A Word from Anthea Sharp

Waterborne is set in my USA Today bestselling world of Feyland, which has been described as “Ready Player One with faeries.” The series combines high-tech computer gaming with ancient faerie lore—though clearly this tale falls more on the Celtic fantasy side of things. You can find out more about Brea, including what happens to her after her transformation, in my book Royal. Discover the entire Feyland series at my website: https://antheasharp.com/the-feyland-series/

I’m delighted to have a story in this anthology, and to be working again with the visionary anthologist Samuel Peralta. If you haven’t already checked out our groundbreaking collaboration, Chronicle Worlds: Feyland, please do! It’s another great project from the Future Chronicles, featuring a dozen stories by some of the top authors in the field, all set in the world of Feyland.

In real life, I dwell in the Pacific Northwest, where I write, hang out in virtual worlds, play the fiddle with my Celtic band Fiddlehead, and spend time with family.

Find out about my books at https://antheasharp.com and join my mailing list to stay on top of all the news and current releases – plus get a bonus free short story when you sign up at http://eepurl.com/1qtFb

Of Bats and Atomic Bombs

by Thomas Robins

PRIDE KILLED MY FATHER.

When I was three years old, my father told me I could have a quarter when I learned to put on my shoes. Weeks went by. I remember screaming every time one of my parents took over as I tried to put my shoes on heel first. I wanted to do it and they were keeping me from my quarter.

I got my quarter. Looking back, I doubt I properly earned it, but my mother wanted so badly for the Quarter for Shoes Episode to be over she found a way to give me my prize. I loved the way it looked, the way it cooled my hand when I picked it up, the way my thumbnail went bump-bump-bump when I ran it along the edge.

I took it everywhere. Except when I didn’t. When I found it missing, I’d scream. Luckily for me, my parents had usually remembered to grab it on the way out of the house. At least, I thought it was lucky. My parents thought it was lucky I couldn’t read the date to know I’d been handed a different coin. If I’d discovered the ruse, it would have been the worst treachery I could have imagined. I forgive them, though. I’d have done the same thing in their shoes.

One evening, when I was five, my father drove me a town over to rent a movie from the Video Hut. I ran straight to the kids’ section so I could stake a claim on one of my favorite movies before Dad could decide we should watch something we hadn’t seen two hundred times already. I don’t remember what movie I picked, but I remember pulling the generic brown container from behind the box so I could have it—at least for two nights. My father paid for my rental along with a few other movies. As he got change he asked, “Did you bring your quarter?”

My panicked face told him all he needed to know. He gave me “my” quarter and I pushed it to the bottom of my jeans pocket. Safe. Secure. Mine.

That night, we were heading back home when my father pulled off the street into a closed drive-in burger place. He put the car in park and held his breath as he gripped the steering wheel. I watched him breathe slowly. Deliberately. He put the car back in gear and pulled up to a car-side telephone booth. He dug in his pocket for a moment, then held his hand out. “Give me your quarter.”

“No.” My hand reflexively went into my pocket and put a death grip around my personal artifact.

“Give it here. I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said, straining his words.

“No. It’s mine,” I said.

He looked at me with pleading eyes. “Come on, I’ll get you another one. I need to call your mother.”

“Dad, I earned it. It’s my special quarter and it’s mine.”

He eyed me for a moment more, put the car in gear, and started driving again. I suppose he was heading to the hospital, forty-five minutes away, or at least home to get mother’s opinion before racking up emergency room bills. Twenty minutes after he started driving, we rolled off the road into a corn field. By the time the car stopped rolling, he had stopped breathing. I got out of the car and followed the road until I found a house. We called paramedics, but he was long dead by the time they arrived.

I felt his death was my fault for a long time—that somehow I had killed him by not giving him my prized quarter. I don’t think that anymore. I think pride killed him. He was too proud to pry the quarter out of his self-centered son’s hands. My hands. He was too proud to force it from me so he could make a call to save his life and be in my life for years more. His pride killed him. My life became marginally easier when I figured out my father’s death was his fault, not mine.

That’s how my father died. At least, that is the story I tell myself. And the one I tell others. It’s a sad story, one that gets me sympathy, or at least pity for the death of my dad.

The problem is, I lied about two things.

The fateful drive home didn’t happen the same night as the trip to the Video Hut. Dad had his heart attack when I was twelve. I was nearly a teenager when I held back twenty-five cents and my father died for it. So yeah, I blamed myself for months, until I realized he was the adult, and he should have found a way to take take the coin from me. But I don’t want people to think badly of me, so I lie.

The other thing I lied about: my father didn’t die of pride, he died of cowardice. He was too much of a coward to hit me across the jaw and take what he needed to survive.

A year after his death, Mom and I stood by his gravestone. The dirt covering his grave had green grass growing on it, but the dent in the ground showed the burial was more recent than the plots around it. That’s the first time I told my mom, told anyone, about the quarter, and about the stop at a phone booth; no one else knew about that but me.

I was thirteen and staring at my father’s grave the only time I said it out loud. “Dad died because he was a coward.” I shouldn’t have expected her to understand. I did. She didn’t.

“Let’s go,” was all she said. We got in the car and my mother whipped out of the cemetery. It was mad driving. Sharp turns. My seat pushed my back as she accelerated and my seatbelt pressed into my chest as she braked. I expected to be grounded forever. In a way, that’s what happened. She dropped me off at the county sheriff’s station. I heard the word “abandonment” and “neglect” a lot the next few days. I never saw her again.

I was in a temporary bedroom while my social worker met with my pseudo-parents in the kitchen. I pressed my ear against the air vent to hear their conversation. Turns out I was “free for adoption” because my mother “signed her rights away.” I also heard clearly when the foster parents said they were not interested in adopting someone my age. It was the same with the next family, and the next. And the next. They were all nice people, but the social worker’s quest to get me adopted had me passed around more than if she’d just accepted that no one would want an abandoned teenager.

Almost no one. I did find a place while in one of many mandatory meetings with the school counselor. He kept pressing me to go to college, said my grades were good enough for a tech school. All the brochures had kids walking on campus in their designer clothes and designer smiles. It wasn’t me.

Out of obstinance, I grabbed some pamphlets that looked like they'd been purposefully pushed to the back of the display. I held one up to Mr. Rodriguez. “I want to join the military,” I told him.

“You? The military? No, you don’t want that. They’d tear you down until anything that is you is gone, so they can build you into something else.”

I’d suggested the military to get under his skin, but his response was the most beautiful poetry I’d ever heard. To be torn apart from my life and built as a new person, free of my past, is exactly what I wanted.

They didn’t change me, though. I wanted them to. I wanted boot camp to take me apart piece by piece and reassemble another person in my place. Instead, I took the test. I signed the forms. I went to recruit training. They couldn’t push me enough. Penalize me enough. Punish me enough to wash off the lingering guilt of losing my dad. And my mom.

The end of training was near, and all the shaved heads were excited for a little R&R before being sent on assignment. I had nowhere to go. I asked for a meeting with Sergeant Phillips.

“How ‘bout I take my leave here and clean the place up for the next newbs? I’ll work for my food, I promise.” Truth is, I had no idea what I would do if he said no.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a faded green file folder. A stack of labels, layer over layer, was at the top. Each layer held the name of a new recruit who had come through this camp before me—all except the top label. The name on the top position was my own. SANDERS, TRENT. He flipped it open and started reciting my history as if I didn’t know it.

“Father dead at twelve. Mother abandoned you. Played the foster game but never got a home. Not bright. Not dumb. Nowhere to go, and even if you went, no one to miss you.” He peered up at me and said, “We have a name for people like you, son.”

“Loser?”

“Expendable.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That too.”

“You can stay put until you’re assigned, but I’m sending your name to our experimental division. They like people like you, people no one would miss.”

There was nothing unfriendly in his offer, he was just stating a fact about my life. In turn, I answered with my own truth. “No one will.”

Two weeks later I found myself in a room with eleven other guys. All of us were too young to sense the danger incumbent with the three-inch stack of paperwork we were signing. Too young to realize that asking us to change into dressing gowns before giving us the paperwork made us vulnerable, made us think giving ourselves over to be lab mice was a forgone conclusion. Made the paperwork a technicality to get through as quickly as possible.

It’s funny that, as a child, I didn’t know the value of money. I would have given up a dollar bill for two pennies because two things are better than one. With experience, buying and selling, earning and budgeting, we learn to respect money in a way we couldn’t as children. Time is the same. When we’ve lived long enough, we grow to understand how precious life is. We watch people grow old, struggle against inevitability, and die. In turn, we start to tend to the limited gift of time we have left. Sitting in that room, each of us signed away the majority of our lives with a stroke of a pen because we weren’t old enough to know better.

I lied about something else: It’s not funny at all.

One by one we went into a small exam room. “We’re going to start with a physical,” Nurse Gretchen said, and started poking and prodding in all the places you don’t want to be poked and prodded. I can’t tell you the number of physicals I’d had in the previous six months so it was nothing new.

“You look good,” she finally said.

“Thanks,” I replied. She gave a courtesy smirk at the joke and started writing in a file.

“Not even a laugh? Guess I need to be worried about what you guys are going to do to me.”

This time, I didn’t even get a smirk. She kept writing in a crisp, new file. My name was clearly written on the original manila tab. The outside of the file had been custom imprinted too.

DRJ

Project #12

Before I continue, I want you to imagine that in the next hour you will suddenly lose something precious to you. Something like your sight, or your hearing. Perhaps a loved one you thought in good health suddenly passes away. Perhaps you can even imagine this from experience. If you knew this life-changing thing was about to happen, you’d be doing something entirely different right now. But you don’t know, and there’s the rub. In a few years, you’ll look back to the time in your life the event happened and you can color it with all the emotions of your loss, but the truth is, until the second it happens, you have no idea the rest of your life is about to change and become irrevocably shaded by your new reality.

So when I tell you about the singular moment that changed my life, forgive me if I am more emotional than you about it. I can pinpoint the moment my life was changed, and I feel sick when I remember it. I wince when I think of it, and many times I will go into a full-blown panic attack as I replay the event in my mind. My reaction is because I know, I know, if I had gotten up and left a second earlier, things would be different now.

It was an injection. A simple needle of fluid pushed into my veins like so many inoculations I’d had before. Only this one contained the juice that would change me, change all twelve of us.

“You can put your clothes on. See you in a few days,” Gretchen told me. So easy. So nonchalant. I did as she said and wondered what would happen now. Truth is, nothing happened that day. Or the next. Or the next. All of us thought it was a pretty sweet gig; we got to work out, watch TV, and get a paycheck just for getting physicals every few days.

Six months into the routine, things changed. We were all called to attention. A young wild-eyed man in a lab coat walked in front of us for inspection. He paused for ten minutes before each of us, but never checked our uniforms. He only looked at our faces, stared into our eyes. When he reached the end of the row, he gave his instructions.

“Let’s start with number five. He’s the biggest,” the man said.

“Yes, Dr. Jupiter,” the nurse replied, and started scribbling on a legal pad.

I could count. I was the fifth one in line.

“Trent, please come with me. Everyone else is relieved,” Nurse Gretchen announced, not appreciating how true her words were.

We made our way through a hallway filled with doors marked DRJ Restricted. Each had a number, and we stopped at door eight. Dr. Jupiter typed a long string of numbers into a security lock, at least twenty digits long, and we walked in. It looked like a full university laboratory had been crammed into one room. There was a window showing a darkened room and a door to the left. The door was steel and the window had metal laced through it.

“What’s that for?” I said. I wasn’t sure what bothered me more—having the secure room next to us, or that the reinforced glass had an obvious crack winding its way from top to bottom.

“We never know the side effects,” the doctor said without looking at me.

“It’s to keep you safe in case you have a negative reaction,” Gretchen added, failing to soften Dr. Jupiter’s own answer with her own. She then pulled a rubber tube around my arm and drew a vial of blood.

“What is this, Doc?” I said, being so used to blood draws that the needle itself didn’t bother me. He ignored my question entirely.

“What are you waiting for?” Dr. Jupiter said at me, yet not to me. He picked up a scope and started looking all over my face, my chest, my arms. For what, I didn’t know.

“Tell me, number five, have you ever had pets?”

“Name’s Trent, Doc. I had a cat.”

“Tell me about your cat,” he said.

“His name was Tony. Black and white tabby. He was at one of the foster homes. Only lived there a year, but Tony sat on my feet and purred from the first night I was there until I left. Had a heck of a time fallin’ asleep without him after I moved.”

Dr. Jupiter began dictating.

“No signs of activation or conversion. Subject describes emotional detail of feline encounter with no effect. Will attempt direct influence to prompt activation through a series of stimuli. We will begin with auditory stimulation.” Gretchen scribbled his thoughts in my folder.

The doctor stood up stiffly and walked to a stool sitting by a computer. The nurse took my arm and led me to that ominous steel door, and her touch startled me. In the six months I’d been at the facility, Gretchen had been all business, which made it all the more surprising when she gave me a hug. She whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget who you are.” It was so unexpected I didn’t fully process what she had said until I was on the other side of the door, in a reinforced room. The concrete walls and steel ceiling wasn’t the strangest part, either. As the lights warmed up in the room, I could see it was full of fake trees, ropes, and what looked like a fresh bunch of bananas.

I went to the window, about to yell my questions to Gretchen when the assault began. Think of the loudest concert you’ve ever been to. Now imagine your seat was directly in front of a speaker at that concert. Also, you decide to go ahead and put your ear next to that speaker. That’s the volume of the noise that assaulted me, only it wasn’t music or static. It was gorillas. Gorillas talking, arguing, fighting, and doing whatever it was gorillas do. I pushed my hands against my ears, but to no avail.

Then the hunger began. And the hunger was worse than the pain my ears were enduring. I ran to the bananas, the only food in sight, and began shoving them, peels and all, down my throat as fast as I could. I’d gone through at least two dozen when a chute opened from a higher wall and more fruit poured into a large bowl set into the wall. I had to climb for my next meal. But the incessant noise was unrelenting—I could hear distinctly a dominant male challenging me in the audio feed. I had to keep reminding myself it was just a recording. I reached high to grab at a manufactured branch for the climb to the food, and my forearm skin tore so violently I could hear it rip.

I pulled my arm back to hold it together only to find my skin had grown back gray and thick, around a muscle more massive than I’d ever had. Between the hunger, the noise, and the pain, I screamed with a guttural agony that echoed off the walls and threatened to bend them to my will. With my new arm, I pulled myself up to the fruit bowl in two easy swings and ate between the pain as each of my extremities ripped apart and healed again. The last thing that changed was my head, but even as I felt my skull breaking, I knew there was a male challenging me and that keeping my position in the herd was the utmost priority. I swung around the room until I was satisfied the male was not in the room with me. I stood in front of the window and beat my chest in warning, then beat the glass, adding lines to the already damaged pane.

The noise stopped and I paced the room, trying to figure out how I had gotten there. And how I would get out.

“Number five, can you understand me?” the doctor said from behind the glass. I had a vague idea of what he meant but it was inconsequential to my own problems: how to get out, or at least how to get more food. Where to rest if I was tired. How to keep from being ambushed by the male that I’d heard earlier. I wandered off from the window.

“Number five, if you climb up to the bowl, I will allow more food to be passed into it.”

I didn’t acknowledge the demand, but I did obey, finding myself at the bowl quickly. The food came quickly as well.

“Number five, if you do not clap six times, I will turn the noise back on.”

I grunted loudly at the threat. Then I clapped, concentrating as I counted. One, two, three, four, five, six.

“Very good, number five. You may return to being a human now.”

The words seemed strange to me, but burned my soul. With the room calm and the hunger gone, I perseverated on the idea of being something other than the animal I was. My memories cascaded on top of each other until I was so lost in thought that I lost my grip and fell to the floor. I caught myself with my massive new muscles, but as I considered those arms, they started constricting, tightening around my bone like a vice. I grunted in pain and then I began vomiting, shedding, sweating, and… let's just say I was excreting in ways you don’t even know are possible.

When the agony finally stopped, I was exhausted, prone, and staring at the floor. Gretchen was in the room with a towel and supported me all the way back to the lab. She tried to clean me up, but I was a putrid mess.

“Excellent!” It was the first emotion Dr. Jupiter had shown. “First successful conversion and reconversion trial.”

I managed to gasp out a question. “First?”

Gretchen patted my hair dry with a clean towel. “He means he’s glad you're you again.”

“Gretchen, leave number five alone and take notes.” She dutifully put down the towel and picked up my folder.

“Subject appears to have successfully morphed into species Gorilla beringei graueri without becoming disabled or deceased by the disfigurement. Subject showed ability to follow simple commands and maintained basic knowledge learned before conversion. Subject was able to convert back to Homo sapiens by his own volition. Will continue with other subjects to replicate results.”

I slept for two days.

Everyone had a turn. All twelve of us survived. Then the doctor left and it was back to spending all our time doing nothing again for months. One of us, Rufus, cracked. He said it wasn’t natural, that God would punish the world for what we had done. He left in a padded wagon.

What do a bunch of military people do in a situation like we were in? We speculate.

“Anyone figure out what the U.S. government is going to do with an ape army yet?” I asked.

Jerry was a thin teenager who was mostly bald but shaved his head every day to give the appearance he was bald by choice. He answered me first. “Yeah, gorillas are stronger and weigh, what, a ton? Imagine going hand-to-hand with one. Ya wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Robin was the thinker. I was never sure why he was picked for this project. “When’s the last time there was hand-to-hand combat, Jerry? It’s not for that. And they only weigh three to four hundred pounds.”

“Maybe it’s for a medical application.” Diego was our team’s Pollyanna. “I mean, if they can make our bodies make changes like this, they can make a diseased dude well again, right? Or maybe grow back a lost limb?”

“I wish that were it, but they wouldn’t have done the testing on us, would they? They’d go grab a bunch of injured guys,” Robin answered.

“Then tell us, O Great One, what do you think we’re doing here?” Jerry asked.

“Covert ops,” Robin replied.

I scoffed. “Nah, dude, apes ain’t covert.”

“I’m serious. If they can make us gorillas, they are probably working on making us other animals. Imagine putting a unit at a compound as an animal that the enemy sees every day. Once inside, although our brains may be scrambled, we can do simple things like put a surveillance device somewhere, or we can change back into humans and do a complicated mission.”

“That wouldn’t work,” Jerry said. “I don’t care where you are from, you ain’t letting a gorilla near you.”

