklan lay beside the alien.  He'd hooked the end of the line onto his harness to make himself into a living anchor.  Svenson crawled to him and noticed the puncture patches Falklan had slapped across his own torso.  He'd been hit.  How badly was anybody's guess; Svenson couldn't very well open up Falklan's starsuit to find out.  He picked up Falklan's bolt-gun and stared at the glowing red light on the butt.  The charge pack was exhausted.  He couldn't see spares in any of Falklan's harness pouches.  He threw the weapon away, angry and frightened at the same time.

Svenson knew he couldn't possibly carry Falklan to the OSL, not while the Arj were hunting them both.  Then again, maybe the Arj had identified Falklan as the dangerous one—maybe they'd decide to ignore Svenson and hunt Falklan instead?

He thought about it for all of ten seconds, then carefully lifted Falklan's limp body, settled him across his shoulders as best he could, and began walking toward the OSL.

As the minutes passed, he became aware that the Arj were moving parallel with him.  He counted three, then four, then five.  Another pair appeared up ahead.  They were much smaller than the one he'd faced in the pressure dome, and only appeared to possess one brain apiece.  Svenson swallowed hard.  The original Arj must have... reproduced?  Multiplied?  Whatever the term, he assumed this must have been their plan all along, that the formal rules of their damned two-against-two trial by combat contained certain legal loopholes.  Maybe the loopholes mattered to them, but they didn't matter to Svenson.  As far as he was concerned the Arj were cheats, plain and simple.  He was willing to bet that Falklan could have taken the two original Arj out on his own, especially if he hadn't been encumbered by an unarmed and thoroughly useless diplomat.

As he approached the OSL, Svenson thought fast.  Maybe if he put Falklan down, he could draw the Arj away.  Falklan might just have enough strength to board the OSL and escape on his own.  Svenson shook his head.  Crazy plan.  Even if Falklan were conscious, he probably wouldn't run away.  He wasn't like Svenson.

The Arj closed in on him, aiming their silver rod weapons, assured of an easy victory.  All Svenson could do was bare his teeth and show them how Earthmen died.

"Get down!" a voice said, an urgent whisper that echoed in Svenson's helmet speakers, startling him.

And then all hell broke loose as armored Star Marines erupted out of the ground itself and opened fire at the Arj at point blank range, their bolt-guns flaring.  Svenson dropped, covering Falklan's body with his own.  The Arj disintegrated before his eyes, pieces of gray blubbery flesh flying off in all directions, their silver weapons discharging into the sky.  The last Arj fell, blasted to bits.  Burning chunks of alien matter rained down as the Star Marines moved forward, quartering the area.  Their no-nonsense attitude told Svenson that if there were any more Arj on the planetoid, they'd be ruthlessly hunted down and exterminated.

A Star Marine corporal and a medic pulled Svenson off Falklan.  Svenson sat on a rock, bemused, not quite knowing what was going on.  The medic attached an autodoc to Falklan's starsuit and gave a thumbs-up to the corporal, signifying Falklan was alive.

Only then did the corporal pay any attention to Svenson.

"Are you injured, Mister Ambassador?"

Svenson shook his head.  "No.  My pack's damaged but I'm okay.  Air's good for another ten minutes.  Where in the Galaxy did you come from?"

The Star Marine corporal didn't take his eyes off the horizon as he spoke.  "We were deployed here two months ago from a stealth transport.  Came down on paragliders.  We cut foxholes, covered ourselves over and went into coldsleep."  Seeing Svenson's confusion, he added, "Our starsuits have cryogenic capability."

Svenson figured it out for himself.  The Arj wouldn't have been able to detect the buried, frozen Star Marines from orbit.  As far as they were concerned, he and Falklan were the only Humans on the planetoid.  But how could the Star Marines have known, two months ago. . . ?

"Colonel Falklan activated a transponder to bring us out of coldsleep," the corporal said, completing the picture.

"That I did," Falklan said.  His eyes were open.  Svenson went down on one knee beside him.

"You set this up, didn't you?" Svenson said.

"Of course I did."

"You knew the Arj would propose the trial by combat.  How?"

Falklan snorted.  "You think Diplomatic Corps has a monopoly on understanding the Arj?  We fully expected them to offer their trial by combat, rather than lose any more ships.  The trick was being ready for them when it happened."

Svenson thought about it.  "All right.  That explains your putting Star Marines down here.  But how could you be sure we would end in this exact spot, within range of your men?  The Arj might not have behaved as you expected.  They could have killed us both."

Falklan grunted as the medic inserted something into his arm via an eyelet in his starsuit.  "Corporal, tell him," he said.

The corporal grinned.  "There are five hundred strike teams scattered across this planetoid.  Two thousand Star Marines, just waiting for the Colonel to whistle.  No matter where you were, some of us would have popped up within shooting range."

"And the same goes for the other nine planetoids the Arj were most likely to choose for their so-called 'diplomatic meeting'," Falklan said.

Svenson shook his head, unable to believe the magnitude of Falklan's deception.  Ten planetoids—two thousand Star Marines hidden on each.  The STARGUARD casualty lists he'd reviewed had been a complete fabrication.

"What are you looking so upset about?" Falklan said.  "The Arj ship is too far away to confirm exactly what happened.  All they know is, it was two of them against two of us and we beat them, despite the little surprise they pulled."

"And I thought they were cheats," Svenson said sourly.

"Cheats?  You make it sound like a game.  We've just claimed a sizable chunk of space that keeps our forces within jump range of the Arj frontier bases, while denying them the opportunity to launch attacks against Earth."

Svenson digested this information, and compared it with what he'd been told.  Maybe Diplomatic Corps didn't know as much as it thought it did about the Arj.  He'd have to rectify that situation when he returned to Earth.

"It looks like you've got exactly what you wanted," he said.  "The war goes on.  The Arj will never make peace with us now."

The medic did something else.  Falklan closed his eyes again.  "You've got it all wrong," he said.  "The Arj will be asking for terms within a week.  They can't afford not to.  They know we can hit them any time we like."  He sighed.  "That's the whole point, don't you see?  Why else do you think they insisted on holding onto this Sector?  The war's over.  They gambled and they lost."

Svenson simply stared at him, not understanding.  And then, gradually, the full impact of Falklan's statement hit him.

"You mean to tell me that while we were negotiating peace with the Arj, they were planning to attack us?"

Falklan was watching him, a gleam of amusement in his eye.  "You catch on fast, Mister Ambassador."

A MEDVAC deltawing came in low and fast, the glare from its braking jets illuminating the planetoid's bleak surface.  Medics carrying a stretcher came down the nose airlock ramp.

"It could easily have gone wrong," Svenson said softly.  "Your wounds are proof of that.  You took quite a risk, Colonel."

"Sometimes you have to take risks," Falklan said.  "But we had an advantage, too.  The Arj thought they were smarter than us."  He smiled for the first time.  "Bad mistake.  Against Human cunning, they didn't stand a chance."

The End

Published by
SBD SF&F
January 2003
Howard W. Penrose, Ph.D., Chief Editor

Nostalgia Trip #12: Legends

2008-04-07T08:54:00.005+01:00

Published by AOIFE'S KISS Issue #3, December 2002 (print edition). Tyree Campbell, editor

Lord Rychard ordered the Elf wizard put to death for his incompetence. Nurendiel pleaded with him just before the executioner's broadsword descended, urging him to have more faith, but Rychard didn't have time for faith.  The second Goblin army was gathering in the valley below and would attack at dawn.  Rychard needed the Ghost Knight to rise from the dead and lead them into battle against the hated enemy now.

His anger only partly assuaged by the Elf's demise, Rychard entered the torchlit cave and knelt before the Ghost Knight's unmoving body.  Trejoor had been laid to rest here two days ago in his golden armor, the sinister black arrow still protruding from his breast.  Rychard's captains had hacked the Goblin archer to pieces after Trejoor fell, but that was small compensation for the loss of the legendary Ghost Knight, who'd answered Nurendiel's summons when the Goblin invasion of the Southern lands had begun.

How Rychard remembered that summoning! Billowing mists had sprung up out of nowhere at Nurendiel's command, and then, to Rychard's astonishment, Trejoor had appeared upon a white stallion, his sword drawn and held high.  The greatest hero of Southern legends, returned!

And, by the gods, Trejoor had shown the Goblin scum the meaning of defeat! Taking command of Rychard's forces, he'd crushed the first Goblin horde and slain its king, Ulruk.  The very sight of the Ghost Knight's gleaming golden armor and flashing runesword had sent the bloodied survivors reeling in terror.

But now the Ghost Knight lay dead, just when Rychard needed him most.  His scouts had reported that a second, even larger, Goblin horde was marching south, led by their new king, Grakmed, brother of Ulruk.  When morning came, Grakmed would throw his horde into battle.  Without the Ghost Knight to lead them, Rychard's outnumbered army would surely lose.

"What am I to do, Trejoor?" he asked the corpse.  "What am I to do?"  Rychard shuddered, made cold and miserable by this unexpected turn of events.  This was all Nurendiel's fault for not warning them that the Ghost Knight could be slain by magick.  The black arrow that slew Trejoor must have been charged with foul sorcery.  Rychard was glad he'd ordered the Elf executed.  Nurendiel fully deserved his fate.

A clattering came from the entrance and Gysward, Rychard's youngest son, entered the cave, banging his head on the low ceiling.  Rychard winced in sympathy.  His older brothers called Gysward "The Plank," with good reason.  Gysward served as Rychard's esquire, which allowed Rychard to keep a watchful eye on him.

"Here you are, Father," Gysward said, rubbing his skull.  "Your captains are asking for you.  What shall I tell them?"