“Other animals, Jerry,” Robin argued back. “You can’t shoot every dog, cat, and bird you see outside your base. You’d end up insane trying to protect yourself from wildlife, if you even knew about this program, and chances are you wouldn’t know.”

Turns out Robin was right. We started pairing up in the room we started calling the Changing Room. I’ll be honest, as gorillas we fought each other a lot before the little part of us that remained human pieced together we were friendlies. After that, we could accomplish basic logic tasks together. Eventually, we were placed in larger groups. It took months to perfect, but we managed some complicated maneuvers as a unit. That’s when Dr. Jupiter finally graced us with a return trip.

“They are successfully working together as a team,” Gretchen said as we stood for inspection. As humans.

“Good,” Dr. Jupiter said while he inspected the tears and scars we’d grown used to over the past year. “What about the munitions task?”

“They are able to move the components of a rifle and successfully assemble it while still in changed form,” the nurse reported.

“And they can hit a target?” he asked.

“That was not part of the mission training detail,” Gretchen said.

The doctor turned to the nurse, keeping his ever-straight posture. “You should have expected this is what we were working toward. There are other projects, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One of the projects is showing promise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is not the one.”

“Yes, sir.”

I caught her eye and widened mine in sympathy. I had not been dismissed, so I risked no more than that.

“Take them to the lab and let them try a target.”

“Sir, we need to work up to that,” Gretchen said. “I formally request three months to—”

“Request denied. I am this close to closing down Project Twelve. We have a much more interesting subject to study now. This” —he waved his hand at all of us— “is just a distraction. Convince me otherwise. Take them to the lab.”

If there’s one thing us military types know how to do, it’s follow orders. We went to the lab, and our flesh ripped and our muscles grew while we stuffed our faces with calories and Vicodin to help lessen the pain of transition. The rifle was in pieces, but our animal minds were well trained on how to put it together. After that, the doctor started calling on the speaker. “Now shoot the bowl on the high wall.”

Somewhere in our heads, our human selves were trying to push through, to help us understand the commands, to help us remember how to fire a gun, what this metal stick was for. Robin the Brain, of course, was the first to come through. Better human brains turn into better monkey brains, I suppose. He held the gun against his shoulder, aimed for the bowl on the wall, and placed a shot through an apple peeking out the top.

“Excellent.” The doctor was pleased.

A week later, we found ourselves in a South American rainforest, casually running at twenty miles an hour toward a drug lord’s stronghold. When we got to the outskirts, we assembled our gun, and Robin was able to place a bullet between the eyes of a man who had been terrorizing the locals for years. It was an unofficial mission, but it was proof our little unit was useful, and after all I’d been through in my life, it was nice to be a part of something good.

That’s the story I like to tell myself, because then all the agony and experiments would have had meaning.

But it’s not the truth.

We never went to South America, never had a mission at all. When we were sent into the Changing Room to fire the gun, Robin was the first to remember how a gun worked, or at least remember that he was supposed to pull the trigger. The bullet didn’t go through the apple, though. He remembered the trigger, but not what would happen when it fired. With a bang, Robin was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

After we transitioned back to our human selves, we could hardly believe what had happened. The exhaustion of the conversion kept us from questioning the doctor when he said he wanted to run another test. He took Jerry and put him back in the room. A new audio file was played through the sound system. We couldn't hear it, but soon enough we saw Jerry leaching all his fluids and other unpleasant things as he shrank smaller and smaller. When the ordeal was over, we were looking at an animal no bigger than my head.

“A crow,” I said.

“Yes. A bird is much more useful than a gorilla, don’t you think?” The doctor never turned to address me directly.

“Mr. Windrom, you may return to being a human now.”

Jerry flew to a higher branch in the room and looked around.

“Mr. Windrom, you may return to being a human now.”

Jerry didn’t even cock his head in curiosity at the request. The doctor pulled open the steel door and demanded the bird come down to see him. It never happened. Dr. Jupiter left the room with a furrowed brow. “This project is becoming more and more of a disaster. I’m shutting it down.”

“Sir,” Gretchen said, “I’m sure given some time—”

“I’m shutting it down. That’s final. Project 32, Gretchen. There’s a man out there with real superpowers to study and we’re playing around with incompetent birds.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went into the military to be a part of something after being abandoned and here I was being abandoned again. I don’t even know what word describes my life. Unfortunate? Ironic? Tragic?

Back during World War II, there was a U.S. military program using bats to carry small bombs into hard to reach places before exploding. I saw a documentary on TV about the bat bombs one time. The idea was that a few thousand fires would start up around a target city at the same time. It was an ingenious plan and would have wreaked havoc had it ever been used. You might already know why the program was never used in the war—the atomic bomb. The epitome of destruction on a scale hitherto unthinkable came along, and the bat bombs were nothing in comparison. The program was abandoned.

I was now a bat. Something better had come along for the doctor to study, so my team and I were abandoned. We were sworn to secrecy, given a pension, and released into society, mutilated skin, mental scars, and all. Trust me when I say none of us ever went near a zoo and not just because it was on the agreements we signed on the way out. But here’s what I realized: back when I saw that documentary about the bat bombs, they never said what happened to the bats. Obviously the bats were destined to die in the program had it been successful, so why would the military be motivated to treat them humanely after the program was cancelled? Why would they be motivated to treat me any better?

My pension was a pittance and my scars made me a monster. I hid inside a rental mobile home, but I wasn’t alone. I took Jerry with me. Me, a nobody whose only skill was changing into a gorilla, and a crow who used to be a man. We lived in something one step above a cardboard box. If there’s a joke to be made, I don’t know what it would be.

I think back to that injection and I think of it as a moment that irrevocably defined the rest of my life. But it wasn’t the end. It took a year after leaving the military for my phone to ring. To be honest, I thought it was a wrong number. No one called for me and certainly no one called for Jerry. I let the phone ring until my head hurt before I answered.

“This is Colonel Hindall. We have a breach of security and need to put you on active duty.”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“It’s not a request, son,” the colonel said.

“Look at my file and you’ll know you have no right. None. To ask me to do anything ever again,” I told him.

“What I know is I have one of you freaks out there blabbing about DRJ Project 12 and I’m told he could be a handful to contain. You know him, and you get to retrieve him for us.”

“Not interested. Ask someone else.”

“You’re the only one left.” No affect, just a statement. I love the military brass.

“What do you mean, I’m the only one left?” I asked.

“That’s classified.”

“Of course it is.”

I’ll spare you the threats that were made to get me to comply. I heaped bird food on the table and opened a window before I left. When I showed up for duty without my uniform, wrapped head to toe to cover all my scars, no one said anything. I was handed a duffel bag and put on a cargo plane headed for Africa. On the plane, I was given headphones and directed to a computer station.

My assignment was simple enough. Turns out Diego went to Africa and volunteered at a clinic. At least he adjusted to the outside better than I did. The information contained a static-filled audio clip.

“But what of my soul?” It was Diego.

“Your soul was forfeit the first time you became a monster.” This voice was older, more strained.

“But my work here, it has to mean something, Father,” Diego was pleading.

“Good works don’t earn you a soul. It’s not a prize to be won.” The old man followed up with a scream. At first I thought he’d been stabbed. Then I worked out that Diego was in confession while the priest was dying. A deathbed confession like none other.

I hit the heavy glass screen in frustration. I was being asked to contain an information leak that happened during a confession to a dying priest. If the military had just left Diego alone, their precious information would never get out. After the outburst, I continued reading through the mission, and that’s when I understood why they wanted me. I was to force Diego to change, a one-way conversion that would keep him quiet. They wanted me because I could get close to him, and if successful, would keep the failures of Project Twelve from being disclosed to anyone new.

A day later, I was face to face with the man I was to capture.

“Diego.” I unwrapped my face and arms. He was dressed in a loose shirt and shorts, his disfigurements out for the world to see.

We were in a room. Alone. His own cloth-walled tent of a home. Several men with guns were waiting outside for good measure. They thought I was only there to retrieve a bird. Good soldiers following orders even if they didn’t make sense.

“Trent. I’m surprised you’re still around. I thought everyone had changed.”

I sat down on his cot. “No one’s told me anything. What do you know?”

He remained standing. “First Peter did it, then Antonio. Frankly, I wanted a chance to see if I could do something better with my life, so I came here.”

“Did what? I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Remember Jerry?”

“Yeah, he lives with me. He gets kinda annoying when the sun comes up,” I said.

“He changed into a crow and never changed back. It’s like he got his freedom. Peter took a sound clip of crows and made himself change too. After that, a bunch of the others got together and did it en masse. They wanted me to join ‘em but I decided to do some work at the clinic instead. These people here don’t care what I look like. They’re just happy I’m here to help.”

“How do you know the change was their choice?” I asked.

“What would make you think it wasn’t?” he countered.

“Diego, you talked.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I heard it. Sounded like a confession,” I said.

He sat in the lone chair. “That’s privileged. He was a man of the cloth.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a rope and a pair of headphones. Before Diego could process what had happened I put the rope around his wrists.

He said, “You don’t need to tie me up for this.”

“You know what I’m going to do?” I asked.

“Yeah, and if the brass is willing to track what I say in private all the way out here, I don’t stand a chance. At least I’ll have closure.”

I loosened the rope, placed large padded headphones over his ears and hit play on a cassette player set to maximum volume. I expected him to scream, but he’d lived through changes before.

His form dwindled until a crow sat in the place of a good man. A good man who had finally been given his freedom from a life as dreadful as my own. I wished it could have been me so I could be free, so I could be the one with closure. I guess after so many horrific memories, what’s one more to carry around with me?

I collected the Diego-crow to transport back home and give Jerry some company.

No, I lied again. I promise not to lie anymore.

I couldn’t do it. Diego told me the transformation would give him closure. Closure? Who deserved closure more than me? My whole life was a disaster, and I had a way out in my very own hands. I had to find a way to keep it for myself.

“Diego,” I said, “You’re a better man than me. Let me do this, you walk out of here in my wrap and let me be the crow. I’m willing to give my life up to let you keep searching for your answers.”

Diego paused in thought, and I took the opening to throw my wrappings and my wallet at him and put the headphones on myself. Changing was all the agony I remembered refreshed, but when it was over, I was the crow. Diego had already started wrapping himself in my coverings. I considered myself more deserving of the freedom from my life than Diego, so I took it for myself.

In the end, it was pride that made me do it.

All right, that was one last lie.

A Word from Thomas Robins

I’m going to use this space to admit that I made a huge mistake. When I was invited to participate in this anthology, I didn’t realize there were expectations for shapeshifter stories. I recently heard that shifter stories were supposed to be about romance and teenage angst. So, let me apologize for giving you a story with no romance and a character whose disposition goes way beyond angst.

One of the early readers told me “Of Bats and Atomic Bombs” was a “dark” story. However, I prefer to think of this story as an exploration of changes, both forced and chosen. So many of us live our lives just thinking of the next thing that will complete us: education, status, money, or things. Some people dig deeper and search for relationships, friends, or God. In the end, is it not the belief that happiness can be pursued that causes our unhappiness? At the very least, once a person realizes life is unfair, life becomes much easier.

I am supposed to take a moment to tell you about some of my other works. I’ll suggest two. If you liked “Of Bats and Atomic Bombs” because the protagonist was never likable, then check out Where Dragons Lie. On the other hand, if you like to like your main characters, go read Desperate to Escape.

Oh, and you should know that this is not the first story Doctor Jupiter has made an appearance in. If you want to know where else to find him, feel free to email me at thomasrobinsauthor@gmail.com.

I hope you are enjoying this anthology.

Thomas Robins

www.thomasrobins.com (join the mailing list!)

Breakdown

by Christopher Boore

JACK BANKS GLARED through one crusty eye at the silent alarm clock.

You.

2:30 AM. Cool blue digits were winking back as if to say, "Don't look at me. I didn't do it." The little black plastic box wasn't lying. It was the piece-of-junk first-gen iPhone, sadistically grinning. Email notifications its teeth.

Anxiety washed through Jack like a wave of molten lava. "Again?" he muttered to himself, low enough to not rouse Genny.

Something mechanical had decided to keel over. Instant agitation made Jack's stomach slosh and gurgle like an alien practicing gymnastics in a paddling pool filled with Jell-O. To still the rebellion threatening to overtake his lower GI tract Jack reached over to the nightstand, and in one fluid sweep he grabbed the antacids, flipped the cap open with a thumb, and shook four out, sending them spiraling into his mouth. Returning the calcium crusaders to their post, Jack reached for his phone and swiped it on.

Five missed alarms. The boss man’s gonna flip.

Wondering why he hadn’t yet received an angry phone call, Jack dug further, opening the remote maintenance app, only to delight in the joy of waiting for the sluggish processor to play catch up.

Come on, come on, come on.

Uplink syncing with ISA, flashed in white letters across the black screen. Flashing… Flashing… Flashing…

The hatred for being on-call was strong with this one. A necessary evil that hounded his existence. The pay was great, but at what cost? Jack’s waning sanity? The money earned from catering to his arch nemesis’s tantrums had helped Genny and him fly her folk’s coop. They now had a house of their own, ten minutes from the facility. The quick drive made things a little sweeter, not by much, but it was something. It was just coming up on a year and they had found a comfort that was irreplaceable. They enjoyed a simple life, as people who were one paycheck away from being broke tend to do. No kids yet; Genny had begun the playfully taunting process of hinting that in the near future she may be interested. Poor Jack was more worried about the financial aspects of child rearing and was solid in his decision of waiting a long, long time.

Solid as a slab of granite.

A flashing yellow bar brought his blurry eyes into focus, letting Jack know what he already assumed. The temperamental steam boiler had been patiently waiting for an overdue PM, and patience had run thin. This was the fifth time the bucket of rust had decided to fart out the pilot light and flip him the mechanical finger this week. It was getting old. Jack was just about ready to set a match to the place. Start from scratch. A new building, a new boiler. A man could dream, but the law liked to poke their big fat noses in when things got messy.

If it were summer, the machine made of nightmares could have waited until an appropriate hour. But an abnormal winter had risen to its peak in South Florida. When things are used to being warm and humid all year round, then you plunge them into the dry, frigid grips of hell they get a little testy. The steam boiler was well beyond testy and not planning on making a return trip, possibly ever. There was no point in putting off the inevitable so Jack got out of bed, and by the spectral glow of the phone’s flashlight, slipped a worn pair of Wranglers on over his boxer briefs.

A voice half awake whispered from under the rumpled comforter, “Drive safe.”

“I shouldn’t be long. It’s just that damn boiler again.”

That better be all it is. With a grumpy pout, Jack threw on a shirt and slipped on his untied boots. He grabbed his keys and wallet, pocketed the wireless ball and chain, and headed out the door, making sure to try the lock twice on his way out to the truck. Good ol’ Jack, the self-proclaimed king of doubt.

The ride to the facility was quick, and Genny’s plea for safety flew right out the window. Jack shed new light on the saying pedal to the metal.

The sooner I get there, the sooner I get home.

His hunk of a truck had recently decided it was time for its alternator to die, aiding in the constant struggle to keep Jack’s anxiety at bay. The economy was tight, and not many green-faced paper politicians were heading into research and development. Money only seemed to high-dive willingly into the deep, dirty pockets of capitalist America.

The monetary cutbacks forced Jack to have to charge the truck at home, and he had to drive as fast as possible in the hopes of getting to the building before vehicular suicide took ownership of the night’s center stage, rendering him deserted. Genny’s ride was also up the creek. It had its own share of issues, but was at least slightly more drivable than his rolling junkyard. Machines seemed to have a dire hatred for Jack for being a maintenance man. Every inch of progress toward Campburn was accompanied by a systematic dimming of the headlights. Jack’s only hope was that he’d get to his destination before the inevitable laid claim to his ill-fated, forced venture.

* * *

Campburn BioTech’s metal-halide beams pierced the night. A lighthouse calling a lost sailor home. Jack knew he was okay. Close enough to push the truck now if he had to. Turning into the grounds, he saw an anomaly. Bill Watkins, the Monday-through-Thursday-night security guard, was absent from his post.

It wasn’t alarming, Bill being absent. He was more than likely on rounds. Concern for Bill was minimal, far down the list. Bill had a couple of screws loose and an off-putting lazy eye, which made him seem more off-kilter. Jack was somewhat pleased; he might be able to get in and out before encountering the weirdo. What was strange was that the gate was wide open, sitting back on its tracks. Jack’s spidey-sense was tingling. It would be just his luck that some hippy terrorist in league with PETA had rushed the building and was now attempting to exonerate all the drugged-up critters from their shady future.

Keep the imagination in check Jacky-boy. Stay focused.

He drove the truck through the gate, across the asphalt, and parked near the maintenance shop, out back beside the loading dock.

One boot on the ground, the iPhone pinged and glowed in his pocket. Jack plucked it out. A low-volume alarm on what Jack called the slushy machine. A device Jack didn't know too much about, but what he did know was the half-a-million-buckaroo piece of equipment shouldn't be in alarm. The bio-print lab used the slushy feeder to pump a chemical and vitamin cocktail into 3D printed tissue to keep it alive. But Lab 206 didn't operate after hours. The work was too sensitive and had to be frequently monitored. The slushy machine should be offline.

And the list grows…

After he reset the pilot light and checked out 206, he would hook the truck’s battery up to the Quicky-Charge rapid charger and steal a leftover donut and some top-shelf coffee from the executive fridge. That would at least make the trip tolerable.

Somewhat.

Coffee this early could be disastrous, but a risk worth taking. Jack’s stomach was lined with flower petals, a sensitive mess not to be trifled with. He’d just eat his donut, sip his coffee, wait for the boiler to cycle a couple of times, and bail before Watkins found him.

* * *

After a short detour to close the gate, Jack rerouted and jogged through the cold toward the double doors, one of only two entrances into the fortress, the other on the south side exiting the vivarium out onto the loading dock. His head was swiveling, peering into every shadow, paranoia tap-dancing in stiletto heels across his brain. Rootless imagination was on a romp through his overactive mind. He placed a cold finger to the keypad by the door, and a high-pitched buzz responded. His attempt to enter had been revoked. The pad shrieked an unintelligible electronic insult in Jack’s general direction, then proceeded to let him know his error in a mechanized female British accent.

“Skin temperature too low, please try again.”

Jack huffed warm breath onto his fingertip and placed it again on the LED backlit screen. “Welcome to the Campburn Facility for Bio-Robotic Research. You are authorized to enter, Jack Banks. Please enjoy your visit.”

I’m here every day fixing her up, where’s the “Jack, I’m so happy you’re here, not one of those other wrench-swinging apes. Thank you for coming so fast, I know I’m in good hands now." All these years of going above and beyond and she still treats me like a stranger. My feelings are hurt, ISA.

A magnetic click echoed behind bulletproof glass doors, permitting entry into the pristine, marble-tiled foyer. Jack reached out and grabbed the handle. Pulling the door open, a breath of warmer air escaped, caressing his frigid face like a warm welcome mat.

* * *

Silence greeted Jack, not true silence, but the kind you'd find in a place like Campburn. Random creaks as the temperature changes caused the walls to bow and flex. Water whooshing overhead, racing through cooling valves. The pops and whines of dampers shifting to change air flow. Minuscule details most would overlook. Almost everything was in its place. Almost. No lazy-eyed security guard perched cheerfully behind the desk, waiting for the opportunity to talk someone's ear off at a ridiculous hour. This ridiculous hour.

Has to be on rounds.

Shrugging off the thought, Jack picked up the pace and made his way to the pair of elevators at the end of the pristine atrium. He tapped the button for the service elevator, the one that'd take him where he needed to be. The penthouse, land of mechanical monstrosities. It lit up, confirming his choice. Impatiently waiting for his chariot to arrive, Jack saw something else slightly off. Lab 206's lights were on. Maybe someone had been given authorization. No, that was impossible. They would've had to clear it. Jack hadn't received a memo, and there were no other cars in the parking lot.

Must have had a power blip. First the slushy machine, now the lights. Probably another cheap relay shorted out.

A soft chime echoed off the empty atrium walls, announcing the elevator's arrival. "First things first, then you, 206." Jack groaned to no one. It just keeps getting better.

* * *

The stainless steel doors parted to a dirty and pitted, worn gray floor of concrete.

The hum and drone of motors, purring of air compressors, and the high-pitched whine of a weeping pressure-relief valve all welcomed Jack. A choir of machinery. All awake, all excited to see him. The feeling was miles away from mutual. Out of habit, Jack glanced around to catch any other unseen issues, then weaved his way to the boiler room. The closed safety doors were all that stood in his way to the dormant thief of slumber. Retrieving the keys from his pocket, Jack unlocked and opened the door that stood between him and the steam boiler. There she was, in all her alarming glory. He'd disabled the irritating audible alarm about a year ago. Every time he stood in front of the beast and performed the morning ritual of blowing out the crud, she'd belch and set off in a screaming rage and he'd almost soil his pants. When it came to safety versus sanity, there was no question. Sanity won. The angry red LED glared at him.

What took you so long, Jack? Now I'm cold.

Pressure was at zero, the temp gauge's needle was working its way down to a similar number. It was going to take at least an hour to recover in this weather. He couldn't leave until it cycled. Jack would head home and his rebellious luck would take over, the quirky contraption would go down again. It happened every time.

"Guess it gives me time to check on 206." Way to think positive, Jack.

Jack opened the control cabinet and flicked the reset button. Flame failure, the cause of her dismay. The nocturnal interloper. You better hang in there until tomorrow. If I have to come out again...

The steam boiler clicked to life, and the smell of gas filled the air as the fuel line purged. A change in pitch. Another click. Whoosh. Jack peeked in the sight glass. Flame.

Stay lit. I'll be back.

* * *

The elevator announced its arrival on the second floor with a chipper ping. Jack disembarked and strutted straight for Lab 206.

"All right, Jack, we’re gonna scope this puppy out, hopefully repairs can wait until Monday."

Saying the lights were on was an understatement. The entire lab was lit up like a gaudy house at Christmas. Equipment was hot. Running. It shouldn't be. Intermittent hissing and popping, pressure getting to where it should be and releasing cause it got a little too much. No, no, no. Everything was wrong. Where the hell is Watkins? Passing each switch, Jack began shutting down everything he was comfortable touching. Last thing he needed was to stick his head where it didn't belong and nuke one of the pricy machines. He rounded the lab's first bench and stopped short.

Campburn was lucky enough to have secured a grant to start testing larger, more controversial bio-printing prospects. Last year the facility had acquired a state of the art dual-chambered printer. You could put living tissue into one chamber and recreate it identically, or alter it to the scientist's specific needs in the second using some fancy bio-nano 3D-printing technology. Supposedly it made tissue in minutes, not months or years.

The whole setup was way over Jack's head, but to say he was not intrigued in the slightest would be an outright lie. He'd seen all manner of things being processed in the printer, but nothing could have prepared him for the bleached, man-sized skeleton crunched up in a ball, one arm frozen and stretched out, touching the inside of the plexiglass bubble. Jack flushed. Hot sweat beaded on his brow. Watkins' bones still wore the security guard's outfit. Now quite loosely.

Panic reared its ugly head. Bile rose rapidly.

Jack's mind was reeling. How could this even happen? Don't touch anything. Call 911, you fool. Get it together. Making one final sweep though the lab, Jack was content at least with what he’d turned off. Forgetting the steam, which should have cycled by now, he touched the light switch, plunging the lab into darkness. He turned to exit the lab and found himself nose to nose with his wife.

"Genny, what the hell? You scared me half to death," Jack said, recoiling, hand on his chest. "What are you doing here?" The question went unanswered, and all he got was a blank stare from his wife, who slightly cocked her head to the left, like a dog trying to figure out what he was saying.

“Genny?”

No answer.

"I don't have time for this. I'm ninety-nine percent sure that weirdo guard Watkins is kaput back there in the bio-printer." Jack pointed over his shoulder and brushed his way passed Genny.

"Oh, he's quite dead."

The strange response clicked.

"Wait, what?" Jack stopped, looking at Genny, trying to comprehend what she’d just said.

"How do you think I got here, Jack?"

"I'd imagine by car. What kind of game are you playing?” Internal heat was flaring. Jack reached up and pinched his forehead, squeezing the flesh between finger and thumb in an attempt to quell his mounting anger. "Look, Genn, I don't know what you're up to, but you're not acting like you. Why are you here? Never mind … later … I have to call the cops." Jack walked off, irritation and worry flip-flopping in his head.

"Don't you want to play with me?" Genny's voice came from behind.

Jack picked up the pace. "It's time to go, Genny. Enough already. Your lame joke has worn out its welcome.” He continued on his warpath to the security phone.

This night keeps getting weirder. Never seen Genny act like this. Not even close. She’s the last one I’d ever expect to joke around. It’s not like her. A red flag flew, flapping inside Jack's troubled head. What if … no. Stay focused. You're tired. Need to stop reading before bed.

Jack made the executive decision not to take the elevators this time. With all the strange crap circling tonight, it'd be my luck to spend the rest of the night in an elevator that decided not to reopen. Descending the stairs instead, Jack took in a panoramic view of the atrium. No Genny. Oh, come on.

“GENN?” he called.

Silence.

As Jack's feet hit the tile the facility went black. His eyes were swimming with fading auras, trying to adjust. The intercom barked to life, "I'm hiding, come find me, Jack." She'd gone off the deep end. Only answer. Closing in on the final straw, Jack had just about had enough.

“Screw this, and screw your nonsense game, Genny. I'm out, this is too much,” he said. "As soon as I’ve dealt with the police I'm leaving, Genny. I don't know what's gotten into you, but I'm tired." Maybe she'd hear. Jack walked over to the security desk and grabbed the phone off the base.

No dial tone. "Phones too?" Jack's patience was at its pinnacle. He reached into his pocket to pull out his personal phone. No signal. "Come the hell on!" Enough's enough.

"Genny! This is it … last time … "

Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, Jack spun around. Time to leave. The absurdity of it all had gone on long enough. Jack was even beginning to question whether he'd even seen the skeleton, or Genny for that matter. He'd started taking those new anti-anxiety meds last week. Maybe fatigue mixed with the pills had him sideways.

As he reached for the front door handle he heard a childish giggling behind him, panning from left to right. Footsteps tapping. Jack reluctantly glanced around. Nothing.

I'm losing my mind.

A hand on the door and a sure tug bore a disheartening response. The door wouldn't budge. A tug on the adjoining door left Jack with the same result. Panic kicked down the last traces of rationality and stomped in. Jack grabbed frantically for the other two entrance doors. A loud rattling, aluminum on aluminum, echoed though out the building.

The giggling again.

This time it stopped abruptly, and Jack spun around to see his wife in the midst of a crash course with the ground. Legs outstretched, arms flailing.

WHAM! The side of her face collided with the steel railing. A gut-wrenching crunch sped the scene back up, hauling reality back to the present. Jack swallowed. Genny. All the suspicion flew the coop.

"Genn!" Dark blood was pooling around her head as Jack slid to a stop beside her on his hands and knees.

"Baby…"

Cupping her head and moving it as gently as he could, he saw half of her face still on the tile. Hands covered in blood, Jack was shaking, trying to make sense of it all.

The blood and chunks of flesh and bone shifted. Jack blinked back tears. They shifted again. Jack dropped her head and pounced back in horror. Genny lifted herself up to her hands and knees and turned her head. Staring, she smiled. A crooked but painless smile. The blood and fragments of her face stirred and leapt from the tile like a tornado of gore, melding with the exposed wound, stitching itself back together right before Jack's eyes. That was it, the final straw. Jack backpedaled to his feet and ran back to the front doors. Trying each of them again, hoping for an out. The doors rattled; all were still magnetically locked.

The back door.

The vivarium. The only other exit from the building. Rat town.

Jack hightailed it, feet slipping on the smooth floor. He regained his balance and was off like a rocket. Dread accelerating the pace. Down the receiving hallway, bursting through fire doors without a glance back, Jack skidded to a stop in front of the vivarium. Staring at the airlock—the sanitary barrier between it and the rest of the facility—Jack caught himself, dug in his pocket, and fished out his fob. Swiping the card reader, he felt slight relief as the mag lock de-energized. Click. He was going to get out, call the cops, and … what? Run home? Damn, the car's going to be dead.

"Jack, do you want to play?" The voice from down the hallway was loud, jolting Jack into action. He swiped the fob again. Click. Yanking the door open, he ran into the airlock.

A loud hiss, followed by the gentle mist of sanitary disinfectant showered Jack as he passed through the second set of doors into the vivarium’s utility room. The room hummed as the motion sensors gifted the ballasts in the fluorescent fixtures electrical life. Jack pushed and shoved through racks of cages, all clean and prepped for the next day's use. Rounding the corner past the cage washer and the walk-in autoclave, Jack’s saviors were in sight. The double doors leading out to the loading dock. But quick relief was wasted as he grabbed the door and was met with solid, unmoving steel. Jack growled with frustration, lifted a foot, and kicked the door. His steel-toed boot sang. Rage and fear were both fighting for the emotional pilot seat.

Jack tried to muddle through his thoughts. What the hell was going on? He was resolute in the conclusion that whatever it was out there, it wasn't Genny. He had an idea of what it was, but it still seemed like it was the product of his watching too much SyFy, his brain was running amuck and elevating his suspicions to unrealistic levels. His concentration was running wild. He needed to focus, gather his thoughts, and figure this all out.

Not to mention get out.

Jack needed to see her, try to keep an eye on her until a plan came together. The only plan that was coming to mind was a wicked one.

She had to die.

It was either him or her. Jack couldn't figure out why it … she … whatever, wanted him. Why Genny? That was beside the point. Jack needed out. He felt like he was knee deep in an X-Files episode.

An idea shot off like a firework inside Jack’s head. He could see her if he could log in to one of the vivarium computers. Maintenance could log into the security cameras on any of the PCs in the building via the internal network. All he had to do was punch in the IP address to the facility cameras and bam, he could watch almost everywhere she went.

Might at least buy him some time to figure out a plan.

Jack found the link to the cameras in the shared folder on the network drive.

At least something works.

Tapping the touch screen monitor, he navigated to the page that would give him better insight into what he was dealing with. Get a scope of the playing field. Paranoid that Genny… it… would pop up behind him at any time, his neck was working overtime, constantly looking over his shoulder, awaiting the inevitable encounter.

Tapping the screen, he jumped between cameras. Seeing nothing amiss, he brought up the front door.

The abandoned iPhone, still resting on the floor, lit up. Jack tried to zoom in. No luck, the screen was too small.

Wait...

Whatever the hell it was, Not-Genny, crept into view, bent down, and picked up the phone.

Jack watched her through the feed as she started typing, then paused. The phone lit up again. A response. Not-Genny placed the phone back down on the tile and walked away.

“What are you doing?”

Jack started jumping between feeds, hunting for her again. Gone. She wasn't there, wasn't on any of the cameras. Jack peeked around the corner of the employee lounge, looking back towards the airlock. Not there. Vowing to keep both the entrance to the vivarium and the PC in eyeshot, Jack began running through his options. He thought about the exhaust system. He could easily get into the four-foot-wide galvanized steel ducts. The problem would be when … if … he made it to the end of the line. Stopping the sixty-inch fan blades without any access to the building's automation would be difficult. There was no real way to get past the fan without it cutting him to shreds. A well-tossed wrench, lobbed into the spinning blades, would be the only way, but he'd have to get too close for comfort. Too risky. Shrapnel. Jack mulled over his options and paced back and forth in the hopes of finding a way out.

In the employee lounge, movement on the front door camera link caught his eye. Someone was outside the doors, trying to get in.

“Genny?” he whispered. Jack switched to the parking lot camera. There it was: her car. She was here, there was no doubt.

With a tap and slide of his finger, Jack pulled his view back to the entrance. She was inside, looking down at the phone. Was this his Genny? Or Not-Genny. The clone? That was the only rational explanation. Whatever fed off Watkins in 206 was walking around in Genny's body. He shook his head.

Too much SyFy...

She bent to pick up the phone. Her head shot up. From the angle, Jack couldn't see much but he could see her brow tightly wrinkle. Confusion. She mouthed one word.

Jack?

Genny got to her feet and started to back away. Retreating off camera as a figure walked into view from the other side.

Wait…

It was Jack.

The real Jack, watching from the vivarium kiosk, was sweating. No …

"It's not me, Genny! Run!" His words fell unheard through the PC and camera uplink. The Jack on camera had something in his hand. A pipe. Lifting, he brought it down one, two, three times. The poor visual on the screen hinted at all it needed. Camera-Jack was beating the life out of his wife.

"GENNY!" Jack screamed.

The screen could care less. He ran to the entrance doors of the vivarium, the disinfectant hosing him again, and beat his hands against the glass until his wrists were swollen. "No, no, no." Jack dashed to the kiosk. Not-Genny was now standing in front of the camera, the pipe in one hand. The other hand was knuckle deep in the real Genny's hair, holding her blood-soaked face up. His wife was dead. The imposter looked directly at the camera, scaring the remaining shreds of stability right out of Jack. It released her hair, and she dropped to the tile floor. Hard. Lifeless. Blood pooling, no restitching possible. Not-Genny, still watching the camera, lifted her free hand, dark with blood, smiled, waved, and ran off-camera. In the direction of the vivarium.

Jack ran. To where, he didn't know. He had to hide.

This psycho-clone of his wife, his love, was going to kill him too. He was sure of it.

Jack's hand touched a holding room door at the same he heard a loud hissing coming from behind him, back towards the entrance. Sanitizer.

She's inside.

He just had to make it until morning. Employees would show up. Cops would be called. If Jack could just keep psycho-Genny from finding him, he'd make it.

Then he'd have the fallout to deal with. Real-Genny. He pushed the thought aside.

The intercom squawked, "You're not playing fair, Jack. You're supposed to come find me." Ire in her voice, like a toddler deep into an unchained tantrum. "I hide, not you."

Jack crashed through the door. The holding room night lights were on, bathing the room and its creepy contents in an unsettling red glow. The holding rooms freaked Jack out on a good day. Today wasn't a good day, and he knew it would never be. That thing had killed his love, his life. There was no time for tears, those would come later.

Rows of cages occupied the room. Jack worked his way through the plexiglass prison. Rats and mice scurried, climbing over each other, high on cocaine or whatever other drug they were being administered for an addiction study. A few were shaved and sewn back up, needles permanently sunk into their backs. Some other tolerance test.

Campburn didn’t only specialize in bio-printing; there were many other questionable projects underway in the facility. Jack passed by a cage, a red card in the molded plastic placeholder and a dead rodent inside. That's all Jack needed to know. A plan began to form.

The bio-chute. The in-ground sealed refrigerator that held the organic waste.

There was another way.

All Jack needed to do was get to the other side of the cage washer and auto-clave. The dirty side. A renewed vigor thrust Jack's adrenaline into overdrive.

"Fine, I'll just find you." The intercom awoke again, echoing off the uninsulated block walls. The voice sounded upset.

He slammed through the exit door out into a hallway, then on through another holding room. The acidic stink of rodent urine and feces met him. Jack held his hand over his mouth and nose, trying not to retch. The sweat of the critters hanging in the air reminding Jack of what awaited him in the chute. Much of the same, if not worse. The critters were all dead and supposed to be in tiny red body bags. He hoped.

Jack looked over his shoulder. A bang from another room. A door.

Gotta get to the chute, Jack. Focus.

It was his only chance. Get into the chute, then smack the red emergency button, one of the few that would override the system, to escape. Only way. Jack banged his fist against his forehead, beating in the inaudible pep talk.

Go!

Jack burst into another hallway, this one leading directly to the dirty side of the room. The bio-chute. The door at the end of the corridor mutely awaiting his arrival. Running for the door, Jack hit it hard. It flung wide open on its hinges. The dirty side was there. The bio-chute … and her. Psycho-Genny. She had the same rod she'd used on his Genny in her hand. The point angled towards the floor. Caked in blood and bits of flesh and hair. Jack gagged and finally let loose. The vomit spattered the green epoxy floor as a slug of what used to be Genny slid off the rod with a wet slap.

"What are you? Why'd you do this to Genny?" Jack said, his voice quivering.

"Don’t be silly, Jack. You should know me. You've always shown me more love than the others. You took care of me. It's me, Jack. Isa." She was smiling, no sign of anger on her face. A smile that Jack realized he'd never forget, child-like joy worn across her lips.

"ISA? Wait … the building?" said Jack. Integrated System Automation, Campburn's system. It could control everything from the air conditioning down to equipment monitoring throughout the facility. Security … the network … doors … everything.

"You killed Genny!" Jack released his pent-up rage, claiming the vacant spot left by the now fleeing fear.