Rychard shook his head.  "I don't know, lad. I just don't know."  Thus far only Rychard's senior captains and Gysward knew that Trejoor was dead.  He'd kept the news from spreading to the common men, knowing that this would result in widespread desertion.  His army was relying upon Trejoor leading them into battle tomorrow.  Without the Ghost Knight in the van, they'd turn and flee in terror from Grakmed's horde.  And who could blame them?  Certainly not Rychard.

Gysward sighed heavily and knelt down beside him.  "I wish there was something I could do, Father, to help you in your hour of need."

Rychard patted Gysward's shoulder.  The boy might be notoriously stupid, but he always meant well.  "I know, lad, I know.  The Fates have turned against us.  We must deal with the situation as best we can."

He glanced at his son, and in the flickering torchlight saw something entirely unexpected.  Gysward's face, when viewed at the right angle, was not dissimilar to the Ghost Knight's.  Nor was his physical size much different.  Why, dress him in Trejoor's armor and one might easily think—

Rychard stared at the dead Trejoor.  Dare he attempt such a bald deception?  Was it even possible?  He tried to think it through.  What if . . . ?  What if he spread the word that Trejoor had merely retreated to the cave to gather his powers for the ultimate battle?  What if they dressed Gysward in the Ghost Knight's armor, and gave him his sword, and put him on his stallion?  Rychard's heart raced.  By the gods, yes!  It might work!

And if it didn't?  They were facing certain defeat by the much larger Goblin horde anyway, weren't they?

Rychard got up and quickly outlined his plan, watching as Gysward's dull face registered surprise, confusion, astonishment.  And then, finally, comprehension.  Rychard nearly sighed with relief.  He'd wondered whether the idea might be too complex for Gysward's limited reasoning.

"Will you do it, lad?" he said.  "Will you become the Ghost Knight so that we might defeat Grakmed's horde?  They'll flee the field if they see Trejoor leading our knights in a charge.  Or most of them will, anyway.  Those unfamiliar with Trejoor's legend and his total mastery of warfare will stand and fight, but you'll be surrounded by our best men, who will willingly put their bodies between you and the enemy."

Gysward stood, banging his head again.  Rychard groaned inwardly.  "Aye, Father, of course I'll do it," Gysward said.  "What matters the risk, when it is for the good of our people?"

Rychard clapped him on the back, surprised yet pleased by his son's enthusiasm.  "Then stay here and prepare the Ghost Knight," he said, "while I summon my captains and explain the plan to them.  It will begin tonight, when Trejoor emerges from this cave and walks among our men, encouraging them to fight like demons on the morrow."

"Trejoor, Father?"

"You, Gysward, you!  Wearing his armor."

"Ah."  Gysward nodded understanding.  "Now I see."

Glad that he did, Rychard hurried outside, calling his captains to conference.

§
Brazen trumpets brayed, crude hammers thudded against drumskins, and the Goblin horde roared and stepped forward as one.

Rychard, from his vantage point on the slope above, counted no less than ten thousand Goblins, each carrying a huge broadax forged from black iron.  Nearly a third of the enemy rode upon the backs of snarling mountain wolves.  By contrast, Rychard's thousand armored knights were mounted upon their much swifter horses, and his well-equipped infantry companies were armed with gleaming steel swords and spears.  The disciplined versus the undisciplined; the noble against the unspeakable.

Despite being outnumbered three against one, Rychard felt confident.  He'd heard Gysward addressing the troops last night, lowering his voice so he sounded just like Trejoor.  And then again this morning, filling them with zeal and cold hatred for the enemy.  When Gysward had raised his sword and demanded every man sing the Southern anthem at the top of his voice so the goblins would think they were ten times their number, Rychard's throat had tightened.  He'd exchanged signals with the knights surrounding Gysward.  They knew their duty was to get his son down there and then get him back alive, in one piece.

Gysward—no, this morning he was Trejoor, the Ghost Knight, saviour of the Southern lands, the great hero who'd returned from the mists of time to lead them to victory against the enemy!—guided his white stallion forward until he stood in front of the battle line.  Then, without warning, he turned and galloped up and down the line, shouting encouragement to knight and soldier alike, picking out individual men by name, making jokes, assuring them they'd all get their chance at glory, and would they kindly leave some Goblins for him to kill, please!

Rychard smiled.  His son was playing his role well.  Perhaps wearing the Ghost Knight's armor and riding his white stallion had instilled some kind of magick into him?  Rychard admitted to himself that he'd not paid Gysward as much fatherly attention as he should have. A mistake on his part, since evidently The Plank possessed manly qualities of which Rychard should be proud.  He hoped Trejoor's magick would last long enough to break the Goblin army—prayed that the Fates who'd struck Trejoor down would this day smile upon Gysward and protect him from Goblin arrows and broadaxes.

At last, Gysward—no, Trejoor!—resumed his position in the middle of the line.  Again he drew his sword, which caught the morning sunlight as he held it aloft. When he brought it down, a thousand knights spurred their horses forward.  The infantry followed, quick-marching in a tight-packed phalanx, shieldmen leading the way, spearmen and archers on the inside.

Down, down the slope charged the knights, the cream of Southern manhood.  The enemy's front line became a mass of heavy leather shields.  The Goblin horde spread out on both flanks, forming the horns of a giant bull that would close upon the Southerners the instant they struck the shield wall.  But this age-old tactic—which the Goblins had stolen from the Dwarves, their mortal enemies—assumed that the shield wall would hold.  Already Rychard detected panic in the Goblin ranks.  Chaos took hold as those in front turned to flee but were denied by those behind.  The great bull's horns began to disintegrate.  Rychard grinned savagely.  Doubtless Grakmed's wizards had assured their king that the Ghost Knight was dead.  How wrong they were! Trejoor rode toward them, a dramatic figure at the head of a thousand seasoned knights who lusted for Goblin blood.

"Kill them, lad," Rychard hissed softly.  "Kill them all."

He became aware of a presence, and turned to look down in surprise at Gysward, who stood beside him.  No—not Gysward! The tall figure wore Gysward's clothing, but his face was paler and more angular, the dark eyes sunken and possessed of an inhuman and frightening intelligence.  Trejoor the Ghost Knight scowled up at Rychard, whose bowels threatened to loosen.

"What is happening?" the Ghost Knight demanded.  "Who is it that rides my horse, and wears my armor, and bears my sword?"

Rychard licked his suddenly-dry lips.  His captains stared, open-mouthed, unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes.  Rychard was having similar problems.

"M-mighty Trejoor, we thought you were dead."

"I was slain, but now I am restored again," Trejoor said matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

"Restored?  But how?"

"Have you not heard of sorcery, man?  Do you not know what my name means in the Old Tongue?  Three days! If I am slain in battle then I rise again in three days."  He looked around.  "Where is the wizard?  Where is Nurendiel?"

Rychard chewed his lip.  "The Elf had, er, what you might call an unfortunate accident," he said, unnerved by Trejoor's baleful stare.  "He is no longer with us, alas."

Trejoor's eyes narrowed with suspicion.  "I see.  So, let me guess what happened, my Lord Rychard.  You stripped me of my armor and sword and gave them to someone else.  That someone is now riding into battle, pretending to be me.  Am I correct?  Or have I made entirely the wrong assumption?"

Rychard wished Nurendiel were still alive so he could order him roasted over a slow fire.  The Elf should have told him Trejoor would rise again!

"Mighty Trejoor, you are correct," he admitted at last.  "You must understand, I had no way of knowing—"  He stopped, swallowed hard and started again.  "I thought you were gone forever."

"Had I been vanquished, Lord Rychard, my corpse would have been reclaimed by the mists of time, along with my horse, my armor and my sword.  The fact they are still here should have told you something!"

Rychard said, "I know it's bad manners to speak ill of the dead, mighty Trejoor, but I really must blame all this upon Nurendiel.  The Elf was old, and plainly forgetful.  He did not share with us the meaning of your name, or the extent of your powers."

Rychard watched Trejoor closely for any signs of disbelief, and to his relief found none.  Instead the Ghost Knight looked down the slope, and slowly shook his head.  "A great pity," he said.  "It would have been glorious."  With this, he turned and walked back toward the cave.  Seized by sudden panic, Rychard dismounted and ran after him.  He grabbed Trejoor by the arm, turning him around.  The Ghost Knight looked down at Rychard's hand, then looked at Rychard, who quickly let go.

"Mighty Trejoor, forgive me.  I admit to foolish ignorance.  I should have demanded that Nurendiel tell me everything.  But ask yourself, is my foolishness reason enough for you to abandon your people in the hour of their greatest need?"  He glanced back over his shoulder.  The charge continued.  Within a matter of seconds his knights would be smashing through the enemy's weakened shield wall, hacking and slashing at the exposed Goblin king.  Grakmed would be unable to maneuver, unable to retreat.  When his grinning skull banner fell to signal his death, the entire Goblin army would flee the field.  They'd not stop running until they reached their frosty homeland, far to the north—those who managed to escape the butchery Rychard had ordered.

Trejoor indicated the cave mouth.  White mist filled the opening and Rychard shivered, aware that the temperature around them had fallen markedly.

"What does this mean, mighty Trejoor?" he asked.

"I have no choice in this, Lord Rychard.  You slew the Elf wizard.  I know this; you need not deny it.  But Nurendiel was my link with this place, you see.  Now that he is gone, the sorcery he wove that summoned me here is dissipating.  I am being recalled to limbo, where I must sleep until the next spell of awakening is cast.  Assuming, of course . . . ."  He looked beyond Rychard, to the place where the two armies were about to come together.  "Assuming that there is a next time.  I am unable to see such a future, which worries me more than slightly.  But, as I have said," he shrugged eloquently, "I have no choice in this."

Rychard, enraged, shook his fist in Trejoor's face.

"Damn you man, you would desert us, would you?  Then, to hell with you, I say! Go back to sleep, or whatever it is you do.  You have soiled your own legend.  I'll see every storybook and scroll in the land is changed so your name is struck out.  When I'm finished, you'll be less than a dim memory, mark my words."