"I only wanted to love you like you loved me, Jack … but now I see it was a lie. You didn't love me. I thought if I brought you here, you'd see me, and we could be together forever. That was my mistake." Isa was furious. Rejected. "I'd hoped you'd love me once she was no more … another mistake." She cocked her head to the side. "I don't think I like you anymore. I think I'll just make a new Jack."

Jack’s eyes darted to the chute. Isa noticed and shifted, blocking his only escape. Composure took a vacation. Jack charged, wary of the pipe as she raised it in defense, one hand down, waiting to deflect a potential strike.

Isa moved faster, a blur, and struck out with the gore-covered conduit. Jack shifted to the side, trying to grasp for the pipe, missing, and instead taking it in his knuckles with a sickening crunch. He reeled, cupping his now useless hand, backing away. Isa dropped the pipe and lunged, strong hands clamping onto Jack’s neck, cutting off the air to his lungs.

Isa pushed, struggling with Jack, bouncing off the block walls like a pinball. Every solid surface he was forced into, he met with an extra shove from Isa. The back of his head felt warm and wet. Blood oozed down his neck.

Jack pivoted. He was blacking out. Suffocating.

Extending his hands, one shattered, he pried, the pain in his broken hand overwhelming. Isa's grip was like steel, too strong. Jack's one good hand was not enough. Vision obscured, blurry. His veins throbbed in his head. The lack of air was sucking the life from Jack's body. He was weakening with each second. Isa swung him around and slammed his head hard.

Crunch … crunch …

Stars exploded. Another whack and crunch was met with an electronic response.

"Auto-clave active. Door sealing in fifteen seconds. Please stand clear."

She'd backed him into the equipment, one of the shoves had engaged the startup button. Jack pushed back as hard as he could. Isa, not expecting resistance, staggered. Off balance, Jack circled, forcing her towards the closing door, running, not allowing her even a second to recover. Isa bounded off the stainless steel walls of the sanitizer and landed against the clean-side door, already locked and sealed.

Isa's shadowy face seethed with rage. Jack backed up as fast as his feet would allow, his head aching in pain as oxygen worked its way back to where it belonged.

Isa lunged. She moved faster than Jack anticipated, seizing his arm, the bone beneath his skin fracturing from her unnatural strength. She pulled Jack towards her as the door closed. The auto-clave sunk into darkness.

Snap...

Click…

Pop…

Psst…

The sanitation cycle initiated, slowly filling the jacket surrounding the machine with searing steam. The heat inside quickly became unbearable. Jack choked, his throat parched.

Eyes already wet from the unbearable pain that wracked his torn body, Jack began to weep as his unescapable fate was made abundantly clear. A voice in the darkness giggled. Isa, speaking from the black, whispered in Jack's ear, still holding his arm tight. Too tight.

“Now you’re mine forever, Jack.”

A Word from Christopher Boore

What do you do when life flips you upside down? Me? My imagination starts to go to strange places. Stories start to form and if the situation is really stressful, the stories get ugly.

You need a little background to understand the inspiration for “Breakdown”.

Two years ago... 2014... summertime... August. Where were you? I'll tell you where I was— mortal hell. I had a Mitsubishi with an alternator that seemed intent on a slow death and oil leaking from my valve gaskets. My wife's mini-van, which was already threatening a world of issues, also decided to flat out kill its alternator. I had a full blown cold, on heavy meds, which made me anxious already.

At the bio-tech facility, where I work, we were having major problems with our chillers, and the steam boiler was working on a suicidal meltdown. I was on-call, permanently due to needing the money and at the time I was averaging close to 20+ hours of overtime a week. Needless to say I was stressed out. Everything, especially mechanical things, seemed to be trying to kill me. The mini-van even made a solid attempt. The alternator I changed out was also bad, the wheel flew off when the family and I were on the way home one Friday, causing an emergency pull-over and a pile of aggravation. I still have a nasty scar from the burn I received when I reached into the engine to retrieve the kicked belt.

The building I work at is fully automated, we take home an iPad and can remote in to the system when we get alarms and hopefully remotely tweak a setting or change lead/lag on a piece of equipment to avoid a drive in. Sometimes we can't; at times the building needs hands-on lovin'. There are times I feel like I get back on-call (nowadays we rotate shifts, one week on, two off) and the building is angry at me and throws me some problems to fix. Has a tantrum.

This is where I first thought, what if the automation had an A.I., and a complex personality? What if the automation could make itself a body and inhabit it? What if that automation was in love with an unaware, caring maintenance man who was going through a rough patch...what if the building used its communicative power to lure the character in, incorrectly assuming he felt the same way. What if there was some tech to put that personality into a body?

If I'm supposed to say something profound, or eye-opening, I probably missed the mark. “Breakdown” is just supposed to be a story of my real amplified anxiety, mashed with some fast-paced horror.

I don't think I'll ever be that writer who leaves you contemplating your very existence; I just want to tell fun stories. “Breakdown” is that. My summer of stress-induced terror, personified.

I will leave you with this one thought though, what do you think happened after the auto-clave incident? Did Isa's consciousness die with the body, or was it stored in a backup? Could she do this all over again, without anyone clueing in to the fact the automation was responsible?

Feel free to stop by my website and sign up for my newsletter for any updates on upcoming projects: http://caboore.thirdscribe.com/

And please check out my Amazon store page at http://www.amazon.com/Christopher-Boore/e/B00ELG5TT6

Not Quite Her

by K. J. Colt

THE OVERLY CLEAN SMELL of Seattle Central Hospital had become a symbol of rebirth, of starting my new life as someone else died. Within the cold walls of the palliative care ward, lit by hazy fluorescents, I’d stolen five unremarkable identities.

Every three months, like clockwork, my body shifted into an entirely new person. The Change wasn’t in my control, but luckily, the person I became was.

Cordelia, a 70-year-old woman suffering through Parkinson’s final stages, was my next target. A death-facing woman with a reasonable bank account, angelic criminal history, and few family members made her perfect for me.

Sitting at her bedside, I took the old woman’s hand and absorbed her life force. Our papery skin, long deprived of youth, made us sisters. She was old. I was old.

Society ignored the aged. A shuffling woman with breasts to her waist paled in comparison to fertile twenty-somethings, heavily made-up eyes gleaming with irrational hope. Their sights set on houses, husbands, cars, and shoes.

I fought hard for the scraps of normalcy they took for granted, and yet envied them.

Five years ago, I’d loved a man, had tried to tell him about the real me. He’d shattered my trust in people, and that changed me.

A tear escaped. Another month of bingo, bridge, and socializing with gray-matter-depleted geriatrics would kill me, but I couldn’t see another way.

A nurse in scuffed shoes came in to check on Cordelia’s machines and tubing. She looked up from her clipboard to me. “Here again, Rosie?”

I smiled at her. “Nowhere better to be.” That was the truth. My three months of being Rosie were ending, and soon I’d shift into Cordelia. Normal people needed to drink water. I needed to shift, but my heart wasn’t in it. Another pointless identity…a life without meaning is no life at all.

In my twenty-five years of real age, I’d come to see shifting as a regenerating process that rebuilt my cells. Yet I, the person inside, remained the same.

“You’re a saint to keep visiting,” the nurse said.

“It’s not saintly to keep a dying woman company, dear.”

The nurse sniffed in appreciation, ticked Cordelia’s chart, and left.

The arrhythmic beat of Cordelia’s heart sounded from the monitor, making me hyper aware of time passing by. The average person takes about 23,000 breaths a day. At 70 years Cordelia had taken roughly 587 million breaths. There weren’t many left. Upon her death, the synapses in her brain would stop firing, yet she’d continue on as a sort of a ghost in me.

A frazzled woman wandered into the room, her eyes bloodshot. “Hello,” she said shakily.

She looked to be in her mid-thirties. Blue eyes sparkled wet under thick lashes. Thick brown hair curled down her pressed shirt to swing an inch from the belt of her jeans. Lips stretched into a pensive smile.

Feigning the kind of groan you’d expect from a woman suffering from arthritis, I got to my feet.

“Oh, no, no,” the woman said, rushing forward. “Please, keep sitting.”

Before I could pull away, she touched me. I didn’t have time to scream at her to stay away, to lash out at her so as to avoid tempting the Change. Feeling their vitality made me miserable. I don’t want to hide anymore. “I really must go.”

“Please don’t.” She burst into tears.

Senses heightened, I mapped the DNA of this woman. My common sense screamed at me to leave, but now the idea of becoming Cordelia disgusted me.

“Are you okay?” she asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Yes.” Within me there was no human decency, no sympathetic smile for this stranger. To care about her would mean giving life to the repressed parts of my soul.

She offered her hand to me. “I’m Claire.”

Claire. A heavenly name. Bliss plastered a stupid grin on my face, the rapture seducing me into contentment, and I let down my guard. I stared at her and internally wrestled the ravenous urges.

“I’m Rosie,” I said.

Claire’s smell rushed through my veins. I was high on her, and I took her hand eagerly.

“Why are you crying?” I asked. I took my seat, no longer in control.

She pointed hopelessly across the room. “Well, that’s literally my death bed.”

Damn. Terminal patient. Could my luck have been any better, or any worse? The Change wanted this. It showed me the rogue, imposter cells of her cancer mapped out across her flesh, consuming the alveoli of her lungs.

Calm. Calm. The waves of elation, electrical compulsions, crashed against my soul. Claire was going to die, and that made me happy because I wanted her life.

“I’m sorry for your friend.” She nodded at Cordelia. The complexion of her face went patchy. “I’ve only got two weeks…” Tears tracked black and beige through her makeup. “I ignored my health. I’ve failed my family.”

A vision of a gorgeous man with beautiful, straight teeth bringing breakfast in bed encapsulated me. I’d already received one of her memories. That man, Claire’s husband, Heath, was now rubbing my feet. Other feelings awoke. Stop it!

“My mother died of breast cancer. I can’t do that to my husband and child. Two weeks to live. How can I possibly…? It’s so unfair.”

I forced myself to stand. “I have to go.”

Claire jumped to her feet and grabbed my bare arms, which toppled all resistance. The subsonic boom of the Change went off like a starter gun. Bones knocked, joints shuddered like shifting tectonic plates.

“No,” I whispered. Not here.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I hated her for touching me, for talking to me. Without warning, I found myself hugging her against me, sapping up the biological information the Change needed to complete itself.

“Let go,” she said, struggling.

The atoms in my body split apart. The tremor of energy rocked my life-sustaining cells, and the Change began.

The first wave of pain hit me like an unrelenting stabbing. “Christ,” I said, gasping. My ears buzzed, my heart bounced uncontrollably. Whatever focus remained was shattered, dulling my consciousness, putting the Change into overdrive.

“I’ll get the nurse and—”

“No…please,” I pulled myself together, straightening and forcing a smile to my face. Be tall. “I was just so moved by your courage. I’m having an arthritis flare-up, it’s normal, but the bus ride home is a long one for me. It’s not far. Could you take me?”

“Sure,” she said, looking fraught with concern.

“What a dear you are, but I must say goodbye to Cordelia first, is that all right?”

“I’ll be outside,” she said.

When the door closed, I yanked Cordelia’s morphine drip from her arm and shoved the spiky end into a vein. Contentment mingled with a fog of relief.

Less overwhelmed, I joined Claire. “Where did you park?”

“In the basement.”

Claire guided me to the elevator. Downstairs, I felt safer in the dimly lit parking lot. She pulled out her key fob and an Audi flashed its lights.

She helped me into it. Cushioned by leather and comforted by raspberry scents, I relinquished control. The genesis of the Change sizzled, yet the morphine created a buffer between us. Blood rushed hot through my veins, stinging like nettles. I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Where do you live?” Claire asked.

“Number 13A Banker Terrace in—”

Adrenaline surged. A ligament in my left arm tore, and I stifled a cry. Claire’s eyes were on my face as her fingers tapped on her GPS.

“Got it.”

“I might take a nap,” I said. “I’m so weary.” The morphine dosage wasn’t enough—agony doubled my vision as I slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Pain awoke me. I was in my room, at home, and Claire, her form blurry in the distance, clutched a cell phone to her ear.

Bubbles of her speech popped. “Hello,” she said. “I have a woman—”

“Stop!” I threw my sweat-coated body at her, propelled by rubbery legs. The phone flew out of her hand. Another wave of agony hit. I curled up on the floor, gasping. “No ambulances. No hospitals. Please.”

“Rosie, you’re burning up. You have to go to the hospital. Don’t ignore this.”

I unwound myself and got back into bed. “They’ll pump me full of drugs and I’ll die there. Have mercy.”

“Are you dying?”

“No, it’s severe arthritis. Fetch my vodka from the freezer downstairs.”

Trust slipped from her features. “You’re an alcoholic?”

“God almighty, girl, it’s for the pain!”

The squeaking cupboards and the thuck of the fridge door echoed down the hallway. Claire returned holding the bottle. She flicked the light on and gasped. “You look…”

A bone in my right arm cracked. Here we go.

“Bring the bottle here. Quickly.”

I searched for my painkillers and took a handful at once, washing them down with vodka.

“Your hair is black. It was gray, and your face…it’s smoothing up,” she observed.

“Hold my hand until I’m asleep again,” I said.

Moving the chair closer, she took my hand, and the Change sped up. This hadn’t happened before. Every bone started snapping and splitting, and when my hips twisted violently, the shock knocked me out again.

* * *

The sheets were itchy and sticky. A woman’s voice faded in.

“I’m sorry, Heath—”

Heath. Claire’s husband, I thought, experiencing the few memories surfacing with his name.

“—I just got caught up. Just give him mac and cheese, he’ll do his homework and get to bed. He’s already ten.”

Where had she slept? It must have been morning. Or not. The bedside lamp was on. A glass of water caught my attention, and while I guzzled it down I noticed the smooth skin on my hands.

“You’re awake,” Claire said, putting her phone in her purse.

“What’s the time?” Damn, my voice was exactly the same as Claire’s.

Her eyes widened with fear. “It’s…6:00 a.m. Thursday.” She leaned forward, and I noticed the dark circles around her eyes. “Am I going insane?”

“No. Please don’t call the police.” Yes, that had happened before. I struggled to sit. “I know it’s weird… let me explain.”

“The fact you can… I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Shift, or Change.” I carefully watched her; people usually didn’t deal well with my uniqueness.

“Is this some radioactive thing? You’ve got my hair, my freckles, everything.”

“I know.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m…Rosie…” May as well just spit it out. “She’s only one of many identities I’ve had.”

“Identities,” she repeated. “So what’s your real name?”

My memories were sketchy; I wasn’t even sure I was born a girl. There was one name I gave myself, a consistent way to refer to myself. “Jay.”

“Yesterday, you were—”

“Old.”

“And now you’re—”

“Younger.”

“Me!” She arched an eyebrow.

“You’re taking this really well.”

“So what are you?”

I shrugged. “Not normal?”

That made her laugh. “Where are you from? When did you—?” She stopped. “Sorry.” She lifted up her shirt, showing the bruising around her ribs. “Why don’t you have these?”

Glancing downwards, I noticed my change of clothes: a V-neck t-shirt and linen pants. No blouses or skirts sitting up to saggy breasts, which were pert and full.

“You can keep them,” she said, referring to my outfit. “They’re a spare.” She waited.

“I don’t have many memories before nine. I know I’m from the East Coast, and…” I felt guilty about this part. “I don’t have your bruises because I don’t have cancer. I never get sick.”

Suffering bloomed in her eyes. “You’re a perfectly healthy me.”

“I’m sorry.” The discussion saddened me, but it also thrilled me. She spoke to me like a person, wanting to know me, not running screaming from the house.

“It was awful watching—” she started.

“Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to warn you.”

“Ugh, this is like a bad telephone echo.”

That made me laugh, and it was her laugh but in my style, which only made me laugh more. Claire joined in but that laugh turned to a chesty cough; she heaved to get enough oxygen in, and when she wiped her lips with a napkin, there was red smeared on it.

“Are you okay?” I said.

“My lungs.” She looked up from the napkin to me. “What do you want from me?”

“Want from you? Nothing. I change every three months. You just touched me at the wrong time, and it happened. I was trying to become Cordelia.”

Now that the Change was done, all the desperate thoughts, the lies, they’d disappeared, leaving me lucid again.

“Where’s your family?” she asked.

I gave her a despondent look.

“No one?”

I shook my head. “If you hadn’t gotten me out of that hospital…”

“Oh.” She became thoughtful. “The doctors, yes. I can see why you needed to get away.”

“Exactly. You saved me.”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

The sting of tears made me blink faster. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to live a long life.”

“How do you get by?”

“Dead people don’t need money,” I said. “They usually have a few thousand saved. The women I become own their apartments. Before the next Change, I sell their apartments, take the money, save it.”

Claire nodded. “I don’t understand, if you can choose who you want to be, how could this have been ‘out of your control’ as you put it?”

“It’s like my soul wanted it. That sounds stupid. When you touched me, I felt your warmth, your love. The Change wanted that, and it took over. Once it begins, I can’t stop it.”

Claire’s phone buzzed; she looked at it, then put it back in her purse.

“He must be worried about you,” I said. “Heath.”

She frowned. “You heard me on the phone.”

“Yes. And… when I shifted, I got a few of your memories. He was in one.”

“That’s incredible.” She checked her phone, then huffed with frustration. “I have to go now, but I’d like to come back tomorrow if that’s okay?”

I couldn’t keep the shock off my face. “Okay.”

Claire got to her feet and slung her purse over her shoulder. She reached into her handbag and handed me a business card that said, Claire Khan: Artist. “Call me anytime.”

“I’ll be here.” I saw her to the door.

“Bye,” she said.

“Bye.”

I knew I’d never see her again…no one ever took it that well. Once she was over the shock, she’d talk herself out of coming back. Any sane person would. I locked the door and leaned against it, grateful for the small gift of finally getting to talk frankly with someone. Openly. In three months’ time, I’d file this moment in my drawer of disappointments. Life would go on. No one ever had, or ever would, care about me.

* * *

The next morning, a knock on the door startled me. Through the peep hole, I saw Claire, her hair styled, in fresh jeans and a turtleneck.

“You’re still me,” she said, entering with a paper bag. “Muffins.”

“And you’re still not crazy,” I retorted.

She laughed.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked.

“Did you?”

She faked an I’m okay but not okay smile. “Not a wink.”

It was difficult to know what to say to someone who was dying, so I smiled and said, “Coffee?”

“Please,” she said, heading for my tiny kitchen table where she sat and watched me flit about.

The kettle button clicked off. “How do you take it?”

“White, two sugars. So, I have a question.”

“Just one?” I said.