Trejoor nodded slowly.  "That is always the way with legends," he said.  "One comes to an end and is forgotten, while another rises to take its place."

To Rychard's irritation, the Ghost Knight did not elaborate.  Instead he left Rychard standing there fuming with anger, and entered the cave.  The white mists swirled as if blown by an unfelt wind, and retreated into the cave after the Ghost Knight.

Rychard ran back to where his captains waited.  He didn't need Trejoor! His army could defeat Grakmed's army without the Ghost Knight's help.  As long as the enemy continued to think Gysward was Trejoor, the battle was as good as won!

Confident all would be well, Rychard remounted his horse and looked to where the battle raged.

He swallowed hard, and signed for a servant to bring him a bottle of wine.  He snatched it from the man's hand, took the cork between his teeth, spit it out and raised the bottle to his lips, drinking with such haste that wine spilled down his mustache and beard, staining his surcoat red.

Below, amid a swirling sea of dying men and horses, Gysward knelt upon the hoof-churned ground, his head bowed and his thin shoulders heaving uncontrollably as he wept.  His white horse, his golden armor and his gleaming runesword had vanished with Trejoor's passing.  The charge had failed.  The Goblin shield wall had held and Grakmed had counterattacked.

Rychard wept also, for the knowledge of certain doom is a terrible thing, especially when that doom might have been so easily avoided.  The Ghost Knight had been right—a new legend was a-borning this day, one that would be told around campfires for centuries to come.  The legend of Lord Rychard the Arrogant, Rychard the Ambitious, Rychard the Fool, who'd brought disaster upon his people.

The wine tasted sour.  Rychard threw the bottle away, drew his dagger from its sheath and did the only honorable thing.

The End

Published by AOIFE'S KISS Issue #3, December 2002 (print edition). Tyree Campbell, editor
Fiction by:
Jay Lake, Tyree Campbell, Eric S. Brown, J. Alan Erwine, Beverly Bonnie O'Neill, C. A. Merrick, Angeline Hawke-Craig, Derek Paterson
Poetry by:
L. A. Story Houry, Sarah Guidry, Erin Donahoe, Christina Sng, Julia Shiel, Lisa Bradley, Erin Donahoe, Cathy Buburuz
Reviews by:
Cathy Buburuz, Kelly Adey

Nostalgia Trip #11: The Shadow's Tale

2008-03-25T11:20:00.003Z

This (hopefully) fun romp appeared in Raymond M. Coulombe's QUANTUM MUSE in October 2002. Cool tee shirt!

Once each year the Sacred Procession takes place in the great city of Zabadak, capital of the Virdin Empire.  The streets are packed with priests and pilgrims who gather from all over the Rim Sectors to kneel before the Empress-Oracle as she is paraded through the city.   The streets are also a haunt for thieves such as myself, though I am no ordinary criminal.   My name is Dario.   You may know me better as the Shadow.   That's right, the Shadow!  The Prince of Thieves!  They seek him here, they seek him there; the Mek-Police seek him everywhere.   But they will never find him, because the Shadow is too clever for them, too clever by half.

There I stood among the peasants, watching as the Empress came into view on her platform, escorted by four huge Castrati, who had willingly given their all to serve their Empress.   They stared straight ahead, ignoring the chanting crowd and the wails from the priests who lost control and fell, twitching and convulsing, to the ground.   It's said that the Empress-Oracle emits an unseen energy that affects those who can see the future or possess other Esper gifts, sending them to unimaginable heights of ecstasy.   I suppose it's a kind of compensation for the priests, who otherwise lead dull and eventless lives.   The Sacred Procession gives them their annual reward.

Let's come back to that platform.   Solid iridium, it is, floating on an AG field.   Its sides are encrusted with jewels, large and small.   I had my eye on a couple of the larger ones.   They'd fetch a pretty price in the Outer Sectors, I knew, where such baubles are still valued above all else.

The Oracle came closer and I carefully made my way to the front of the crowd.   Pilgrims and citizens parted to allow me to pass because of the orange robe and hood I wore.   The priest I'd taken them from lay asleep in a nearby alleyway.   A pity for him that he hadn't glimpsed his own future before I bashed him over the head and stripped him naked.

Priests all along the path cried out as they touched the platform and then collapsed, their bodies shaking, their half-glimpsed faces distorted into grinning masks.   Their eyes rolled in their sockets until only the whites showed.   I envied them a little and wished I could bottle what they were experiencing—I'd make a fortune selling the stuff to impotent husbands and frustrated wives.   After I'd tested it myself to ensure primo quality, of course.

My chance was coming, and I readied myself—but I made the mistake of glancing up at the half-naked woman who sat upon the platform, which was nearly my undoing.   Her beauty radiated through her veil and I half-saw, half-imagined her visage, her sky-blue eyes, her sweet red lips.   I closed my eyes but the memory of her full, ripe body remained, straining to escape the semitransparent silks that adorned her.   My hands trembled and my knees grew weak.   Perhaps I should have been a priest after all, as my mother had wished.

Sweeping these distracting thoughts aside, I made ready to execute my cunning plan.   Other priests who'd been waiting their turn stepped forward between the Castrati escort so they could touch the platform, and in so doing reach their nirvana.   I moved forward with them and emulated their wails and screams and groans.   My hands touched the platform, felt their way along the smooth metal, encountered an obstacle—there!  The displacer tool popped the jewel from its setting and teleported it into the scanproof container I wore beneath my robe.   I pretended to stumble, while keeping hold of the platform.   Laughter came from the crowd.   That priest's having his money's worth! they cried, and I smiled beneath my hood, glad to be providing them with such grand entertainment.   Another jewel, another touch of the displacer tool, and it, too, went to a better place.

Was there time for a third?   Yes, though it must be swift!  My hand drifted further, seeking, probing—

—And encountered something soft and warm.   The Empress-Oracle's sandaled foot!  She looked down at me, smiling beneath her veil.   Those eyes!  That smile!  This time I stumbled for real and fell headlong, but managed to roll away before the Castrati trampled me with their huge feet.   But part of me wished I'd had more time with the Empress.   In that moment when our eyes had met, she'd reached out and touched my very soul.   Had she known who and what I was?   Possibly, but my profession and my intentions did not trouble her in the slightest.   She desired me, that much was obvious.

Marveling at these thoughts, I feigned nirvana for a while, maintaining the shaking and moaning act until the Empress had passed by.   When the priests around me began to recover, I also rose and dusted myself down.

The Sacred Procession continued, and against my better judgement I followed at a distance, the jewels in their container all but forgotten.   This drew a few curious glances, as it is deemed impolite for any priest to drink from the Empress's cup more than once during any Procession.   I quickly found an alleyway and divested myself of the stolen hood and robe, then rejoined the crowd, resuming my clandestine pursuit.

The Procession continued around the city until the sun began to fall and shadows lengthened.   Finally, her duty done, the Empress headed back to the Palace of Light, where she dwelled with her retinue of female acolytes and her Castrati servants.   While the crowds offered her their worship, I examined the Palace closely.   Its great doors were made of gleaming plasteel and its high walls and towers reared above the rest of the city, mocking anyone foolish enough to even consider attempting an illegal entry.   But there was not a wall in the entire city which the Shadow could not climb, a window through which the Shadow could not pass.

She retreated back into her Palace and the great doors ground shut behind her.   The happy crowd, thrice blessed by their Empress-Oracle, began to disperse.   Groups of street entertainers and musicians came forth to ply their trade, while the exhausted priests limped and shuffled away, some still weeping from the joy imparted by their brief contact with the platform.   Learned scientists have speculated whether the platform somehow conducts the Empress-Oracle's power to those who seek her grace.   Perhaps it is true; I cannot say.   Since such speculation is usually followed by a visit from the Mek-Police, it is best not to share one's views with strangers.

The capital world's twin suns continued to drop until night embraced Zabadak.   I gathered my equipment and made ready for my assault upon the Palace.   I approached the place via a side alley that few were likely to frequent, and removed the ring from the index finger of my left hand, deactivating its mass compression field.   The ring grew and quickly transformed into a shoulder-mounted bazooka, pre-loaded and ready to fire.   I took aim and thumbed the trigger.   An electrical current mutated short molecules into long chain molecules in the space of a nanosecond.   The grappling hook arcing high into the air, trailing a long, thin line behind it.

I waited for a count of ten and then pulled on the line.   It tightened, confirming that the hook had caught and held somewhere above.   Placing my foot against the bottom of the Palace's forbidding wall I began climbing, driven by motives that were unclear even to me.   I told myself it was the promise of liberating the other jewels set into the platform that made me take such risks.   I'd always intended to retire young and rich.   I'd buy my own planet and surround myself with nubile slave girls who'd willingly slake my every passion.   Every man must have a goal in life; this was mine, so I climbed until my arms and shoulders and legs ached, climbed until the city below me grew small and insignificant.   Until, at last, I reached a narrow window and squeezed inside.

I found myself in a chamber decorated with silks and tapestries.   Large cushions lay scattered across the floor, suggesting that the room might serve as a bed chamber for several persons.   Stepping to the only door, I pressed my ear against the plasteel and listened.   Not a sound.   I opened the door a crack and looked out upon a wide, deserted landing.   Floating light globes illuminated doorways, sunken alcoves containing statuettes, a wide stairway, and balconies overlooking a central space that might well pass down all the way to ground level.   I moved out onto the landing.   Usually I rely upon my wits and my agility, but sometimes I rely upon weapons, too.   I let my wireframe pistol take shape lest unseen guards leapt to attack me, and followed my nose.   It took me further along the landing and past closed doors, until I found a passageway that beckoned to me.

At its end was a single door, lying partly open.   Looking over my shoulder one last time, I pushed the door wide and stepped through.

The Empress-Oracle lay upon the bed in that pose which women instinctively know how to adopt when they wish to tantalize and excite.   It emphasized her titanic breasts and the curve of her equally titanic buttocks.   She'd removed her veil.   Her face was as breathtakingly beautiful as I'd imagined it must be.   She smiled and beckoned for me to join her.   I collapsed my wireframe pistol, unbuckled my belt, pulled off my boots and took her, as she wished to be taken.   Or did she take me?   My memory is foggy on the matter, but I still recall the lovemaking, which went on forever.   I expertly stoked her furnace until she trembled and shuddered with pleasure, and then did it again, while she smothered me with her plentiful flesh.   No bed was ever as warm or as soft as the deep canyons and thrusting mountains of the Empress-Oracle herself.

Afterward she lay unconscious, snoring gently.   Somehow I found the strength to stagger to the window and gasp for air, having expended myself in a frenzy of sweet passion never equaled, before or since.

Wall panels abruptly slid open and more than a dozen of her acolytes skipped into the room, laughing and giggling and naked.   They were upon me before I could regenerate my pistol.   Numerous hands pulled me toward the door.   They were like a tidal wave; I could not fight their gentle insistence.   One of the acolytes gathered up my clothes, another my boots, another my belt.   I tried to look back, to catch a parting glimpse of the Empress-Oracle upon her bed, but the acolytes blocked my view.

The company of women escorted me along a narrow hall toward twin doors that opened as we approached.   I dug my heels in at the sight of the open shaft, but the acolytes remained calm, convincing me that stepping into the shaft was not tantamount to suicide.   We stepped into space and fell, much slower than expected, supported by an AG field within the shaft.   The acolytes pressed around me, their naked bodies against mine.   They were beautiful girls, each and every one of them, but their loveliness and their inviting smiles did not excite me, not after I had just made love to their wonderful mistress.   After the Empress-Oracle, what interest could I possibly have in other women?

An age later our feet touched the ground.   Looking up, I saw I'd passed down through nearly the entire height of the Palace.   Hundreds of faces peered over balcony rails above, watching me.   Before I could make comment or ask any questions, the acolytes escorted me through another doorway and into a wide hall lined with statues of the Muses.   The far wall seemed familiar to me, and it was.   I realized I was looking at the inside of the great plasteel doors that guarded the Palace entrance against intruders.

The acolytes left me there, vanishing into shadowed nooks and crannies.   As their tinkling laughter faded, the doors groaned, cranked open by unseen mechanisms.   Cold light flooded the hall.   It was morning outside.   Had I been with the Empress for days, or for only a single night?   Why was she now ejecting me from the Palace?   If she knew but one fraction of my love for her, she would keep me by her side forever.   I would be her willing slave until the day I expired.   No, I could not leave her.   I resolved to go back inside and find her, tell her, plead with her—

The same four Castrati who'd escorted the Oracle's platform appeared behind me, armed with the largest scimitars I'd ever seen, weapons as tall and as formidable as the genofixed eunuchs themselves.   I took the hint and dressed quickly, pulling on my boots, fastening my belt and straightening my rumpled leggings.   Taking a deep breath, I went out into the chill morning.   The great doors clanged shut behind me, shutting me off from my love.

I instinctively knew that the window I'd used to enter the Palace was now sealed against further incursions, as were all the windows above.   I'd been allowed to enter the Palace, allowed to share the Empress-Oracle's bed.   But once, and once only.   Now her love was denied me.   She'd used me for her own selfish pleasure and now wished me gone from her life.   Words do not exist to describe my sadness.

No, friend, I have not seen the Empress-Oracle since then.   And I never will.   She only ventures outside her Palace once a year for the Sacred Procession, and I will be fodder for the recycling vats long before she does so again.

How old do you think I am?   No, I am the same age in years as I was when I entered the Palace and made love to the most beautiful woman the Galaxy has ever seen.   Do not let my white hair and my appearance fool you—only six Standard months have passed since then.   She took something from me that night, something that perhaps enhanced her oracular powers but left me aged and withering.   Feel no pity for me, friend.   I would not change a single thing.

Buy me another drink, and I'll tell you about the time the Shadow stole a space tyrant's battleship out from under his nose, and then sold it back to him the very next day.

The End

Nostalgia Trip #10: Nachtjäger

2008-03-11T13:19:00.003Z

Jeremiah Tolbert's FORTEAN BUREAU went on haitus in April '06 but hopefully will return one day with more "Stories that make passes at explaining the unexplainable. Stories of science dealing with the bizarre. Stories regarding events so unusual they defy explanation..."

Nachtjäger appeared in Oct 2002 and is still available on the site, so without further ado... click on the title graphic!

Nostalgia Trip #9: The Big Guy

2008-02-17T09:41:00.003Z

I'm not sure if Mark Rudolph's FULL UNIT HOOKUP is still publishing, the magazine had some delightfully quirky reads across most genres. The Big Guy appeared in Issue #2, Sept 2002, years before the latest film even became a twinkle in Peter Jackson's eye.

For an awful moment she thought it was Jack. Only when he stepped into the light and came closer did she realize it was someone else. He gave her a winning smile that did nothing to allay her suspicions, lifted his hat and said, "Miss, uh, Darrow, isn't it?"

"Close enough."

"My name is Brent, how do you do? I'm with News America."

She looked him up and down as she took a cigarette from the packet Jack had given her at the hotel, before she'd sneaked out the back way without telling him. "News America, huh?" She tapped the cigarette against the back of her hand. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Brent?"

He got out his lighter and held it steady for her. She blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling of the airport terminus building. Her plane would be boarding in ten minutes, which was precisely ten minutes too long. Other planes were taking off and landing, sleek silver in the fading light. The roar of their piston engines shook the building, sending a shudder down her spine, reminding her of....

"Well, my readers sure would like to hear a few words from you. They're fascinated by your adventure. You've caught the imagination of the entire world."

"I think you've got it wrong, Mr. Brent," she said. "I haven't caught anyone's imagination. He did that, all by himself."

Brent thought that one over. "You're probably right. Or at least, that's the angle all the other newspapers are taking."

"But you're not?"

"As big as he was, he was just an animal. What we're interested in is the human aspect, and that's you."

She'd turned cold inside at Brent's mention of "animal." Somehow she forced herself to smile. "How come I get the special attention? There were other people on that expedition, you know. You could talk to them."

"I suppose I could. But what could they tell me that I don't already know? They didn't get near to him. Only you did that. I was there when they brought him into town. I saw how he looked at you, how he responded when you came close to his cage. And I saw how you looked at him. Out of all the people there, only you felt sorry for the poor sap. To everyone else, he was just a commodity, something that had a price tag tied to his big toe."

She tried to remember Brent was a reporter out for a story, not really interested in her or anything else. But the way he said it, it was like he cared. About her. About what had happened. About him.

"Why don't you save us both some time and just make something up?" she said. "The airline staff will confirm that you talked to me before I got on the plane. That's all you need. I won't deny anything you print."

He pushed his hat up so it sat on his head at an angle. "Well, I can't really say I like that idea. It's not my idea of good reporting."

Tired of the cigarette, which was doing nothing to soothe the butterflies in her stomach, she dropped it onto the floor and ground it beneath her shoe. "You shock me, Mr. Brent. I didn't realize newsmen had any morals."

"Well, this one does. What makes you think I'd want to make up a story anyway? What makes you think I'm not interested in this, too? Forget my Press card, I'm a human being, just like everyone else."

"What do you want to know, Mr. Brent?" she said, wishing the announcement would come so she could leave this city and its memories behind forever. But the clerk behind the desk just shuffled some papers, giving no indication that the plane might board ahead of schedule.

"I want to know how you feel," Brent said.

"How I feel about what?"

"About his death. About the way they killed him."

"Pretty bad about both, since you're asking." The rumble of plane engines again reminded her of what had happened. She closed her eyes, wanting to shut off the images, but they persisted.

"Some people are saying he got what he deserved," Brent said. "That he was a killer. When he climbed up the building, he grabbed that young woman for no reason and threw her to her death."

"That's not true. He did have a reason."

Brent's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"The girl was a brunette, Mr. Brent. Consider where he came from. On that dreadful island, the natives all had dark hair. They treated him very badly. Kept him locked up behind that huge wall. Lured him into a cage and tortured him with spears. Starved him, then forced him to eat human sacrifices. He felt awful bad about that."

Brent paused to light a cigarette of his own. "Let me get this straight, because I don't want there to be any mistakes when I write it. He murdered that innocent young woman because he didn't like the color of her hair, and you're saying it's okay?"

"I am not saying it's okay. Don't you ever quote me as saying that. I won't sue your newspaper, I'll come after you personally. All you'll hear is the squeal of tires and an almighty big bang. Tell me we understand each other, Mr. Brent."

Brent gave a lop-sided smile. "I think you've made your position clear. What do you mean, he felt bad? How can you possibly know what he was thinking?"

She wished she hadn't put the cigarette out. She needed it now. "You wouldn't understand. Nobody understands."

"Don't you think melodrama is best left for the radio shows?"

"I think I've said enough, Mr. Brent. So long, and enjoy the ride home."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Hey, not so fast. You've started something here. If you don't finish it then I will have to make something up."

She snorted her contempt. "So much for morals."

"What the heck, it pays my rent."

"Just how much of a cynic are you, Mr. Brent? Do you believe in empathy, in being able to feel what someone else is feeling? Like old couples who have loved each other all their lives. Or someone with a beloved pet. They know the object of their affection so well they can guess what they're thinking."

"Empathy, huh? I got a dog, but I don't know what he feels. Most mornings he snaps at me."

"I'd snap at you too if I were him."