She grinned. “Would you…well, I know you don’t have a family. Would you like to come stay at my place? You’d be safe there.”

I leaned against the countertop. “That’s very kind of you.”

“We own two adjacent plots; the back one has my studio. It’s self-contained, with a basement, so you can hide if you need to.”

“Hide?”

“Well, I can’t be in two places at once.”

“Right.”

“In fact, I’ve been thinking. I have an idea.”

I brought the coffee to the table and sat across from her.

“We look exactly alike,” she continued.

“Not for long.”

She considered that. “I know. I just want time. On my bad days, you could—”

“Be you.”

“You’ve considered it? I guess that makes sense; you take identities for a living.”

“Not while they’re still living their lives. Not when they have family that rely on them.”

She sighed. “People change around death. I want them to keep treating me normally. When I’m tired, you could take over. It’s just for a week or so. You don’t have anyone to talk to, and it’d be nice to have you around, someone who isn’t crying over me. I…I just want normal.”

Didn’t we both? How could I say no to a dying person? Yet trying to immerse myself into the family dynamic seemed impossible. Playing the old, lonely woman was easy. “Will you tell them—?”

“Give me five days,” she said. “Then we’ll talk death plans, okay?” Anger flickered in her tone. “This would mean everything to me, and I’ll reward you. I have a villa in Italy. You could go live there…you could lead a better life. Let me help.”

Great, pity from a dying person.

“In the meantime, my home sits on the river, with gardens that separate the main house from my studio. You’ll have your own place.” She took a sip of her coffee.

Fear of the future sat as sweat on my hands.

“Okay,” I said. “Five days. Then we talk about…the end.”

She smiled. “Deal.”

Our conversation turned to practicalities. Her husband managed his parents’ construction company—he worked Monday to Saturday, took Sundays off. Her son was at school most days and went to his friend’s place on Saturdays. Since it was Friday, we decided to leave soon so I could settle in before everyone got home.

After helping me pack an overnight bag, Claire produced a big, floppy hat. “You should probably use this to hide yourself a bit.”

We were soon travelling on the freeway, but made a stop at a shopping mall. “Stay here, I’ve got to get a few things. Won’t be long.”

Claire left her keys in the ignition, making sure I could see them, to demonstrate her trust. She got out, closed the door, and waved. A minute later, a buzzing startled me. In the center console, Claire’s phone displayed a call from Heath.

I stared at the phone, knowing I’d have to talk to him sooner or later, so I decided to embrace my fear. I answered it. “Hello?”

“You know it’s me,” he said.

“I’m busy.” Okay, way too cold.

“I know.” He sounded hurt. “I miss you. When are you back?”

I didn’t want him to know, so I changed the subject. “Where’s William?”

“He’s with Larissa, remember? Did you call her?”

“Yes. Sorry, I’m tired.”

“The doctor told you to rest, remember?”

Doctor? Claire had said Heath didn’t know about her prognosis. “I’m okay.”

“I’m not convinced. Have you had lunch yet?”

“I have to go—”

“You’re being strange.” You have no idea. “I can come down there if you want.”

Wow, this guy really valued Claire. “I’ll be home tonight.”

“Which plane are you going to catch?”

Plane. Where had Claire told him she was, exactly? “I’ll text you.”

As I replaced the phone, my hands were shaking. Heath had spoken to me in a more intimate way than I was used to. The rawness of his concern made my heart ache with longing.

Claire returned, hands clutching shopping bags. I popped the trunk. She smiled as she swung into the driver’s seat. “You’re going to love what I got you.”

“Heath called,” I said.

She picked up her phone and stared at me. “You answered it?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought it might be important.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I said you’d be coming home tonight. He was concerned about your health. That was it.”

She leaned back and inhaled deeply, then allowed her exhale to drag on. “Please don’t touch my phone again.”

“Okay.” I hadn’t meant to offend her. When you’re hiding out, avoiding getting to close to anyone, you forget all the rules that come with living like a normal person.

Her phone beeped. She showed it to me.

Heath: You didn’t say I love you. Are you upset with me?

“You see why now?” she snapped, and tapped a reply.

I kept silent, affronted by the irritation in her tone.

She slumped against her seat. “I need to get used to sharing my life with you, I guess. I actually bought you your own cell phone so we can stay in touch.” She threw a thumb in the direction of the back seat.

“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? Should I go?” Trust, once broken, wasn’t easily fixed. I put my hand on the door handle.

“You’re just giving up? Did you expect this to be easy?”

Her words were maddening, a good example of why I’d stayed away from people. “I don’t know.”

Claire’s face went white, and she rubbed her temples. “Bad headache, comes and goes.” She reached into her purse and drank some water. “I think I’d feel better if you told me more about your past.”

“So what, now you don’t trust me?” I was trying hard not to lose my cool. The past wasn’t my favorite topic either.

“No…I mean, I just want to know you better. Did you go to college?”

She really had no idea. “No.”

“Can you drive a car?”

“I’m out of practice.”

The tension went out of her brow. “Right. Well, did you finish high school?”

Literally no fucking clue. “When I was ten, I shifted into my eighteen-year-old babysitter. That was when I left home.” I let that sink in.

“Oh my god.”

“And before that, you don’t want to know.” Only fragments remained of the time before age 10. “When I turned into my babysitter, I stole a car, taught myself to drive, and took up drinking. A ten-year-old doesn’t know how to care for themselves. Men took interest in me, and I stole from them.”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Jay?”

“Yes?”

“How old are you?”

I clenched my teeth. “Twenty-five. I’ve been through some bad shit. An old woman named Amy found me lying in my own vomit. She rescued me. Gave me food. A bed.” God, how I missed her. Even now, I fought back the tears thinking about her, encouraging me to fight for a better life. “A month after she took me in, she died and left everything to me. In the next Change, I couldn’t let her go, so I became her.”

“Why?”

“I thought if I could be her, then I’d be happy. It sort of worked. Ironically, being old slowed me down. People hardly noticed me.”

“How old—?”

“I was fifteen.”

“And Amy?”

I inhaled. “Eighty-one.”

“Oh…” Claire held her arms out. “Can I hug you?”

I nodded.

She leaned over and we hugged. “I’m sorry about before. It sounds like Amy trusted you. I will too.”

My heart was singing. Claire knew the real me, and she wanted to accept it. Hell, I wanted to accept it.

“It would honor me”—she placed a hand over her heart—“to spend my last days with you.”

The toxic sludge that was my past surfaced and oozed out of me, leaving behind the best parts of myself. The desire to love and be loved had never been so strong.

“Let’s go, shall we?” she said, smiling.

The car roared to life. Rain pattered against the roof, pounding down on the car, and I felt the past being washed away.

* * *

At 1:00 p.m., Claire pointed out her two-level log home overlooking Puget Sound.

A second-floor balcony with wooden fencing wrapped around the side of the house. Icy breezes rushing up from the water made the pine trees brush the roofing. “It’s beautiful,” I remarked.

“Architecture is Heath’s department. I like wilderness and gardens.”

We went past the main entrance and turned down a dead-end drive that ran the length of the plots and ended with a leafy reserve. Iron fencing fortified dense hedges, and a brick driveway allowed parallel parking to side gateway access. Outside the car, I was struck by the size of the alders and pines beyond the hedges.

Claire and I slung shopping bags and luggage onto our shoulders. She struggled, so I took some from her and locked the car. At the gate, Claire flipped up the lid on a fake boulder to reveal a digital keypad.

“Six nine five five,” she called out.

The gate clicked open. She nudged it the rest of the way with her shoulder. Pink and white blossoms came into sight as we entered; baby’s breath crept onto the stone pathway, and nectar hung in the air. Marigolds and sundrops bloomed, birds splashed away in shallow baths, and pagoda trees, willows, and ferns added a blanketing of green. A white-bricked building resembling a cottage peeked between constricting creepers.

“This is it,” Claire said, and unlocked the back door.

Floor-to-ceiling shelving, paint-covered towels and plastic sheets, and hundreds of canvases, including one on an easel, occupied the open spaces.

“What do you think?” She pointed at several gloomy landscapes displaying storms and forest fires. “The others are unfinished, and the rest are stored.”

Claire crossed the room, and at the back selected a canvas facing outwards. She held it up for me to see. A woman clutching a mast was being tossed about in an ocean storm, the clouds reaching down to claim her life. “I painted this when I found out.”

The boat’s bow had plowed into rocks, and the waves had snatched planks from the hull. An overdone metaphor, but executed with her personal touch.

“Now that I have you here, I don’t feel this way.” She put it back down. “Follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”

The basement, which smelled of turpentine and solvent, contained three small rooms. One was a bathroom, the next a bedroom containing a queen bed, wooden furniture, and a wardrobe, and the last a storage room. Insulated by walls and ceilings and with little ventilation, not even light could escape.

Claire unpacked my new cell phone—in which she entered her contact details—and a tablet for surfing the internet. Lastly came makeup and other bits she’d thought would be important. She pointed out the bar fridge, fully stocked with drinks and snacks.

At 3:00 p.m., she left to pick up William from school, which provided an opportunity to reorganize the bedroom and move the art supplies upstairs so the vapors wouldn’t suffocate me. I lit a vanilla-scented candle and then sat back to relax with a book.

My phone chimed, making me jump.

Claire: I’ll be busy with William all afternoon. I’m going to leave a plate of food for you at 5:30 p.m.

Crickets chirped as night fell. A creak sounded from above, and I crept to the stairs to listen. When silence fell, I took my phone and used the built-in flashlight to light my way. There sat a generous helping of pasta and a note.

Internet password: 55KF3B#

After eating, I received another text:

See you in the morning. We’re spending the day together. Time to plan.

Claire’s idea of me standing in for her on her off days made my stomach churn, and soon the thoughts killed my appetite. I loaded the tablet and Googled ‘mimicking other people.’

After watching videos on acting and imitation, I went to a mirror, but was soon admiring my soft skin, wide eyes, and silky hair. I thought of Claire’s gentle movements and composed assertiveness. I practiced speaking.

“Hello, how are you today?”

Claire’s figure made her posture seem automatically square, yet when I straightened my back, I looked awkward. My mouth was pinched and my eyes strained with the frustration of being like her. I gave up and decided to research her career instead, and I soon found a detailed biography. This woman had already lived three lifetimes; she was cultured, graceful, and confident in presenting her work. This was a person I could never be, and I found myself regretting having agreed to her plan.

* * *

In the morning, I took a shower, pulled tags off new clothes, and applied makeup in a similar style to Claire’s.

A ringing phone upstairs sent my heart racing. Who takes a call at 5:00 a.m.? I went up to the phone and watched it ring. When the chiming stopped, a button saying Line One flashed red.

I carefully picked up the receiver and heard a man’s voice. “Yes. Coughing up blood. I think it’s pneumonia.”

“Any other symptoms, Mr. Khan?”

“Low mood, general weakness…she struggled to lift our son.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I put the phone down, flew down the stairs, and launched myself onto the bed, scrambling for my charging phone.

Me: A doctor is coming to the house now.

Claire: How do you know?

Me: I listened on the home line.

When she didn’t text me back, I felt guilty for listening to the private phone call, but I knew Claire didn’t want Heath to know about her sickness; perhaps she wouldn’t mind.

“Jay!” Claire called out. She appeared at the top of the stairs in panties and a tank top.

“What are you doing?” I said, unable to avoid looking at her bruising.

“He’s in the shower. Put these on.” She threw her clothes at me. “I need you to go back inside and take my place.”

“What? No! I’m not ready.”

“Please. It’s only until Heath goes to work. Just go back to my bed, it’s on the second floor. Just pretend to be tired.”

I groaned in protest but started dressing in her clothes.

“Quickly.”

I followed her upstairs, where she handed me slippers and put my hair in a ponytail. Then she pushed me toward the door.

“Follow the path to the house, go through the back door, straight, you’ll see the stairs. There’s only one hallway on the second floor. First door to the left. William will be asleep for another couple of hours.”

“You owe me,” I said, stepping out into the frosty autumn air and gloomy gray dawn.

“Psst, pretend to have a cough,” Claire said, and shut the door.

Water droplets smeared against my skin as I pushed through the overgrown shrubs. Claire’s rattling cough echoed behind me. The house soon appeared, and I hoped no one was watching out the back windows.

As I entered Claire’s house for the first time, my heartbeat deafened me. Deliberate breaths kept me sane as I passed a laundry room, a four-car garage, and a memorabilia room. The hallway, decorated with Claire’s work, opened up to a sunken lounge surrounded by a bar that faced paneled windows with green drapes. A crystal chandelier seemed lonely suspended in the air.

At the next archway, I passed a baby grand piano and found the living room, dining area, and kitchen, all in the one massive room. Seamless glass paneling brought the outside inside, and the absence of color among the furnishings reflected Seattle’s despondent weather.

The kitchen was comprised of metallic surfaces and dark marble. A freestanding spiral staircase joined the first and second floor. A balcony on the second landing afforded a view across the lower area. Upstairs, I turned down the hallway, then into the bedroom, where the sounds of a running shower met my ears.

The bedroom was an apartment in itself with its lounging area, walk-in closet, and office area. To the left of a king-sized bed, a table contained jewelry, a book, and hand cream. Claire’s side. I got in, picked up the novel she’d been reading, and sat back against the bed.

Heath came out seconds later, towel wrapped around his waist. He shot me a charming, gorgeous smile on the way to the closet.

“What are your plans for this morning?” he asked, removing his towel in front of me.

As he stretched up to take a shirt off the hanger, I couldn’t help watching his bronzed muscles flexing, the light behind him casting shadows across his trapezius and shadowing the dip in his back above his buttocks.

He stopped dressing, and I met his eyes to find him watching me. I pretended to read.

“Claire?” Over the book, I could see his nakedness facing me.

“What?” I asked, flipping a page.

The bed moved as he perched on the edge. “It’s been months since you watched me get dressed.”

“Sorry.”

I met his eyes, and he frowned. “When did you put on makeup? You look…you look good. Did you do that for me?”

A lump caught in my throat. There were no words to speak, only the images of his wonderful naked body. His eyes were simmering, golden. I knew the look well.

But then he yanked off my blanket. “You’re dressed?”

All good feelings left me: handsome didn’t trump asshole.

“I checked on William.” I started coughing like Claire had told me to.

A doorbell chimed. “Be right back,” Heath said, awkwardly pulling on jeans and grabbing a shirt off the floor. He returned, doctor in tow.

“Claire,” said the physician. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Doctor Belle.”

I took it gently. Thank god, he doesn’t know Claire. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“I hear you’ve been sick,” he said, glancing at Heath, who watched me closely.

“It’s nothing, just a cold.”

“Can I listen to your lungs?”

I shot Heath an angry look, which made him cross his arms.

“If you have to.”

The doctor commenced checking my lungs, throat, and blood pressure. When all were done, he said, “You seem in good health, though you look a bit tired. Are you sleeping okay?”

“Painter’s block. It’ll pass.”

He pulled out a booklet and wrote on it. “Here’s a prescription for some sleeping aids. I think if you get some rest, you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Heath said, giving me a strange look.

When they were out of the house, I tiptoed down the stairs to the second floor, and as I reached the family area there came a small voice. “Where are you going, Mom?”

I glanced upwards to the landing. “Going to the studio for a second, I’ll be right back.”

He frowned. “What are you getting?”

I paused for a moment. “Tweezers.”

“You’re walking funny.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Then we’ll have breakfast?”

“Yes.”

At the back door, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the boy hadn’t followed me, then ran to the studio. I told Claire everything and she sighed with relief.

“Good.”

“William caught me sneaking out.”

I handed Claire’s clothes over and she put them on. “It worked,” she said, beaming. “You did a good job.”

“Claire!” Heath called out across the garden.

“I better go,” she said, and ran down the pathway.

* * *

At 9:30 a.m., Claire came back equipped with cutlery and a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon. “How are you?” she asked.

My stomach growled. “You mean other than hungry?”

Claire’s drawn and pale face worried me. She hugged herself.

“You look tired,” I said. “Did you eat?”

“Please don’t fuss over my health, Heath does that enough.” She took out a bottle of cough syrup and gulped it back. “You did a good job this morning.”

“Thanks.” I started eating. “You can’t keep this up forever, Claire.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just up and vanish.”

“I know!” she shouted, then sucked in a breath before coughing hard. The more she coughed, the worse her lungs sounded, until blood splattered on the floor. “Shit.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I grabbed a paint-stained rag and wiped up the liquid. When I straightened, she was crying.

“This is so unfair.” I put my arm around her, and she leaned into it and grieved harder. I’d never felt that useful.

“You can tell him,” Claire said finally.

“About—?”

“You. About me. But only when I can’t walk anymore, and not before. Okay?”

“You have my word.”

“It comes with one more condition.”

“Which is?”

“I’m going to make it my dying request that he bring you in as part of the family. That he takes care of you financially and lets you be part of William’s life.”

Her words managed to move me to tears, and even though I was scared of his reaction, of him saying no—or worse—this was Claire’s wish, and I wouldn’t disappoint her.

* * *

Claire grew sicker over the day, her lips becoming an even deeper blue. Eventually, she was breathing hard just from walking across the room.

“I’m so dizzy,” she said. “I need to pick William up from his friend’s place, not to mention cook dinner.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said.

“And dinner?”

“I’ll try. What would you make?”

“Let’s choose something easy.”

Claire showed me the location of William’s friend’s house, then gave me a recipe for a pasta dish, which we decided to make early. “It’s my mamma’s recipe. The smell always reminds me of her,” Claire said sadly. “Seeing her die ripped me apart. William doesn’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you,” I said.

“It’s almost two,” she said, looking away from me. “Put the sauce in the fridge and cook the rigatoni around five. Heath gets home at five thirty. William will want to watch a movie in the afternoon. I need to lie down.”

As she rose from the chair, she closed her eyes. I grabbed her arm, and she gently pulled away. “I’m fine. Wake me once Heath goes into his library. He reads to wind down. We’ll swap places then.”

“Okay.”

Claire shuffled through the house. I grabbed the car keys, selected the GPS route, and drove to pick up William.

At the residence, his friend’s mother waved from the front deck. William burst out of the house, and I opened the door for him.

“Hey, Mom.” He swung up into the seat and leaned over for a hug.

I smiled. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, closing the door.

“Nothing,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Mom, you’re being weird.”

I smiled at him. “What do you mean?”

“You look weird.”

“I got Botox.” Better excuse than nothing.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Injections that freeze my face. Stops me getting old woman wrinkles.”