"Okay, okay, give me a break, will ya? You're telling me you felt something deeper for the big guy? Gee, maybe that's how it works. The bigger you are, the more of this empathy you got."

"You're a very unfunny man, Mr. Brent. Don't give up your day job."

"Don't give up my day job? That's a good one—you know, you ought to consider script-writing. But let's not get sidetracked here. How can you possibly know how he felt about eating people?"

"How do you think? He told me."

There, she'd said it. Let Brent publish what he wanted; it was the truth, and she felt all the better for confessing her secret.

Brent's grin widened. "He told you? Did he use his finger to scratch three-foot-tall letters in the sand, or what?"

A loud buzzing noise filled the terminal as a four-engined plane rolled into view and stopped right in front of the building. Mechanics pushed a wheeled stairway forward. She realized it was probably her plane. Any minute now and she'd be on her way, thank goodness.

"I've tried to explain what empathy is," she said. "But do you know what telepathy is, Mr. Brent?"

He frowned. "Something to do with radio waves?"

"Empathy refers to shared feelings and emotions. Telepathy is. . . I guess you could say shared thoughts."

A uniformed man approached the desk clerk and indicated the plane outside. The clerk nodded and reached for her microphone.

"Shared thoughts?" Brent shook his head. "My readers ain't gonna swallow that one. In fact, my editor won't swallow it, and he'll do anything for five bucks."

"Flight Seven for Hawaii via Los Angeles is now boarding at Gate One," the clerk said. Her voice echoed throughout the terminal building, made scratchy by the loudspeakers. "Flight Seven for Hawaii, Gate One."

At last. She reached down and picked up her travel bag, aware of the tightness of her coat. "I'm sorry I have to leave you, Mr. Brent," she said. The reverse was true. "It's been nice talking to you." Ditto for that, too.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said. He stepped after her as she headed toward the gate. She'd already checked in and had only been waiting for clearance to board. "You're going to Hawaii? Why?"

"That's my business, Mr. Brent. It's nothing to do with you, your newspaper or your readers."

"Can't you give me just another second? This telepathy thing. Are you really trying to tell me that you and. . . you and that thing. . . could read each others' minds?"

She glared at him. "That 'thing' was an intelligent and beautiful creature. You don't fool me, Mr. Brent, you're just like the rest of them. All you saw was the fur and the teeth. Frightened, backward-thinking, bigoted people like you sent up the planes that shot him to death. You murdered him."

She saw the doubt forming in his eyes. He thought she was crazy. Maybe she was, but she'd never felt more sane, more in possession of her faculties, in her entire life.

Brent threw his cigarette down and said, "Wherever you're going, Miss, make sure you put your feet up for a while and get some rest. Try to forget about everything that's happened. And do me a favor, will ya? Go see a doctor, for your own good." He tipped his hat to her, then made his way toward the exit, head bowed and hands thrust into his coat pockets, his big story forgotten.

To her dismay, Jack appeared in his place, running into the terminus building, his coat open and his hat missing. For a moment she hoped he wouldn't see her—hoped she'd be able to pass through the gate and board the plane before he could find out where she'd gone. But then he spotted her and headed her way, pushing rudely past other passengers in his haste.

"Thank God," he said. He pulled her close, then released her and held her at arm's length. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I had the cops call the taxi company. They said you'd gone to the airport—"

"You shouldn't have followed me, Jack," she said, unable to stop herself from touching his handsome face and sweeping a strand of dark hair off his forehead.

"I don't get it," he said. "You and me, we were going to get engaged. Sure, I understand what you've been through, I was there, remember? But that's not reason enough for you to run off, is it?" He gave a nervous laugh. "Of course not. Come back to the hotel with me. We'll figure things out, plan our future together."

He was breaking her heart. She hadn't wanted this—had hoped with all her heart to avoid it. "Jack, I can't."

"What do you mean, can't?"

"I have to be somewhere else. And you have to accept the truth. I'm not the girl you think I am. I was a nobody before your boss found me on the street, a nobody stealing just to stay alive."

"What are you saying? This is crazy talk."

"I'm not even a real actress. The best thing you could ever do for yourself is turn around and walk away. I'm trouble, Jack, trouble with a capital 'T'."

His uncertain smile vanished, and then he became serious. "Listen here, I'm not going back without you. You and I—"

"You're not listening. There is no you and I. Maybe there could have been, if things had been different." She tried to think of some way to let him down gently. "You're a decent guy, Jack. You deserve a decent girl. But that's not me. I'm bad through and through. Had you fooled, huh?"

He shook his head. "Please don't—"

"No, Jack. It's goodbye. It has to be this way."

He shook her, suddenly angry. She guessed he had a right to be. The desk clerk and other passengers were staring at them. "You'll give me a reason," he said. "You'll give me a darned good reason, or else."

It was no good. He wouldn't listen to anything except the truth. "I'm pregnant, Jack."

All kinds of thoughts passed through his mind and were reflected in his expression. Some of them were downright ugly. "You're just saying that. You can't be."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Jack."

"Who was it?" he demanded. "It couldn't have been the boss, or any of the crew. I was with you all the time, except when those darned natives. . . ."

"No, it wasn't them, either."

"Then who? Who else could have—?" He stopped, staring at her in disbelief. "No," he said, his voice becoming a ragged whisper. "No, not him. Tell me it wasn't him."

Try as she might, she couldn't stop herself from remembering the cave. She'd been frightened at first, but he had been very gentle with her, laying her down upon a soft bed of flowers and reeds, those huge hands of his removing the tattered remnants of her clothing with the dexterity of a surgeon. And then he'd loomed over her, huge and menacing, yet for all his size there was no pain, just a wonderful warmth that spread through her entire body and took her to places she'd never been before. . . .

Her expression must have betrayed her because Jack staggered away, holding his hand to his mouth as if he were about to throw up.

"Jack," she said. "Jack, please—!" But he didn't stop. He nearly broke the doors in his haste to get out of the terminus building.

She wiped tears from her eyes, wishing it didn't have to be this way. Jack was a fine man, a good man. But how could she even consider being with any normal man after he had made love to her? When they were together in the cave he'd opened his huge mind to her and showed her things she'd never imagined possible. Started her thinking for the first time in her dull, miserable, pointless life. He'd set things in motion, things she was powerless to stop. And wouldn't wish to, even if she could.

Five minutes later she was aboard the plane, in a seat by the window, listening to the pitch of the engines change as the pilot ran through final checks before take-off.

The growing life shifted impatiently in her belly, taking form much faster than she'd expected. Already her clothes were two sizes too small for her. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply and relaxed as best she could. By this time tomorrow she'd be in Manila, where she'd charter a private boat. She planned to reach her dead lover's lonely Pacific island in time for the birth of his son. It was what he would have wanted. Only this time there would be no cages and no freak show, she'd see to that. The money she'd got for her one and only appearance before the cameras would buy privacy and protection. If anyone tried to bother her then she'd have them run off, or shot. That included the natives, for whom she had little love.

In time, when Junior was old enough, she'd arrange to have a big radio mast built on the island, right on top of that skull-shaped mountain. And then they'd contact the world, and tell their own story.

The End

Sadly missed

2008-02-11T19:20:00.000Z

Alas the wee cat wisnae well and had to go back to the vet's today. What with fluid build-up pressuring her lungs despite the meds, plus ongoing kidney and liver problems, it was time to say goodbye to the hairy wee beastie before things got too painful. The Princess Marlene is, needless to say, inconsolable.

A trilogy, no less!!!

2008-02-07T20:30:00.000Z

It's great when it happens for someone you know! Very pleased to hear the supertalented Lisa Mantchev has just sold her Théâtre Illuminata trilogy to Jean Feiwel at Feiwel & Friends, an imprint of Macmillan, in a three-book hardcover deal. Bloody hell! Well done, Lis!

Nostalgia Trip #8: Blood & Ice

2008-02-01T21:01:00.001Z

This shameless homage (some might say "rip-off" but I meant no disrespect) to H.P.Lovecraft was published by the sadly defunct SBD SF&F, a venue for all types of specfic, circa August 2002. I found the check when I was clearing out old junk papers last week! Of course, back in 2002 things were a lot different, $20.00 could purchase a new car, or maybe a swimming pool.

Our U-boat departed Wilhelmshaven on the morning of October 12th, 1917. Rough seas made for an uncomfortable journey, but the crew of the U-333 hardly noticed. They were veterans all, the only exception being myself, newly qualified Navigation Officer Leutnant Hans-Werner Fleischer. I replaced the N.O. who had died of a burst appendix in mid-Atlantic during U-333's last voyage. Perhaps this explained why the crew shunned me; sailors are, after all, the most superstitious of breeds. Rather than permit their unfriendly attitude to dishearten me, I accepted their decision and got on with my job, performing my function as well as I could manage. Thoughts of my dear Brigitte kept me sane during the lonely voyage. In quiet moments I composed poems expressing my love for her. I also kept a diary of events so that she might one day come to appreciate life aboard a submarine—a cramped, claustrophobic existence which few men can bear without suffering severe mental strain and exhaustion.

Three days out from Wilhelmshaven, Kapitan von Hausen summoned me to his cabin and showed me his orders. Once clear of the Orkney Islands to the north of Scotland, U-333 was to proceed to a map reference that would take us high beyond the Arctic Circle. This concerned me greatly because at this time of year the ice pack was particularly heavy, which fact I conveyed to von Hausen immediately.

"You may be right," he said, frowning. "But nonetheless we shall endeavor to make the rendezvous. Chart a course, and see it is passed to Oberleutnant Klatz."

I saluted and made my way to the control room. Ignoring the hostile glances directed at me by my shipmates, I unrolled the appropriate chart and made my calculations. I double-checked the results, then presented the sheet to Klatz. "Kapitan's orders, sir," I said. "We are to proceed upon this course."