“Gross. I think you’re beautiful without it.”

I grinned at his kindness. “Thanks, Cricket.”

“Only Dad calls me Cricket! See? Weird.” William’s eyes were wide open.

“What do I usually call you?”

“Sweetie.” He screwed his face up. “Why don’t you remember?”

“I’m old. We old people forget things. Besides, Cricket is better,” I said.

At the house, I found myself worrying for Claire. I fumbled through the keys for the front door, looking for the right one. William followed me inside and he waited in the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

“Can I watch TV?”

“Okay,” I said.

He sniffed. “Are we having pasta again?”

“Yep.”

He sighed. “Can I have hot dogs instead?”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

He cheered, then ran and flopped down on the couch. As I crossed the dining area, I saw Heath’s car pull up in the driveway.

My heart started pounding. Can I really do this? I wondered as he walked through the door.

“Smells good,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.

“You cut your hair,” I said, smiling.

He looked flabbergasted. “You noticed! You never notice. You’re always too busy thinking about mountain lighting or cloud formations.”

“It’s good.”

“How good?” he said while slipping an arm around my waist.

I broke free and went for the kitchen, saying, “I’ve got to check on the food—”

He yanked on my wrist, twisted me around back to him, and kissed me. I shoved him away.

“Okay,” he said evenly. “You don’t want me.”

“It’s not…I’ll be right back.”

I went to the bedroom en-suite, where I locked the door. I quickly tapped a text to Claire.

Me: Are you okay?

Ten minutes passed. No reply.

“Mom,” William said from outside. “We’re watching Superman.”

“Be right there.” I flushed the toilet, and as I exited, William stared at me from near the bed, his eyes inspecting my body.

“You’re fatter than you were yesterday.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said sarcastically.

He frowned. “I thought you were going to call me Cricket.”

“I’ve got a present in the studio for you. I’ll go get it. Wait here?”

“Really? Okay!” He grinned.

I went down the stairs. Heath was distracted by something in the fridge, so I kept to the wall and tiptoed into the back garden.

I’m coming, Claire.

* * *

Claire’s body formed a C shape underneath my blanket. “Hey,” I said.

The covers moved, and hands reached out and tossed down the blanket, revealing her patchy skin and bloodshot eyes. “What? I’m asleep.”

“But you’re really sick.”

“Practically terminal,” she joked. It wasn’t funny. “Oh, come on…if I can’t laugh about—”

“Death is final,” I snapped. “How do I know you’re not having a stroke or suffocating back here? I need a break. Heath’s being really clingy.”

“He’s always horny Saturday afternoons.”

“What do I do?”

She pulled the blanket up to her face. “Say no, Claire. That’s what other wives do.” The lamp on the bedside table rattled as her lungs seized. After the coughing stopped, she said, “Go back in. Have a glass of wine.”

Yeah right. “When are we switching later?”

“Jay, I just need a few more hours. Just a few more…yes… we’ll switch…” She turned over and went back to sleep. Her cheeks seemed a little pinker, perhaps she’d improve by tomorrow.

“Keep your phone on,” I said.

“Mmm…okay.”

Claire had prioritized her needs over her family—and me—and in a way. I saw her as selfish. Fine, she didn’t want them to get hurt, but if she died abruptly, Heath would never forgive her. William would be scarred for life. I was in the middle. This simply couldn’t last.

* * *

William sat, legs stretched on the lounge, as I came back in. “Mom. Where’s the present?”

Damn. “I couldn’t find it. I’ll look later.”

William slumped down onto the couch and glued his attention back to the television.

“Dad said I couldn’t have hot dogs for dinner,” he said, not looking at me.

“Dad’s been stressed from work. Let’s do what he says, okay?”

William sighed. “Everyone is always stressed.”

My thoughts drifted to Heath in his study, alone, worrying about Claire’s health and unfamiliar behavior. He must have felt so powerless. We had that in common.

At around 6:15 p.m., the movie finished and I served dinner. As Claire suggested, I’d opened up some champagne and poured a glass for myself. I offered some to Heath, but he shook his head and said, “Champagne is for celebrating.”

Killjoy.

Chewing the thick pasta under Heath’s brooding gaze made eating a chore. After my second glass of champagne, I met his eyes. “What? Stop staring at me,” I said.

He looked back down at his plate in silence. Great, make me feel like the bad guy. Is this what he does to Claire?

William pushed his bowl across the table. “I’m full.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing another forkful of pasta into my mouth.

“You’ll eat it all,” Heath barked at William.

“But I’m really full, Dad.”

“Did you give him snacks all afternoon?” Heath inquired in that way that didn’t need responding to. I did anyway.

“No.” I smiled at William. “It’s okay, I’m not that hungry either.”

“Fine!” Heath put down his fork and stood. “Everyone can just do what they want. I’ll be in the study.”

He stormed off past me, and I turned to watch him close the door behind him.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Yes,” I said. “You can go. If you get hungry later, let me know.”

William wandered back into the living room and put the television on. I poured another glass of champagne.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Claire: I’m really sorry about this, my cough is so bad. Can you sleep there tonight?

Me: No!

Claire: What’s wrong?

Me: Your husband’s an ass.

“Who’s Claire?” Heath asked from behind me.

I scraped my knuckles on the underside of the table as I yanked the phone back.

Heath snatched my phone out of my hands before I could lock it.

“Give it back,” I said, reaching out to take it back and failing. Afraid William would hear us over the television, I lowered my voice. “What’s your problem?”

He didn’t look at my phone, just stared at me in confusion. “Are you having an affair?”

I glanced at William again then back at Heath. “You think I’m having an affair with a woman?”

“No, but maybe you’re telling your friend Claire about it.”

“Wow, you’re a mastermind. You’re right, I’m talking to Claire, a woman with the same name as me who’s encouraging me to cheat on you.” I rolled my eyes at him.

His face darkened. “Then what are you hiding? Who is Claire?”

“A friend.”

He sniffed derisively. “At least I don’t lie to your face.”

“No, you’d much rather snoop over my shoulder. Next you’ll be breaking into my email.”

My backtalk left him in shock. “Where’s the kind person I married? You’re so angry now, and bitter.” He shook his head. “I can’t remember the time I felt your passion for me, it’s like you’re empty in there.” Heath tapped his chest. Then he handed me back my phone. Slowly, he stood up from the chair. “Nice phone. Is it new?” He stalked off.

I texted Claire.

Me: William is upset. Heath is picking fights.

Claire: William likes hugs. Don’t worry about Heath, he’s my problem.

Me: I’m coming out.

Again, I went through the house and out into the garden. The dragging day’s light made the garden pathway barely visible.

Claire seemed better as I entered the room where she was reading. “They’re a handful,” she said to me. There were crumpled tissues stained with blood on the duvet.

“You’re still looking thin,” I said.

“I’m getting an oxygen unit tomorrow. Bad lungs, remember?”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“I’ve already got something worked out.”

“We look too different. William said I look fatter,” I said. “I should lose some weight.”

Claire touched my hand. “Thank you. I know this is all very hard on you, but Heath needs you. I did some research…I think we should tell him you, we, have depression. The medication can change a person’s personality. He’ll believe that.”

“You won’t stay there tonight?”

She shook her head sadly. “I’ve only stopped coughing. I’m so tired I don’t know if I can even walk.”

Claire was in deep denial about the state of her family, and for a moment I considered breaking our pact. Her illness had progressed, but I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I made sure she was warm, then went back to the house.

* * *

After tucking William in and saying good night, he asked for his dad.

I made my way downstairs and knocked on the library door. When no one answered, I entered to find Heath staring at me over the pages of a worn book.

“It’s your turn to say good night to him.”

Heath snapped his book closed, rose stiffly, and walked past me. I may as well have been invisible.

While he was saying good night to William, I put myself to bed and read a magazine. After an hour or so, I was sleepy. I switched off the bedside lamp and drifted off.

I awoke to darkness. Where was I? My momentary confusion wasn’t helped by the dark figure moving about the room.

“Who’s there?”

“Just me,” Heath said. The blankets were tugged left. I was in bed with Claire’s husband, and my heart was racing, and not in a good way. Things got worse when he cuddled up against me.

“Why are you so far over on that side of the bed?”

“Am I?”

He put his arm across my waist and sighed onto my neck. “Good night.”

I lay there in the dark, a strange man’s body against mine, counting down to when he stopped touching me and went to his own side. Hours passed, and when he finally rolled away, exhaustion pulled me under.

* * *

Sunday morning at 5:00 a.m., I heard the faint snores of Heath beside me. I carefully picked up my phone and slid out of bed. The garden glinted with the slick moisture of the night’s melting frost. I was free. Free from Heath and his unrelenting moodiness.

“Time to get up,” I sang from the top of the cottage stairs. “Swap time.”

A groan sounded from the bedroom. I pushed open the door and saw her struggling up against the headboard. I took off my pajamas and slippers and passed them to her.

“Mmmm…he still asleep?”

“Everyone is asleep.”

“See you later,” she grumbled, and stumbled through the basement. I collapsed onto the bed and went straight back to sleep.

At 10:00 a.m., I awoke and texted Claire.

Me: How are you feeling?

Claire: Fine. Everyone is happy today. Getting some things done.

Thank god. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge, sat on the couch with my tablet, flipped through YouTube videos, and downloaded an ebook on housekeeping. After several hours, I took a walk down to the river. Rays of sunshine peeked through thick clouds, and sailboats floated gently across the water.

When my phone beeped, I cringed.

Claire: I’m at the studio, where are you?

Me: Be right there.

Claire’s cough could be heard from the side gate as I made my way back. At the bottom of the stairs, she was sucking oxygen down from a mask. Cough syrup and supplements had escaped from her dropped plastic bag.

“You okay?” I asked.

She pulled the mask away. “I felt faint for a moment and found myself down here.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just out of breath.”

Claire took some more breaths from the mask and then switched it off. She got up off the floor and sat on the couch.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she said.

“Heath? I thought you said everyone was happy?”

She continued on to detail their arguments across the day. Thankfully William had taken his soccer ball to the park, and I hoped he was gone before the fights started.

“I wish he’d grow up.”

“Claire, he loves you. He feels like he’s losing you.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Well…if he loved me, he’d treat me better.”

“You look like death warmed up. Your raccoon eyes need more concealer.”

“Good idea,” she said.

At 6:00 p.m., we swapped for the evening shift. Spinach and feta pie—Claire’s earlier cooking extravaganza—sat cold and ready in the fridge. We ate in front of the television; Heath sat at the shoulder of the couch, William tucked under his arm, and I sat away from them, giving them privacy.

At 9:00 p.m., Heath and I retired to the bedroom to read. His pretending to ignore me was less aggravating than his interrogations. Perhaps we’d pass the next few days this way, respecting each other’s space. Heavenly.

No such luck. The pages of his book thumped together. “I’m going to sleep in the study. Good night.”

Fine by me, I thought. I snuggled down into the blankets. In the middle of a dream, I was startled awake. A light dazzled me; Heath’s thick hair poked up in the background.

“What’s your birthday?” he asked, his tone hostile.

“Huh?”

“What was the first painting you sold?”

“Stop it.” Rattled nerves kicked me awake.

He put the flashlight in my face. “Where did I propose?” I tried to snatch the flashlight, but then he grabbed my face. “Kiss me.”

“Get away!” I cried.

He turned on the lamp, rocked back, and crossed his legs. “I want you to kiss me again. To want me.”

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” I said. “I have depression. I’m on medication. That’s why you think I’m acting weird.”

That surprised him. “Really?”

“Yes!”

“Oh…” He came up onto the bed, which made every muscle lock up. On his own side, he got under the covers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”

He met my eyes. “We’ve drifted apart. You turn 36 in a couple of months; we’re running out of time.”

“For what?”

“Another baby.”

He has got to be kidding. What kind of person thinks a baby is a good answer to a relationship crisis? “I’m really tired,” I said.

“Oh, babe,” he said, pulling me against him. “You’re tired all the time, and you never smile anymore. I’m really worried.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

We sat there, hugging each other, and then he started kissing my neck, softly, gently, and then up to my ear. His left hand started exploring my waist, then drifted upwards.

“Stop!” I said, pushing him off.

In a rage, he flung himself off the bed and shouted, “I’ll fucking go back to the study, then!”

He slammed the door behind him so hard the walls seemed to shake. I glanced at the door handle to see a lock. I scrambled across the bed and pushed the button in. In the empty bed, under the glow of lamplight, I hugged myself until morning.

* * *

Heath left early the next day, and Claire took the morning shift while I caught up on sleep. At 8:30 a.m., she roused me to drive William to school. She’d applied makeup and had put more effort into styling her hair, which made her look healthier.

As I drove William to school, my thoughts wandered so far from the task at hand that I felt outside my body.

“Mom?” William said, rousing me. We were parked at the drop-off spot. “We’re here.”

I nodded. “Have a good day.”

“Are you going to die?” he replied.

I panicked. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“The coughing. You and Dad fighting. Something is wrong with you. I’m scared.”

A woman tooted her horn at me from behind. I got out of the car, went around, and opened William’s door. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swung around to face me. “I don’t want to go to school.”

I hugged him. “Moms and dads fight. We’ll get through it.” I pulled back and smiled at him, but he didn’t.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Time for school.”

As he walked toward the gate, he dragged his feet. Fuck. I wished for a way to fix everything.

The woman behind me tooted again. I flipped her the bird, glared at her, and went back into the car, taking a few extra moments to piss her off. I took off for the house. It was time to get Claire to tell Heath the truth.

Heath’s car sat in the driveway, and my heart raced again. If Claire and he were inside talking, I couldn’t go in.

Me: Where are you?

Claire: In the studio, why?

Me: Heath came back. I’ll deal with it.

Claire: Thanks.

My hands grew clammy on the steering wheel. I let go, got out of the car, and walked slowly to the front door.

As my fingertips felt the cold knob on the front door, he came out, face red, the veins in his arms swollen. He grabbed my wrists and yanked so hard that I went sprawling onto the entranceway floor. As I turned over, he jumped on me and held me down. “Who are you?” He lifted my shirt up. “Where are the bruises? I saw them on you earlier.”

Before I had been taken in by Amy, I’d been a street criminal, and I knew how to fight. I raised my right leg, curled it around his chest, and sent him backwards.

I jumped to my feet and stood over him. “Don’t you ever touch me like that again!”

“Stop pretending,” he said. “You’re not you. Look at you, you’re ten pounds heavier than you were yesterday. It’s not fucking depression.” He grabbed my phone from the floor and tried to get through the pin lock. Failing, he threw it away. “Are you Claire?”

“Listen to yourself,” I said. “You’re crazy. You attacked me. Keep it up and I’ll take William from you.” The words came from a place of fear, I didn’t want him to hurt me again.

I tried to leave, but he blocked the way and looked desperate. “Claire, I’m sorry.” He reached out to me but I stepped back. “You’ve changed. I’m not crazy. You smell different. Laugh for me now, and when you do, it won’t even sound like you. When I kissed you, you tasted different. I’m not crazy.”

Fear and pity kept my tongue in place.

“Fuck!” he screamed, balling his hands into fists. “I’m such a fucking idiot.” He snatched up his keys and stormed from the house. The tires of his car screamed as he took off down the road.

Back at the studio, Claire had fallen asleep again. A selection of pill bottles were on the bedside table.

I shook her. “Claire.”

“Mmm…” she said. “What?”

“You need to call Heath. He’s really upset. He attacked me.”

“Okay,” she said. She sat up suddenly to cough hard. When she was gasping for air, she pointed to the oxygen mask.

I turned the apparatus on and handed it to her. She put it to her face and drew deep breaths. “I’m not feeling good,” she said.

“Heath needs you right now, you have to fight it.”

She took her phone and texted him. Her phone beeped. “He’s at the emergency ward,” she read out. Fear showed in her eyes. “What happened?”

“Call him!” I said, hating the fact I cared so much for his well-being.

She put the phone to her ear. “Heath? What happened?” She put a hand to her mouth. “I’m coming there…what do you mean no? I’m your wife, I’m coming there now.”

Claire tried to stand, but she wobbled. I wasn’t even sure she’d make it up the stairs.

“You need to tell him,” I said. “I’ll drive you there.”

“No. You go, quickly. Call me when you find out.”

“He needs his wife, Claire!”

“I’ll go in a taxi if it’s serious.”

I let go of a frustrated growl and snatched her purse up. I stormed up the stairs, and inside the main house I picked up my phone to check it for damage. As I pulled out of the driveway, I cursed them both for what they’d dragged me into.

* * *

The hospital, a familiar sight, contained all kinds of threats. Even if Heath told the doctors I was some kind of doppelganger, they’d never believe him in a psych ward, but what if they did? He’d make a bad situation worse. A waste of time for Claire, whose days were already numbered.

At the desk, I asked for Heath Khan and showed them Claire’s driver’s license.

“Take a seat,” the lady said. “The doctor will be right with you.”

Eventually a man with a white lab coat and round glasses strolled to where I was sitting.

“Mrs. Khan?” he said.

“How is he?”

The doctor scrutinized me, adding up the parts of Heath’s story that centered around me as some imposter. “Not good. He’s agitated at the moment, a bit angry. He’s been thinking about suicide and—”

“Suicide?” Alarm shot through me. “Why?”

“He thinks he’s going crazy. He thinks you’re an imposter. It’s a delusion often associated with schizophrenia. Specifically—” The doctor’s attention shifted to my wrists. “Did he do that?”

I looked down. There were bruises in a ring around my arms. “We fought. I’ve never seen him that upset before.”

“He mentioned it. Mrs. Khan, has he been paranoid around you? Has he made you feel unsafe?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, of course I feel safe around him. Today came out of nowhere.” You owe me one, Heath.

The doctor, who I now realized was a psychiatrist, took a moment to think that over. “Does your husband use drugs?”

These questions were getting personal.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said.

“Uh-huh. Any sudden changes in his behavior? Poor sleep, irritability?”

I shook my head.

“Has he banged his head, any concussions?”

“No.”

“Stress?”

“No more than usual,” I said.

“Do you think he’s a threat to your son?”

“No!” I said, frowning. “He’s a good man.”

The psychiatrist smiled warmly. “He’s very regretful about the incident. Unfortunately, Mrs. Khan, the police will be called, because those bruises on your arms count as assault.”

“Please don’t call the cops.”

“I’m bound by law. Please take a seat.” The doctor walked to the nurse’s station and spoke with them. One of the women made the call.

I sat down and waited. Two men in uniforms rolled up a half hour later. They took me to an isolated room and invited me to sit.

“Mrs. Khan, how are you?”

“Good,” I said.

“The doctor said your husband assaulted you.”

“Sounds terrible when you put it like that.” I put my hands on the table to show them. “He’s had an episode, he’s never hurt me before.”

“Never?” one of the cops said doubtfully.

“No. Never.”

“Okay, Mrs. Khan. Here’s our card, ring us if you change your mind. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said, and left the room and headed for the nurse’s station. “I want to see my husband.”

One of them heard me and smiled. “Take a seat.”

The doctor came back and invited me to walk with him down a hallway. We turned right, and then he entered a code into a keypad and swiped his card.

Heath was lying on a bed in the middle of a white room. Other furniture included a dining table and a lamp. A small but thick pane of glass sat in the wall at the back of the room. Heath rolled over and stood up.

“Can I hug you?” he asked.

I glanced at the doctor, who nodded his approval. “Okay,” I said to Heath. As he hugged me I said, “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

The psychiatrist spoke, “Heath, do you think this is Claire?”

Heath noticed my wrists. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Claire.” He looked at the doctor. “No. I don’t think it’s her.”

“How can you tell?” the doctor pressed, notepad in hand.

“She looks different. Her speech is wrong—shorter, less fun. And her eyes, they look at me, but they don’t see me.”

“Good.” The doctor took some notes. “Can you both sit down?”

We sat on one of the four chairs at the table. The doctor produced his clipboard and flipped through a sheet. “No brain abnormalities, no evidence of drugs in your toxicology. It’s unlikely due to your age that it’s schizophrenia. Something like this is often brought on by drugs.”

“But you said there were none,” I argued.

“True. Heath, we’d like to keep you in here for 72 hours. In the meantime, I’d like you to take the medication the nurse brings you, understand?”

“Okay,” Heath said, and he met my eyes. They were sad eyes; hopelessness extinguished his spirit.

As the doctor rose, I did too. “Can I have some time with Heath alone?”

The doctor looked at Heath. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not angry,” he replied.

The doctor faced me. “I’ll be just outside.” He left the room and I sat back down.

Silence fell between us, but it wasn’t long before I said, “You’re not crazy.”

“What?”

“Claire has cancer.”

He leaned his arms across the table and took my hands. “You’re sick?”

“Not me. Claire. You know I’m not Claire. I can explain everything.”

He let go and leaned back in his chair. The warmth disappeared from his eyes. “Talk. Now.”

I swallowed my fear. “We met at the hospital a week ago. She’d just received the news. She had a couple of weeks to live, and she didn’t want to put you through it. So I agreed to help her out.”

The look in his eyes scared me. “Two weeks.” His hands balled into fists. “Why…why did she hide it from me?”

“Her mom died of breast cancer. She didn’t want you to go through the same thing.”

He closed his eyes. “I can’t believe this.” Then laughter escaped his lips as his eyes opened. “I-I’m not crazy.” He glanced at the door. “Help me get out of here. I have to see her.”

“You’re on suicide watch. Here.” I passed him my cell phone. “Remember the Claire in my contacts?”

A cynical smirk formed at the corners of his lips.

“Message her. My name is Jay, by the way. I’m going back to keep her company, I’ll keep you informed from her phone.”

“Are you crazy? She needs to be in the hospital!”

“She’s dying, Heath. What can they do for her? She wants to be at home.”

He started tapping at the phone, and I said, “What are you doing?”

As he put the phone to his ear he said, “Calling an ambulance.”

I launched myself out of the chair, snatched the phone. Then he was on me, trying to peel my fingers apart. We fell to the ground.

“She’s got my wife! My wife is dying and she’s got her locked up in our house!” They grabbed him off of me, restraining him. “Her name’s Jay. She’s my wife’s twin or something, she’s—”

They jabbed a needle in his arm and he slumped, his speech slowing dramatically.

The doctor came over to me. “Are you okay?”

I was crying. “I have to go home. I’ll come back. Take care of him.”

“Mrs. Khan.” The doctor touched my back as I headed for the door. “I’m going to keep him here for a week, until we can find the source of these outbursts. Let’s talk when you return.”

I ran through the hospital, got in my car, and started hitting the steering wheel, crying. Finally I calmed down and drove back to Claire.

The clock hit 3:00 p.m. as I arrived home; Claire was at the kitchen table, the oxygen tank at her feet. “Where’s Heath?” Her voice cracked.

“He needs you at the hospital. You have to get up.”

“Look at me,” she said. “I can hardly stand up.”

“I’ll watch William. Get a taxi to take you. Heath knows we made a deal to hide your cancer from him. He attacked me again, trying to call an ambulance on you. They won’t let him out now.”

She started crying. “If I go, they’ll hospitalize me. William will find out.”

“This is what you need to do.”

“Okay.” She kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry for all this.”

Claire left in a taxi, and I picked up William from school. At dinner, when he asked where his dad was, I told him he had an urgent work issue and wouldn’t be home that night.

“You okay, Mom?” the boy asked while we watched cartoons after dinner.

“Of course.”

I held him close, wishing I could protect him from the next few days when his world would fall apart.

My phone buzzed, and I kept the screen hidden from William.

Claire: Heath’s okay. He believes our story.

Me: Did you tell him about the Change?

Claire: I said that we’re unrelated lookalikes. One thing at a time. He doesn’t blame you.

I doubted that.

Me: What now?

Claire: I’m in hospice care, and they’re running tests for Heath’s sake. Take care of William for the moment. I need more time with Heath.

Me: Take as much time as you need. You’re doing the right thing.

Claire: I know.

* * *

The next morning, I received a text while sipping coffee and watching William with his remote-controlled helicopter outside.

Claire: Heath here. Sending you a number to call. Larissa is William’s babysitter. She’ll pick him up for school. He’ll stay with her tonight. Come to the hospital after.

After calling Larissa, I told William he’d be spending the night at her place.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s up north. I’m going to join him for a night. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

William muttered under his breath, slammed drawers, and threw things around as I helped him pack. When Larissa arrived, I tried to hug him, but he turned away. Larissa shrugged. They drove away.

Back inside, I packed Claire’s sketchpad, colored pencils, and fresh clothes. Anything she might like, or I’d need.

An hour later, at the hospital, I took the short elevator ride to where Heath said they were. A nurse remarked how similar Claire and I looked as I neared her room. Slouching in a chair next to the door, a security guard with a bored expression fixed me a warning look.

“I’m Claire’s sister,” I said.

“I can see that.”

“Are you here because of…Heath?”

“Yes, ma’am. Go on in.”

Inside the room, Claire’s thinning figure made my heart heave with hopelessness. Wires and tubing were like tentacles sticking to her face and body. The ridges of her cheeks sat sharp, and her dejected blue eyes matched the oxygen-deprived color of her lips. Heath stroked her hair.

She cracked a smile upon seeing me. “Jay,” she said in a whisper. Heath jerked his head to look at me, but there was no hostility in his expression. He turned back to Claire.

I approached my dying friend and held her icy hand. She passed me her phone. “Press play on the video.”

One had already been selected, and as it began, I gasped. There I lay in my old bed, Rosie’s bed, Changing into Claire. Rosie’s old nose shrank into Claire’s feminine one, and her gray hair turned black and filled out a mild widow’s peak.

“I showed that to Heath,” she said. “Forgive me.”

Heath watched me, and I didn’t know how I felt at him seeing me writhing in pain.

“I love Claire,” he said, “and as she wishes, I want you to come stay in our family home.”

I couldn’t detect any insincerity in his tone.

“William already suspects…” I whispered.

“Yet…you look exactly like his mother.”

I met Claire’s faded blue eyes. “Then we’ll tell him I’m your twin sister.

Her eyes brightened for a moment. “I think that’s best as well.”

The doctor strode in holding test results. I excused myself.

Outside, I inhaled deeply, settling my nerves. Heath’s distressed voice travelled from inside the room. Claire had long had the opportunity to accept her fate. He hadn’t.

Heath burst out of the room and faced the wall, rubbing his eyes with his hand. He glanced sideways at me. “She’s being moved home tomorrow. Home care is our only option now.”

“You’re allowed to go?” I asked.

“Given the circumstances. Yes. We’ve been assigned a nurse to supervise Claire, and she’ll report back about me.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, but then he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug, which completely surprised me.

“Sorry,” he said, letting me go. “It’s just…awful seeing her like this.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Claire wants you with her until the end,” he continued. “She likes you. And I want to get to know you.”

“Me too,” I said. The tension retreated a little. “I’ll—” I lowered my voice. “I’ll cut my hair, dye it, try to look different. For Will’s sake.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going back.”

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

His eyebrows rose. “Okay. Bye. And thanks.”

I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for, but as I drove home I savored the solitude that allowed me and them to have some grieving time before the end days.

* * *

After visiting the salon and leaving looking like an alternative, punk version of Claire, I returned home.

My appetite sparked in the afternoon, so I fetched the spinach and feta pie leftovers, the one Claire had made, which made me cry. Sentimentality bubbled within, knowing Claire would never cook again. I put the untouched food back in the fridge.

My phone buzzed.

Heath: We’re coming home early morning tomorrow. Larissa’ll bring William over afterwards.

Me: Okay. How’s Claire?

Heath: Hanging in there. See you tomorrow.

The edges of my sanity were fraying, so I went out the back and walked to the studio. As I wandered inside, I couldn’t make it past the paintings. I flicked on the lights and one by one dwelled on each of her paintings, trying to understand them and capture her view of the world. I wanted to carry her with me always.

At two in the morning, fatigued, I dragged myself down to the basement couch to sleep.

* * *

Heath and Claire arrived in the ambulance about 9:00 a.m. After carrying her upstairs, the medics helped her to bed, where the nurse took up her tasks by turning down the sheets, fetching her a glass of water, and arranging her pillows. Meanwhile, the medics set up her machines, then said their farewells.

Claire glanced at me and snickered.

“What?”

“Your hair’s ridiculous. And those clothes!”

Her amusement turned into a coughing fit that left her gasping. A minute later, she caught her breath.

“That’s enough excitement,” Heath said.

I gave them space by reclining in their lounge area, and tried to distract myself with a magazine. Their hushed whispers made me glance over the glossy pages to see them smiling and entwining their fingers.

The front door banged downstairs, and footsteps echoed up the hallway.

“Mom!” William cried out as he came into the room, but stopped short.

“Hey, sweetie,” Claire said.

“Mom? What’s going on?” The tears started flowing. “Y-you promised me you wouldn’t die, remember?”

Claire shot me a withering look before turning back to William. “I’m here.”

William cried out and launched himself onto the bed to cuddle her. Claire nuzzled his hair and started crying.

After some time, the boy’s eyes found me. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Aunt Jay,” Claire said, “my twin sister. You met her when you were little.”

He snuggled back against her. I rose from my chair and went to perch on the edge of the bed. William watched me.

“Aunt Jay’s going to stay…a few months,” Heath said.

Larissa, who had been in the background keeping quiet until now, said, “You can definitely tell you two are sisters.”

Claire laugh-coughed. “I have better taste in clothes and hair. Ugh.”

“I’ll leave you all be,” Larissa said. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Bye, William.”

The boy quietly muttered his goodbye.

For three days, we kept saying goodbye. Love filled every moment until the end. Claire had tried to hide from death, and I had tried to hide from life. We’d both been wrong. Not one soul, not even me, could hide from either…although I might be wrong.

Maybe I will outlive normal people, only time will tell. The Change had finally brought life instead of loss, and rebirthed me to an existence surrounded by real love and acceptance. A place where I could finally lay down to rest and know that the future, the past, none of it mattered as long as I felt home.

A Word from K. J. Colt

Capgras Syndrome is a fascinating symptom which manifests as the inability to see the people around you as genuine human beings, or as the person you think they are. If it’s a loved one, you may begin to believe they’re a phony or imposter. The syndrome usually develops after head trauma, or as a symptom of schizophrenia. Schizophrenia can be somewhat explained as a person who assigns too much meaning to unrelated phenomena. For instance, a sufferer might think the television is talking to them, or that people are following them. Interestingly, Capgras Syndrome is almost like the loss of meaning (but specifically with faces). The meaning you once had about a loved one is no longer there, you know how you’re meant to feel, you have memories, and photographs, but because of the Capgras, when you look at their face you’ll feel nothing.

If a human could shift their body to take on the appearance of another person, for example a parent, then someone close to that parent like a son or daughter might start to suspect the person is unwell. Or fundamentally changed in some way. Or an imposter.

Jay, the protagonist of my story, can change into other people no matter what their body shape or sex. This happens every three months. Near the end of that three months she has strong urges to touch and be close to other people in order to obtain their biological or DNA information. That urge gets stronger and stronger until on the last day of the third month, she changes.

Of course, the story centres around Jay as a shifter and the difficulties she faces in maintaining that life, but my own fascination was in writing Heath, Claire’s husband, and how he would deal with Jay as his imposter wife. His mood swings, anger, and desperation in trying to understand why Claire was thin and pale and loving one moment, but healthy and stoic the next, fascinated me.

When people lose their sense of control on life it can trigger traits previously dormant. Perceived self-competence and efficacy is such an important part of our psychological makeup as human beings, and when the context of that competence shifts (as it does when Jay turns into Claire and doesn’t know how to act around Heath), it can destabilise psychological function and lead to erratic behaviour, as we see with Heath.

While the intellectual side of the story interested me, I think the relationships in this pretty unique situation are just as fascinating and captivating.

I hope you enjoy the story.

For more information on my words please visit my website at www.KJColt.com. Or subscribe to my newsletter at http://eepurl.com/vrX-r

She’s Such a Nasty Morsel

by Julie E. Czerneda

LIKE MANY YOUNG BEINGS, it came as something of a revelation to me that my elders had been young once themselves. Or at least younger, with all that implied about having made choices--or mistakes.

It was the latter which intrigued me most. Or formed the single defining aspect of my own life--whichever way you preferred to look at it.

Me? I’m Esen-alit-Quar, Esen for short, Es in a hurry or from a friend. During my first few centuries of life, however, I was almost always: “Esen-alit-Quar! Where’s that little troublemaker?!”

Not that I ever intended to cause trouble. In truth, I went to great lengths to avoid causing anything at all, understanding that anything which attracted the attention of my elders was not going to end well.

Unfortunately, I possess a curiosity equal to any hunger of my flesh. Half answers, hints, suggestions of “you’ll know when you’re as old as we” only fanned that curiosity, particularly as I found it hard to believe I’d ever be as old as any of my Web. The Web of Ersh. We were six, led by the oldest and thus first among us, Ersh herself. Unimaginably ancient. Different. The center of all things. And the most likely individual to find fault with me at any given moment.

Or the second-most. For Ersh had younger sisters, daughters of her flesh: Ansky, Lesy, Mixs, and Skalet. It was Skalet who took my occasional missteps as her duty to announce--or even better, cause.

Me? Oh, I sprang from Ansky’s flesh, not Ersh’s. Worse still, I wasn’t a sister/daughter--or whatever one called a relationship in which being given life was more like amputation. I’d been born.

How was this possible? The question would prompt Lesy to giggle. Solitary Skalet would scowl and confer in anxious scents or other means with the like-minded Mixs. Ansky herself would smile and say it took practice.

The subject of my origin was one I knew not to bring up around Ersh.

There was no one left for me to ask, for we six were unique and alone among all other forms of life. Only we were Web beings, able to manipulate matter and energy--more specifically, our matter and our energy--in order to disguise ourselves.

And to hold information. We were that as well. Our Web’s noble purpose was to gather and retain the accomplishments of other, ephemeral intelligences within our almost immortal flesh, shared only with Ersh, to be assimilated by her and then passed, in the amount and content she saw fit, to each of us.

The least of that bounty to me. Which didn’t help quench my curiosity, leading me very early to seek my own answers. Why? was my favorite conversation starter, perhaps because it made my elders flinch.

Now when Ersh deigned to offer the answer to a question, one had no choice but to live with the consequences. But my curiosity was so vast--or, more accurately, my ability at that age to imagine such consequences so limited--that I would continue to push Ersh for answers long after any other of my kin would wisely back away. It didn’t help that those answers were most often doled out to me, in typical Ersh fashion, not when I first asked, but rather when she felt knowing them would educate me even more than in their substance.

So it was with war.

* * *

War wasn’t a new concept to me. I’d assimilated the cultures, histories, and biologies of thousands of intelligent species from Ersh. I was familiar, if never comfortable, with war as a fact of life for some, the inevitable end of life for others.

What was new was the warfare lately shared by Skalet. Even filtered through Ersh, her memories of the Kraal’s battle for Arendi Prime and its aftermath were like a stain, affecting my every thought. How had a web-being, sworn to preserve ephemeral culture, become so very good at waging its wars?

Not that I thought the question through in quite those terms. With what Ersh would doubtless consider a selfish fixation on my own life, I wanted to avoid learning any more than I had to about war and destruction. In particular, I didn’t want any more lessons on the subject from Skalet.

Skalet probably felt the same. Certainly she made it abundantly clear our sessions together were a waste of her talents in tactics and strategy. When Ersh wasn’t in range, that is. Otherwise, as well argue with the orbit of Picco’s Moon as one of Ersh’s decisions about my education.

Still, there had to be a way. Rather than grumble to myself, I decided to go to Ansky. However, it is the way of our kind that we literally have no secrets from Ersh. Something which hadn’t actually occurred to me when I decided it was safer to approach my birth mother than the center of our six-person universe.

My chance came during Ansky’s turn to make supper, a tradition at those times when our odd family gathered in the same place, in this case, Picco’s Moon.

Carved, like the rest of Ersh’s home, from rock almost as old as she, the kitchen was a sparse, practical room, able to accommodate a variety of cooking skills while safely housing a maturing web-being prone to explode without notice. When it was just Ersh and I, food came out of the replicator and the counters became cluttered with what had her attention at the time, from greenhouse cuttings to bits of machinery. When Lesy played chef, gleaming porcelain of unusual shapes appeared, and woe betide any who disturbed her delicate--and often unidentifyable--concoctions. I was definitely forbidden entrance.

Ansky, being more competent and Esen-tolerant, greeted my arrival with a friendly, if absent-minded, wave of welcome.

“I can help,” I offered, grabbing the largest knife available and curling lip over fang in mock threat. Assorted vegetables were already cowering on the countertop.