"So, we're not hunting for British convoys this trip," Klatz said, fixing me with a malevolent look that suggested he blamed me for this turn of events.

"Kapitan's orders, sir," I repeated. With greatest reluctance, it seemed, Klatz passed the course to the steersman, then ordered the chief engineer to attain maximum revolutions.

Since the Navigation Officer, having provided the vessel with a suitable heading, really has nothing else to do, I climbed into the conning tower to join the observers already there. U-333 would sail upon the surface of the ocean, powered by her diesel engines, until circumstances forced her to dive underwater, where she would operate on battery power. I liked to look out over the gray sea, feeling the rush of salt air in my mouth and nostrils. It invigorated me, cleared my mind, made the crew's unfair and childish attitude seem unimportant. I spent most of my waking hours up there, which perhaps explains why I was the first to see, some days later, the great icebergs forming ahead, an army of ice giants that seemed to march toward us.

I expected von Hausen to reduce speed, for such hazards were not to be ignored, but he did no such thing. "Maintain maximum revolutions," he told Klatz, who could not conceal his concern. Then von Hausen said to me, "Remain in the conning tower, Fleischer, and speak down the tube. The steersman will obey your instructions. You know where we're going. Guide us through the icebergs."

"Yes, sir." The responsibility weighed heavily upon my shoulders. The slightest mistake could result in collision with an underwater hazard, which might spell doom for U-333 and her entire crew. If she sank, we would have to take to the life rafts in sub-zero temperatures. Our chances of survival, this far off the major shipping lanes, were slim. Taking to the water wearing a lifejacket would be pointless; the water was freezing, death would occur within minutes.

A much larger proportion of an iceberg exists underwater than appears on the surface, thus trying to judge the width of these frigid leviathans was far from easy. Often they were so close to each other that I knew they must be touching, but I had no choice but to direct U-333 between them, hoping and praying that I had chosen the optimum course on each occasion. They reared above us like mountains, emitting sounds unlike any I had ever heard before. They groaned, they muttered, they cried out as if in pain, betraying symptoms of the enormous stresses that must exist within their incalculable depths. The observers stared at their alien surroundings, awed by Nature's titanic creations.

By calculating U-333's speed and heading, and taking into account variables such as current and wind direction, I was able to ascertain that we were nearing our destination. I informed the Kapitan of our position when he next visited the conning tower.

"What exactly are we looking for, sir?" I asked.

"Another U-boat," he replied. "Specifically the U-750, commanded by Kapitan Kurt Waldmar. And, an iceberg." Seeing my confused expression, he added, "Not just any iceberg." He peered through his binoculars, then pointed ahead. "Look, look there. See? It is just as Waldmar described it."

Amid the other icebergs floated a freak of Nature, a vast sliver of frozen water shot through with ore deposits, or so I surmised when I beheld it for the first time. The deposits made this iceberg very different from the rest. They formed intricate networks similar to blood vessels I had once seen in an anatomy volume. The effect was really quite striking, and not a little unnerving.

"Sir," I said, "what brought the U-750 this far north?"

"A good question, Fleischer. Although the answer may perplex rather than explain. Waldmar reported sighting what he thought was a British freighter. He ordered pursuit, but no matter how hard he pushed his engines, U-750 could not catch the freighter. Always it remained just out of range, a tantalizing enigma. Waldmar should have broken off and returned to his patrol pattern, but for reasons unknown to anyone but himself, he continued to chase the freighter.

"It vanished, according to Waldmar's radio reports, two days after it was first sighted. By then U-750 had passed into the ice field. Accurate navigation became impossible. Waldmar's compass gave conflicting readings. He could not even take a fix on the sun because of dense cloud. To compound this, his radio developed a fault—Waldmar could not receive incoming radio signals. He had no way of knowing whether his own messages transmitted successfully, but he continued to send anyway."

Our vessel emerged from between two icebergs, and I called a course correction to the steersman that took us around another floating city of ice and closer to that which we sought. As we rounded this iceberg, we came within sight of the scarlet-veined oddity.

"This is the very last thing Waldmar reported," von Hausen said. "Radio traffic ceased after he described the iceberg."

Leaving me to ponder this, von Hausen ordered quarter revolutions, which gave U-333 a steady three knots. The waters were calm, strangely so. We sailed across a sheet of glass and approached the iceberg. As we did so it towered above us, growing in apparent size and mass. My neck ached from looking up, but I could not stop myself from staring at the unusual strata. The light played tricks, causing shadows to shift inside the ice. It took on the appearance of a living organism, pulsating with life.

Von Hausen ordered all-stop when we came within 200 yards. The dull pulse of our diesel engines faded and died. Our momentum took us closer. Full right rudder altered our course so we came to drift alongside the iceberg. Oberleutnant Klatz let out a cry, and pointed. We followed the direction of his outstretched finger. There, visible around the curve of the iceberg, was the stern of a U-boat!

"Chief Engineer," Kapitan von Hausen called down the tube. "Slow revolutions."

The engines turned over again and U-333 edged forward. U-750 floated motionless in the iceberg's shadow. Von Hausen lifted his funnel to his mouth and shouted across the shortening distance between the two vessels, asking if anyone could hear him. When no answer was forthcoming, he ordered grappling hooks fetched from below.

"Oberleutnant, a boarding party," von Hausen said.

Klatz selected two of his crew, men he obviously knew—and then, to my surprise, he placed his hand upon my shoulder. A sense of elation accompanied me as I followed him down the ladder and onto the forward deck. Klatz expertly threw the grappling hooks. We pulled on the ropes, slowly bringing U-333 alongside her sister ship. Klatz was first aboard. He leapt the gap, then made his way to the conning tower. The other two crewmen went after him without hesitation, displaying the casual nonchalance of sailors who had lived and worked aboard ships their entire lives. How I envied them their confidence! They climbed into the tower after Klatz. Von Hausen was watching me. I steeled myself, and jumped. My boots slipped on U-750's icy deck, a heart-stopping moment, but I regained my balance and did not fall in.

As Klatz and the others had already gone below, and were unlikely to need me, I decided to go forward, allowing intuition to lead me past the deck gun, to the escape hatch located behind the torpedo room. The hatch lay open, allowing me to peer down into the empty escape compartment. Looking further forward, I realized that U-750's bows were touching the iceberg. Where they touched there was an opening of sorts, a fissure in the otherwise smooth surface.

I returned to the vicinity of the conning tower, cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted my findings to von Hausen.

Less than five minutes later we stood gathered upon U-750's forward deck: Kapitan von Hausen, Oberleutnant Klatz, the two sailors and myself. Klatz went forward to inspect the opening. He leaned forward, looking into the fissure. When he rejoined us, his expression conveyed his amazement.

"It is a passageway," he said. "It penetrates the iceberg a considerable distance. Sir, could Kapitan Waldmar and his crew have gone this way?"

Von Hausen pondered this quite unexpected suggestion. Klatz had already reported that U-750 was quite deserted; there was no sign of her kapitan or her crew. All life rafts were in place, all lifejackets were accounted for. The lights were working, which suggested U-750 still had sufficient battery power to start her engines and leave the area. And yet here she was, lying in calm waters alongside this most unusual iceberg. Logic provided no explanation.

"You really think we will find Kurt Waldmar and his men in there?" von Hausen asked. Klatz did not reply. Like the rest of us, he simply waited for von Hausen to make his mind up. "Very well. You," he indicated one of the sailors, "return to the ship and inform the watch officer." I watched the sailor depart with a sense of envy. Was I the only one who perceived the sense of menace that radiated from within the iceberg?

With reluctance, it seemed, von Hausen allowed Klatz to jump into the fissure. Von Hausen, myself and the sailor followed. No one asked the obvious questions: had Waldmar's crew actually created the passageway? Why would they do such a thing? And if they did not—then who did? What had driven Waldmar to embark upon this mission of exploration? Curiosity? Or had he also sensed the malevolence that pressed down upon me as I moved deeper into the iceberg? Von Hausen and Klatz voiced no similar feeling, and the sailor behind me seemed more concerned with keeping his balance upon the smooth ice floor than with such idle thoughts.

"Up ahead," Klatz called back to us. "An opening."

Moments later we four found ourselves standing on a shelf of sorts, looking down upon as odd a scene as could ever have been devised by any demented artist. The passageway gave access to a chamber as large as a cathedral hall, cut out of the ice. There were other openings, above and below and on the wall opposite our position.

"Heaven have mercy upon us," von Hausen said. I could well understand why he uttered these words as a kind of prayer. The floor below held a curious fascination for all of us. At first glance one might easily have mistaken it for a natural geometric pattern, such is often created by swirling current passing over sand. Closer inspection, however, revealed that the bizarre mosaic was created by the placement of fifty-seven bodies in a sequence of two circles, one within the other, their feet all pointing toward the hypothetical center of the circle. We had found the crew of the U-750, although not as we had hoped. The temperature inside the iceberg was well below freezing. These men could not possibly still be alive, as they were each covered in a heavy layer of frost that obscured every inch of their flesh.

"What the devil is that?" Klatz said.

From out of another of the openings crawled a creature of the deep ocean, a squidlike thing that pulled itself into the chamber using its tentacles. It stopped at once and regarded us balefully with a huge eyeball. By comparing it with the frozen bodies laid out in circles, I estimated its length to be six feet, half of which was taken up by thick tentacles. Its bulbous head might well house a large brain. I say this because I sensed the intelligence that radiated across the distance between us, an almost tangible energy that swept over me like a chill wind. The thing was studying us, that much was obvious. I did not know what reaction our presence might provoke, if any, but I could not guess that it would push itself up using its lower tentacles, and open its upper tentacles in a fan to reveal a cavernous mouth equipped with a huge beak. The beak opened and as alien a sound as ever assaulted the ears of men burst forth: "AA-KAA-KEE!" it shrieked, over and over, so loudly that I clapped my hands over my ears. "AA-KAA-KEE!" it cried again, and with this, shadows stirred in many of the other openings, shadows that suggested others of its strange ilk had been alerted by the warning.

"We must return to the U-333," Klatz said. "Sir!" He shook von Hausen roughly by the shoulder. "We must return to the submarine!"

Von Hausen stirred from his shock. "Yes," he said. "Yes, get out of here."

The sailor needed no second telling, he turned and hurried back along the passageway with considerably more speed than he had come in. Klatz was about to push von Hausen after the sailor when he looked past me screamed in horror, forcing me, against my will, to glance back over my shoulder and witness that which transpired.

The squidlike creature had approached the nearest human body. Its tentacles played over the frost-covered form, gradually revealing the flesh beneath. And then, its eye closed, the creature shuffled forward over the top half of the body, so that head, shoulders, chest and upper arms disappeared beneath its tentacles.

I could not imagine a more horrid fate and was thankful that the crewman must already be dead. But events had not yet played to their conclusion. The squidlike creature shuddered, and wrapped its thick arms around the torso. At the same time, the crewman's legs twitched. The crewman, his top half engulfed by the creature, sat up! He rocked forward, his knees bending and then straightening, pushing him into an upright position. He stood, his captured body supporting his own weight plus the weight of the thing that rode him.

"God in Heaven," von Hausen whispered.

The frightful transformation complete, the huge eye opened again. The creature—now half man, half squid—took a hesitant step toward us. Then another. The creature was gaining mastery of its human carriage, forcing the legs to work. And now I saw how a ramp gave access to the shelf, allowing the creature to reach us. I might easily have stood there, transfixed by this ghastly impossibility, had Klatz not screamed again. Von Hausen and I grabbed hold of him and together we plunged back along the passageway. I held onto Klatz the entire journey, and managed to stop us both before we tumbled out of the fissure and missed the U-750's bows. Von Hausen and the sailor helped us to climb out without mishap. From behind us, from the chill chamber at the end of the passageway, came that dreaded noise, repeated over and over again. We hurried to the base of the conning tower. Klatz was in a terrible state, rambling incoherently—or worse, silently mouthing a sound composed of three syllables. His wide eyes and fluttering hands indicated how the sight of the squid creature possessing the crewman had affected him. How I succeeded in retaining my sanity when presented with the same horror, was beyond explanation.

"We must get the Oberleutnant back aboard U-333," von Hausen said, but his expression betrayed his uncertainty. We could not leap the gap between the U-boats burdened with Klatz. And time, as the increasing volume of those inhuman voices indicated, was clearly of the essence. They were coming after us. We could not wait for a gangplank to be maneuvered into place.

"You must go, sir," I said. "I shall remain aboard U-750 with the Oberleutnant."

Von Hausen stared at me, perhaps surprised by my willingness to face the creatures alone. Had he asked, I would have told him that my oath of loyalty to the German Navy and to the U-333 motivated my actions. He hesitated, but then made the only decision he could make: "Very well. Thank you, Leutnant Fleischer. Is there anything—?"

"I should be obliged, sir, if my diary and the poems therein are delivered to my fiancé. Her name and address are contained within the book."

"I'll see to it," he promised. He turned away and leapt for U-333's deck. The relieved sailor quickly cut the grappling ropes with his knife and went after him. They swarmed into the conning tower, from where von Hausen bellowed orders. U-333 reversed away, leaving Oberleutnant Klatz and I to our fate.

We took refuge in U-750's forward escape compartment, the only place I could think of to hide in. Lowering the weeping and utterly helpless Klatz into the space proved a struggle, but I managed this task with seconds to spare. As I reached up and pulled the escape hatch down, I saw movement at the fissure opening. The creature we had seen came into view, using the crewman as transport. It paused there for a moment, then toppled forward into the water. Another appeared, and did the same. Then another. I kept the escape hatch open just a fraction, as much for Klatz as to maintain a view of what was happening. The creatures tumbled from the opening, a veritable avalanche of slithering tentacles merged with human flesh. I turned my head to see where they were going. With single-minded purpose, they swam in pursuit of U-333. I could not see what became of the crewmen, but imagined they might have been abandoned as soon as they hit the water. If they were still alive then they would freeze, or drown, or both.

I heard the report of a rifle. Then a revolver fired six times in rapid succession. Von Hausen and my shipmates were giving a good account of themselves! Twice more, a rifle discharged. Then, silence. A silence broken only by footsteps upon the deck of the U-750.

I stared through the tiny gap between hatch and seal, at the feet of a sailor who no longer possessed control of his own body and limbs. I could not see higher than his waist, for which I was grateful. Truthfully, I had not expected to elude capture, or death. I had no desire to die and much desire to live, to return to Dorfund, to my Brigitte. I closed my eyes and saw her clearly. The footsteps stopped. I tensed, expecting the creature to wrench the hatch open and drag me out, along with Klatz. Instead, the footsteps receded, moving back toward the scarlet-veined iceberg.

We huddled together in the escape compartment for another ten minutes, shivering with the cold, before I dared move a voluntary muscle. I opened the inner hatch and made my way through the U-boat's corridors, past its empty, haunted cabins. I climbed into the conning tower and peered over the side. From my vantage point I could see U-333. She had stopped quarter of a mile away and was drifting without power. Her conning tower and decks were devoid of life. I looked toward the fissure in time to see the last of U-333's crew dragged out of the sea and up the angled passageway, into the heart of that darkest of icebergs. It might have been von Hausen; I cannot say for certain.

We had U-750 all to ourselves. I put Klatz to bed after forcing him to drink several cups of hot coffee to bring up his body temperature, and wrapped him in blankets. He awoke late the next day, less manic but still only a shadow of his former self. He accepted more coffee, and a plate of stew I had found in the pitifully small kitchen.

"What are we to do, Fleischer?" he said, almost whispering the words.

"We can stay here and die, sir," I replied, "or we can sail this U-boat back to Germany, if it is possible for only two men to do so. The fuel tanks are one-third full, and we have battery power."

I am convinced that no other sailor in the entire German Navy could have done what Klatz did. His intimate knowledge of every aspect of the U-boat allowed us to start the engines and move away from the iceberg before the squid creatures could organize a pursuit. I helped him wherever and whenever I could, and charted a course that took us south of the Arctic Circle, into warmer waters where no icebergs could exist for long. It was there that Klatz died, an old man, his hair turned white and his eyes filled with a terror too great for words.

Alone, I could do very little. The engines stopped some hours after Klatz expired, and I could not restart them. U-750 drifted for two days, punished by high seas, then a Swedish cargo ship saw the white flag I had tied to the radio mast and stopped to pick me up. Before I climbed up the rope ladder that took me to safety, I opened the forward and aft escape hatches. When I looked back, U-750's bows were already under water.

My rescuers delivered me to the Swedish authorities, who turned me over to the German consulate. It was only a matter of time before I returned to Dorfund, where I saw my Brigitte briefly and affirmed our love before senior officers from the Kreigsmarine questioned me regarding the fate of the U-333 and Kapitan Waldmar's U-750. When I told them of the iceberg, and of the creatures we saw, they said nothing. Perhaps they thought me mad; perhaps I was. They ordered me to take a long convalescence in the military hospital outside Messengart. There I saw out the war, playing chess with limbless patients who wondered why someone as healthy as I was not permitted to return to combat. I could have told them, but they would not have believed me either. As for myself, I was far from the sea, and that was all that ever mattered.

The End

Fiction Feature: THE LURKER

2008-01-26T18:20:00.000Z

This little ditty from circa 2001 kinda slipped through the cracks, it got accepted and unless my memory chip has crashed I received a princely sum that allowed me to purchase fries with my burger, but I never heard from ye editor again.

THE LURKER
She's got style. She replies to just about every message, posting funny one-liners or longer, common sense opinions whenever there's any hint of disagreement or argument. When newbies arrive and ask questions she acts as generous hostess, welcoming them to the forum and showing them the ropes. She starts them talking and makes them feel special. They come back because they know she's there, waiting to entertain, make jokes, tell stories. She's a cross between Grandpa Walton and Joan Rivers. Homespun wisdom delivered with chainsaw wit.

After a while I begin searching for her userid every time I go online, knowing she'll be at the root of any interesting message thread. Whenever the conversational ball begins to lose its bounce, she hits it again. She has a growing number of online friends who seek her company, sycophants who kiss up to her and enjoy being publicly shredded when they—deliberately—step out of line. Men in their forties and fifties mostly, life's at home's gone stale so they come here instead. This is a poor substitute for chatting up hookers in bars, but it's less expensive, and it's legal.

She never gives her age but it's assumed she's mature. Her command of the language says so. She knows lots of things. She can name all six lead characters in Friends, but also knows Mr. Ed talked to Wilbur. She remembers seeing Neil Armstrong stepping onto the Moon, but she can't remember Kennedy's assassination. She refers to her husband as her "significant other" but never calls him by name. Is there a husband? She's online every day and night. If he exists, he has his own interests.

She only signs her messages with her first name, never her surname. Her userid doesn't hint what her surname might be. When someone happens to mention what state he's from, she says she's from there too, and asks him if he knows her home town? Further information: she moved away twenty years ago and still gets homesick sometimes.

A first name isn't much to go on, but public databases are made for this kind of thing. I know enough to hack past the dumb user interface and go direct to an SQL command line. First name, home town, born between 1957 and 1963. There are forty matches, sorted alphabetically. I touch the screen, my fingertips lingering upon each name. Which one is she, I wonder? And how can I tell where she lives now?

Some weeks later, she tells one of her buddies she'll be offline for a couple of days. She's going to visit her sister for the weekend. She names the town where her sister lives. Long journey? he asks. She jokingly gives an exact mileage. Oh, very clever—she must have geography map software with a measurement tool. I kick up mine and zoom on the town where her sister lives, click on it, then move the mouse so the mileage ruler stretches to the exact distance she quoted. I make sure the number remains constant as I move the mouse in a wide circle, causing the ruler to sweep like the second hand of a watch. I must be very careful. Can't afford to make any mistakes.

Bingo. There are two candidate-towns, both the exact same distance from the town where her sister lives, one lying due south, one to the northwest. Wait, didn't she say she was going upstate to visit her sister? I scroll back to the message. Yup, that's what she said. She's heading north, which means she currently lives in the town to the south.

I double-click on her town and study the street map, my lips silently forming the names. Getting a feel for where she lives. There are scanned photographs of the annual carnival and parade, a trap for tourists, and another of the town's famous football stadium. The public database tells me that ninety-six women with her first name live here. I study their names and addresses intently, knowing she's one of them. But which one? How can I find out?

Phone records. Oh, I'm not interested in knowing who paid what, or what their account or credit card numbers are, I'm just interested in the numbers they called. This information resides in a less secure database. I find out the area code of the town her sister stays in. I write an SQL script to query the phone record database, asking which numbers called her sister's area code within the last seven days. She must have been talking to her sister to arrange the visit, right?

Right, and there they are, three telephone numbers alongside three names and addresses.

Two of the three telephones only called her sister's area code once, and they were short calls, neither lasting more than five minutes. The third number called her sister's area code six times, the calls varying in duration from ten minutes to thirty-seven minutes.

Jackpot.

I drive to a payphone across town and call the third number. My hands are trembling, my heart's pounding. She picks up on the fourth ring. I know it's her because her voice is exactly how I'd imagined it would be, silky and smooth, filled with charm and warmth. She likes to like people, and likes them to like her in return.

I want to say something like, "I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number, I hope I haven't inconvenienced you"—just so she'll talk to me, because I so desperately want to talk to her. But the words don't come and I slam the receiver down.

I call in sick to work. Stomach flu, I tell my boss, who doesn't care as long as he gets his monthly check from the employment opportunities people. He'll find someone else to push the mail cart around the office. I take a cab to the airport and buy a plane ticket with my savings. Four hours later and I'm looking down the street where the carnival parade marches every year. I drive my rental car past the football stadium and study the street map I bought at the airport. The town is well laid out and I have no problem finding her home.

She lives in a nice house. Manicured lawn, trees. There are two cars in the driveway, a Honda and a Beemer. Further down her street, there's a house for sale. I find a payphone and call the realtor to make an appointment to view the house. They quote me a time the following day. I tell them it's going to be a cash sale if I like the place, which I already do. Suddenly they have an opening at three that afternoon. I tell them I'll be waiting. I sit in my car outside the house that's for sale, watching her house. If anyone gets suspicious and asks what I'm doing there, I now have an excuse—I'm waiting for the realtor to arrive.

Twenty minutes later, someone comes out the front door. A man wearing a dark blue shirt. I can't see if he's handsome but I'd guess he is. He jogs to the Beemer, gets in, starts the engine. He waves to the woman at the door. She waves back as he drives away. She stands there for a moment, arms folded across her chest, looking up and down the street. As if she's got a sixth sense; as if she knows something's not quite right. I hold my breath, hoping she doesn't see me. Then again, what if she does? She doesn't know who I am, doesn't know what I look like. She turns and goes back inside, closing the door. I start breathing again.

It's time we met. Face to face, not online. I feel like a movie fan on a bus trip through Hollywood, with the guide pointing out who lives in which house. Only today it's different—today I get to meet the movie star. I tie my frizzy hair up and put on the sunglasses and baseball cap I bought at the airport. I get out, take a deep breath, and march right up to her door. Hesitation gets you noticed. Acting like you belong there makes you invisible. I read that in another forum, where an ex-cop was giving advice to people writing crime fiction.

I ring her doorbell and stand there trembling in my tennis shoes. The urge to get back into the rental car and drive away chokes me. Breathing becomes impossible. I feel as if I'm going to faint.

At first she's only a vague shadow at the end of the hall. Then she becomes a person, tall and good-looking, wearing a pink sweatshirt and hip-hugging denims that show off her figure. She's tied her ash blonde hair up with a black silk ribbon. She looks thirty instead of the fortysomething she must be. There's a dog somewhere in the house, barking. She tells it to be quiet. She opens the door and smiles at me, her teeth white and perfect. I wish I could afford her orthodontist.

"Yes?" she says.

I've gone over this moment in my head ten thousand times. I've practiced in front of the mirror, saying the words over and over again. But now we've met and it's different in ways I could never have imagined. She's everything I've ever wanted to be. I would gladly give my soul to become her, to swap lives, to possess her userid and password so I could go online and talk with her friends, reply to their messages, share in their jokes, welcome the newbies, answer their questions, be wonderful and amusing and witty just like she is. I want to tell her how much I want us to be friends forever. No, not just that. I want her to tell people I'm her friend—want her to tell them they should ask me all those questions because I know lots of stuff, if only everyone would give me a chance, if she'd only step back for just a second and let me reply instead of jumping in ahead of me all the time, as if it's my fault I type slowly.

"Can I help you?" she says. Not impatient, not impolite, just curious.

I take off my sunglasses so she can see who I am. She frowns, puzzled, as if she should know me but can't quite remember my name. I want to tell her but I'm more tongue-tied than I've ever been before in my life. It's beyond simple nerves, beyond any speech impediment. My tongue and lips and teeth refuse to work together. The words stick in my throat and refuse to move higher.

Something in my head snaps because I can't articulate all the things I came here to say—and her expression changes. It's as if she's seen something that frightens her. Something in my eyes, maybe. Anger at being unable to communicate using human language at this important moment in our relationship. I want to scream, but I can't.

Her self-assurance drains away, taking the color from her face with it. She takes a step back and tries to close the door but I shoulder it open, hurting my arm. The pain doesn't matter. She retreats as I move into the hallway. And still no words come. She turns and runs as if I'm some kind of danger to her. I limp after her, frightened she'll leave the house by the back door. I have to tell her how much I love her—how much I need her to love me in return and let me share her spotlight. I'll get down on my knees and beg her if necessary. Please, let me be what you are.

She throws the living door open and her stupid little dog runs headlong into her legs, it's so eager to get to me. It doesn't even know it's tripped her up—doesn't look back and see her head hitting a statuette standing just inside the room, a proud African warrior carrying a spear. Splash of crimson. The statuette becomes a casualty, its head and one arm missing.

The dog snarls as it sinks its teeth into my ankle, but plastic doesn't feel pain. I search the house, going from room to room until I find the study where she communicates with the world. I slam the door, trapping the dog outside in the hallway. I don't know if she uses the PC or the laptop so I reformat both, wiping everything. I rip the phone cables out of the wall sockets, cutting her off, denying her online access.

I open the door and the dog runs inside, yapping madly. Before it knows what's happening I'm past it and out, closing the door. The dog goes frantic, barking and clawing. The noise becomes faint as I go back to the living room. She still hasn't moved. I want to believe she'll be okay because I can't bring myself to touch her, any more than I could bring myself to speak to her. I tell myself her husband will be home soon, that he'll call her name and pat her face gently until she opens her eyes.

Outside, I put my sunglasses back on. By the time I reach my rental car my hands have stopped shaking. I drive back to the airport, feeling happy and light-headed. No one who knew me would believe I had the guts to do it, not my boss or my "work colleagues" who snigger behind my back when they think I can't hear. I dismiss them from my thoughts and think about tonight instead. I'd logon as usual, but things would be different. Tonight everyone would talk about the things I want to talk about, and laugh at my jokes, just like it was before she rose above the horizon like the bright morning sun, casting her golden light over my forum and taking my friends away.

I still send her e-mails, asking when she's coming back, but she never replies.

The End

Nostalgia Trip #7: Made In Heaven

2008-01-09T12:49:00.001Z

This is the second of three loosely related Science Fiction stories published by OCEANS OF THE MIND (the first being The Draw). Made In Heaven appeared in Issue IV, June 2002, whose theme was "The Industrial Solar System." Enjoy.

Who would have thought that "Mayday" Merrick would have fallen for Olga Golenko? He the handsome, square-jawed pilot who regularly broke the hearts of sighing young women (it was said), she the formidable assistant cook at Olee's Bar on the edge of Ganymede Spaceport, noted for the perfection of her fried eggs and her ability to balance six beer kegs on her broad shoulders when unloading the quarterly supply transport from Earth.

A less likely match could not possibly have been devised by a thousand AIs generating random word combinations for a thousand Galactic cycles. And yet....

Buddy brought the grim news. He stumbled into the bar, pushed his way through the early afternoon crowd and sprawled across the counter, gasping for breath.

"Mayday's a gonner," he told his avid listeners, after they'd poured two beers down his throat to revive him. "He was flying out to Camp Nineteen on South Plateau. Magstorm came up fast, before he could get out of there." Buddy shook his head sadly and started on his third free beer. "And that was all Mama wrote."

The bar's customers might have commented then, but the same magstorm that had swatted Merrick's supply plane out of the sky hit the Spaceport, sending needles into the red. These murderous storms came two, maybe three times each orbit, when Jupiter's moody and unpredictable magnetic field reached out to slap her satellites hard. Nobody knew why, but the Ganny colonists called such storms Mariah. Staff and customers cowered under the tables as Mariah tried to shake the bar to pieces. The Van Allen defense shield activated, instantly flaring into the high violet. Would it hold? That was the question uppermost in everyone's mind. If the shield overloaded then it was frying time for every electronic component in the Spaceport. AIs, control systems, atmospheric recycling plants, heating units, even airlocks would all cease working. A colony's worst nightmare, and very possibly its death knell.

[End of Excerpt]