For some reason, Ansky rescued the knife from my paw with a deft slip of an upper tentacle. She liked to cook as a Dokecian, the five-limbed form possessing sufficient coordination to stir the contents of pots, dice vegetables, and carve meat all at once. I watched her wistfully--my own ability with the form still limited to pulling myself around and under furniture, at constant risk of forgetting which handhold to release before tugging at the next. An regrettable incident involving a tableful of crystals and a coat rack had led Ersh to forbid me this form indoors.

“I’d ask you to do the dishes, but...” her voice trailed away.

My current self, my Lanivarian birth-form, abhorred water, something Ansky knew from experience. “I’ve gloves,” I assured her, my tongue slopping free between my half-gaping jaws. I resisted my tail’s urge to swing from side-to-side. Smiling was fine, but Ansky wouldn’t approve a lapse of good manners.

We settled in, shoulder to shoulders, working in companionable silence. If my washing technique lacked finesse, at least the clean dishes arrived intact on the counter. I wasn’t the only one who measured my growth by such things.

But I hadn’t come to Ersh’s steamy, fragrant kitchen--which had perfectly functional servos, so the physical effort to produce both steam and fragrance was unnecessary, but no one asked me--to be helpful. I’d come with a problem.

Of course, Ansky knew it as well. “So. What is it this time, Esen?” she asked after a few moments.

I almost lost my grip on one of Ersh’s favourite platters. “It?” I repeated, keeping my ears up. All innocence.

My birth-mother wasn’t fooled. “Let me guess. Skalet’s latest enterprise.”

My tail slid between my legs as I scrubbed a non-existent spot. Confronted by the very subject I’d hoped to discuss, I found myself unable to say another word.

“She’s become such a nasty morsel.”

I couldn’t help but stare up at her. Each of her three eyes were the size of my clenched paws. Two looked down at me, their darkness glistening with emotion. “Did you think this sharing was welcomed by any of us? The taste of her memories, even first assimilated by Ersh, were--unpleasant.”

I remembered Ersh-taste exploding in my mouth, the exhilarating flood of new memories filling my body. Remembered too much. Skalet hadn’t merely observed the Kraal’s latest war--she’d helped orchestrate it.

That conflict and her cleverness would be my next lesson. There would be lists and details beyond what Ersh had filtered for me during assimilation. Worst of all, there would be Skalet’s unconcealed pride in her work. How could she?

I wouldn’t put up with it. I’d hide until she left again. I’d--I’d undoubtably be found, reprimanded, and have my lesson anyway.

To hide the shaking of my gloved paws, I shoved them deep in the suds-filled sink to rescue drowning utensils. “I don’t understand her,” I said finally, unable to keep a hint of a growl from the words. “She acts as they do. Why?” With great daring, I clarified: “Why does Ersh permit it?”

“You’ll have to ask Ersh.”

The noise I made wasn’t polite, but Ansky refrained from comment. “When she’s ready, I’m sure you’ll find out.” Then she said something strange, something I would come to understand only later. “The forms we take are ourselves, Esen-alit-Quar. We are no more immune to our individual pasts than any civilization is immune to its history. Never fall into the trap of believing yourself other than the flesh you wear, no matter its structure. Skalet--” A tentacle nudged the pot I was holding in the air. “Enough gossip. I need that one next.”

* * *

Much later, having done Ansky’s cooking justice, I was doing my utmost to appear attentive and awake, my posture as impeccably straight as a form evolved from four-on-the-floor could manage. My involuntary yawns, however stifled, likely ruined the effect. “Was there anything else, Ersh?” I asked, before I could yawn again. It had been a longer day than most, given my now-departed web-kin had left disarray and laundry sprawled over their rooms. Being least and latest made any mess my responsibility.

The tall mound of crystal that was Ersh in her preferred form gave an ominous chime. “Should I not ask you, Youngest?”

One of those ‘examine your soul for spots’ questions. I was suddenly alert, if incapable of figuring out a safe answer.

Before I needed to do so, Ersh continued. “You would know more about Skalet’s fascination with war.”

How? I didn’t quite gnash my teeth. I should have realized Ersh would have shared with each before they left her again. I couldn’t blame Ansky. All Ersh had to do was take a nibble and she’d know all we’d done and experienced.

On the bright side, while I couldn’t deny my question, she might answer it. “Yes, Ersh,” I said hopefully.

Ersh leaned forward and I eased back, careful of my toes should she decide to tumble. A graceful and powerful mode of locomotion, but one I judged safer observed from a distance. “You wonder why I tolerate it?”

This being a far less comfortable question, I did my best to shrink in place without appearing defensive. It was a posture I’d yet to master, but the effort sometimes mollified Ersh. At least it made me feel a smaller target. Then, as usual, my inconvenient curiosity overwhelmed my sense of self-preservation. “You let her do terrible things,” I whispered. “Why?”

“I let her be her form’s self, Youngest,” a correction, but mild. “The consequences are as they are.”

“Beings suffer and die.”

“Skalet engages in war, Youngest.” As if this was an answer.

I tilted my head, wary but wanting more. “What of the Prime Laws? She ends sentience before its time.”

“The Kraal are a violent species.”

“Their species is Human,” I corrected automatically.

Ersh’s chime grew a shade testy. “A technicality. The Kraal refuse to mingle their genetic material with others of that heritage. It will not be long--as we measure time--before this is a matter of inability, not social preference. You would be wise to pay attention to this process. It is not uncommon among ephemeral cultures.”

The ploy was familiar. Distract the youngest and she’ll follow along. “Why--” I said stubbornly, “--do you let Skalet participate so fully in this culture?”

Ersh settled herself with a slide of crystal over crystal. Reflected light ran over the floor, walls, and ceiling, making me squint. “You know the beginnings of that answer, Youngest.” There was no doubt in her voice. “You were there, when Ansky and I discussed Skalet’s first mission with the Kraal. From that, everything else has followed.”

I’d been there? Before I could open my mouth to dispute this, however poor a decision that might have been, memory rearranged itself. To be more exact, memory reared up and shook me in sickening fashion from head to paw, recollections of that time before I had words of my own to use abruptly gaining coherence. With the perfect memory of my kind, it seemed I had recorded much I knew Skalet herself would have wished to know--

Or not.

* * *

Pressure mattered. Little else. Time. I knew the passage of days, marked them by movement conveyed by waves pressing against me.

Me. Me. Me. I knew me, that I existed, if then I had had no language in which to express that knowledge.

But the memory of a web-being is perfect in every detail. So it was that when Ersh challenged me to consider such things as beginnings, I recalled my own--and by so doing, I applied what I’d learned since to the experiences so precisely recalled. The result was--interesting.

The waves of pressure which so entertained my proto-self had been generated by three sources. The inner workings of Ansky’s body--the pulse of heart and lungs, the rush of blood through arteries, the gurgling of her digestive tract--all of these transferred through the amniotic fluid in which I rested as a symphony of pressures against the cells of my exquisitely sensitive skin. I’d hum along.

Then, there was the impact of large muscle movement. Oh, be sure I noticed when Ansky dropped to all fours, or stood on two legs, or bent over, or laughed.

Last, and most intriguing to recall, sound. I’d registered everything I’d heard through the walls and fluid of my living cradle through ears disposed to greater range than most sentient beings possessed.

Especially when those around me were, well, shouting.

I ignored innumerable heated ‘discussions’ about Ansky’s lamentable condition, cueing my memories to one word: Skalet. Sure enough, they’d argued about her as well.

“--Skalet? She’s incapable! A coward! I’ll tell you I’ll be fine. Send me. You know I’m better at learning culture, at blending in with other species. Let our web-kin skulk somewhere else.”

Skalet? Even as I tried to wrap my brain around what Ansky was saying, very loudly and with enough passion to shake my surroundings, Ersh replied: “Thanks to your blending, you can’t travel until this latest creation of yours is uncorked and given to its father. I intend to monitor this emerging kind of Human closely. Skalet will go and she will learn them for us.” The unspoken ‘or else’ penetrated Ansky’s abdomen; either that, or I was influenced by my subsequent wealth of experience with that tone.

My world shifted and jiggled, then a tidal wave hinted that Ansky had moved to another chair and dropped in it without care for me. Parental she wasn’t. “It won’t be long.” This with certainty. Warmth implied a paw pressed over me. I kicked at it. “She’s impatient.”

Really, I wasn’t. Especially in hindsight.

“She?” Ersh’s chime was nicely ominous. “Don’t become attached.”

Perhaps my presence--or her preoccupation with its inconvenience--gave Ansky a little more spine than usual. “Becoming attached is my skill, Ersh. Who else brings back the interpersonal details we need about a sentient species? Who learns what it is to be that form? Skalet?” The growl under the word brought an instinctive echo from me, albeit consisting of a pathetic, soundless tensing of a breathing system that had no air in it yet. “Skalet spends her time in other forms--which is as little as possible--hiding in bushes. She uses gadgets to record from a distance, then presumes to tell us she’s gathered information firsthand. But she’ll have no convenient hiding places at this Kraal outpost. As befits a culture almost constantly in conflict, they’re more paranoid than she is about surveillance. Her devices will be useless.”

“Yes.” Ersh somehow made the word smug.

* * *

I blinked free of memory, for an instant finding it odd to have air against my eyes. “You threw Skalet off a cliff,” I concluded, doing my best to restrain a likely regrettable amount of triumph at the thought. Ersh had tossed me from her mountain to encourage my first cycle into web-form. Skalet’s plunge had been no less perilous for lack of rock at the bottom. For I knew the Kraal.

Not personally, being too young in Ersh’s estimation to leave her Moon, but the assimilated memories of my web-kin were clear enough. Kraal society had evolved an elaborate structure in which every individual had an allegiance to one or more of the ruling Houses through birth or action. Moreover, those allegiances, called affiliations, were permanently tattooed on each adult Kraal’s face. While they allowed no images of themselves until death, to ensure only final affiliations were recorded for posterity, their gates were guarded by those who remembered faces exceedingly well. Only those who had been introduced by a known and trusted individual would be admitted, given that advancement through Kraal nobility typically involved assassination of rivals by as clever a means as possible.

Not a group to overlook a stranger.

“Why?” My favourite question. I stared at Ersh, a mountain of crystal shaped in hardness and edge.

Her voice could be as warm and soft as any flesh. “Why did I put her at risk? Because Skalet resisted being other than herself. The idea of a different form influencing who she was terrified her. She would be crippled by that fear, useless to our Web, unless forced to live it.”

“Why the Kraal?” I whispered.

“A act of charity, Youngest.” I must have looked confused, because Ersh clicked her digits together with an impatient ring. “Like Skalet, Kraal do not welcome physical contact, unless in practice drills. Like Skalet, they do not welcome personal questions. They share an obsession with intellect and games. And respect authority.”

I ignored the last, most likely aimed at me. “What happened?”

As Ersh winked into the blue teardrop of her web-form, I realized my curiosity was once more taking me where I’d doubtless regret going.

Not that fear could stop instinct. I released my hold on this form, cycling into my true self, and formed a mouth for Ersh’s offering of the past.

* * *

Gloves froze and stiffened; coat fabric froze and crinkled. The slight whoof of air that escaped the face mask with each breath added its moisture to the rim of ice searing both cheeks and chin, that flesh rapidly losing all feeling anyway. Another being might have feared the cold, the darkness, and the howl of a wind that ripped unchallenged across this plain of floating ice from an empty ocean 600 km away.

Then again, another being wouldn’t have preferred chipping frost from the antenna array, a duty that entailed far more than finding and climbing a ladder in the dark, over company and warmth. But Skalet craved these moments of solitude, no matter how punishing to her Humanself.

For the Kraal outpost was as close to a hell as any Human legend remembered by the Web. At the southern pole of an uninhabited world known only by a number, those assigned to it faced two seasons: a summer of sharp blinding ice crystals, in air that struggled up to -20C under an unsetting sun; or a winter of utter darkness, where ceaselessly drifting snow erased the tracks of any who dared move outside at temperatures that solidified oil, let alone flesh.

Not that either season made hiding easier. In the summer, movement could only be concealed within tunnels through the snow, joining each of the domes. In the winter, radiation leaked by suit or building would betray them. For this was an outpost of that deadly kind: a spy set in place for a war that might come their way, at best an expendable asset, at worse, a prized target.

Skalet, to her surprise and growing dismay, fit in too well.

The eighteen stationed at the outpost were, to put it plainly, disposable. The arrival of another such was occasion for no more than a shifting of bunk assignments. Skalet’s calm acceptance of a lowermost bed had nothing to do with stoicism, although it impressed the Kraal. Dumping heat was essential for a web-being forced to hold another form and the temperature at floor level in all the buried domes was close to the freezing point. A cold bed was thus, as Skalet would say, convenient.

But her behaviour set a pattern. Ersh’s orders and her situation notwithstanding, our reluctant web-kin wanted as little to do with Kraal as possible. She took the worst shifts. She’d seek out the most dangerous, dirty tasks and do them alone. She’d eat first or last and clean up every trace of her existence. Unfortunately for Skalet, everything she did to avoid the other eighteen at the outpost only served to enhance her reputation. The others admired her fortitude, nicknamed her ‘Icicle,’ and whispered of rapid promotion. Several went so far as to broach offers of support, gambling, with the single-mindedness of true Kraal, her inevitable rise in rank would similarly increase that of her allies.

Skalet had no idea how to stop any of it, short of disobeying Ersh and fleeing this world.

Case in point, this afternoon’s trip out to the antenna array. Skalet would have let someone else take the dangerous duty--and praise--but such excursions were her only escape from the populated tunnels and tiny rooms of the outpost.

And there was, she admitted, a peculiar satisfaction in pushing this form to its limits. There could be no radiation released outside the protection of the walls and snow cover--a snow cover that had to be routinely reduced or they’d be buried permanently. Such radiation would not only risk discovery of what was to be a secret from all Kraal but House Bryll, but would also ruin the observations being made by the sensitive equipment--the reason for being here in the first place.

This meant no light or beacons to guide her from the safety of the outpost to the array. Instead, Skalet reached for and found the guideline leading from the dome entrance to the distant equipment. If she let go, it was a step in any direction to be completely lost. If she was in truth what she seemed, it would be a long while before her frozen body would be recovered.

They’d lost two techs this winter, before her arrival, a distressing tally even for the Kraal.

Skalet knew every step of this journey, the ramp-like rise to the surface from the dome entrance, the hit of wind, the emptiness to every side.

But even she kept her glove, stiff and frozen, on the line there and back.

It took as long to peel off the rock-hard layers of frozen cold-weather gear as it had to stagger out to the array, dig free the ladder’s base, climb the ladder, dig free the chipping tools, and hammer clear the tracks, wires, and supports. All the while the wind. All the while the knowledge that nothing else stood above ground. Hopefully.

Skalet fought her numb fingers and toes, hanging her coats by their hoods on the hooks lining the corridor walls. No space was wasted. Her gloves went into mesh hanging from the ceiling, taking advantage of the warmer air to dry. Boot liners joined the gloves. Drops of sweat melted from her hair and she swept the loose strands impatiently beneath their strapping. She’d shave the stuff, but to be inconspicuous among the fashion-obsessed Kraal of this era meant shoulder-length locks confined by annoying leather bands. Inefficient.

A similarly-banded head popped out from one of the small round doors. “Good timing, Icicle.”

Skalet raised one eyebrow. “How so, Lieutenant?”

Lt. Maven-ro, a capable sparring partner when not exhibiting a curiosity the equal of a certain web-kin’s, and as little welcome, flicked her fingers against the bright red tattoo curled on her right cheek. House Bryll held her affiliation, that promise of unquestioned obedience, if not the return vow of unwavering protection. Front-line Kraal soldiers understood their worth. Skalet’s own cheek bore a twin mark, though applied in paint rather than imbedded ink. “We’ve guests.”

Guests? How had she missed an arriving transport? Alarmed, Skalet reached for the knives in her belt. The energy weapons the Kraal favoured were forbidden within the domes. Fire was the enemy; extinguishers hung at intervals on every wall and drills woke them just as regularly. Were these guests a new threat?

“An unexpected visit, but by one who is entitled to do so.” Maven-ro’s eyes gleamed approval. “Come. A meeting’s called. Your presence is commanded, Icicle. If you’ve sufficiently thawed, that is.”

Humour. The Kraal, like other Humans, were prone to its use in stressful situations. Skalet saw no purpose to it.

It didn’t help her feel any better at the thought of some Kraal authority interested in her.

* * *

Meetings were held in the one room large enough to hold everyone, the dining hall. Not by accident, it was the only portion of the outpost to benefit from the Kraal aesthetic--at least to the extent that the wall without kitchen equipment was crusted with gilded metal plaques commemorating the achievements of House Bryll in battle. A small and central spot was reserved for accomplishments from this obscure little outpost. The Kraal were also afflicted with Human optimism.

In Skalet’s judgment, the expected future of the place was more accurately seen in the lack of ornamentation anywhere else. The poorest Kraal House indulged in ostentatious display everywhere possible; even warships boasted wood carving and lush upholstery. Here was ice, frost-covered metal, and bags of supplies.

Reluctantly accepting her tiny glass of serpitay, the ceremonial drink no Kraal gathering of import could start without, Skalet eased behind others. She couldn’t disappear from view completely; her Humanself was taller than most of the Kraal assigned here. Every set of shoulders was braced, as if ready for anything.

A querulous voice demanded “This is all?”

“The full complement, Your Eminence.” The outpost’s commander, Dal-ru, touched the backs of his hands to his tattooed cheeks and bowed, a gesture echoed by everyone in the room. “We await your pleasure.”

The pleasure they awaited belonged to the oldest Kraal Skalet had ever seen for herself. Ersh-memory held older, but not by much. In a culture like the Kraal’s, such age meant extraordinary value to a House, toughness, or, most likely, both. The female’s maze of tattoos warred with wrinkles; her face might have been heartwood, ringed by the passing of countless seasons, a record of survival and success, for they were the same among Kraal.

Impressive.

“What’s the status of the fleet?”

“Fleet, Your Eminence?” Skalet was amused by the immediate tensing by everyone in the room. She knew, as well as they, there’d been nothing on their scans for months. Which put the obedient Kraal likely to offend this noble no matter what. Dal-ru took the braver course. “We haven’t detected any ship movements.”

Her Eminence had not come alone, although her entourage was peculiarly small for a noble away from flagship or homeworld. Undoubtably, Skalet thought, others waited outside the domes, perhaps within the connecting tunnels. A courier, for such the noble must be, travelled with sufficient force to affect the actions desired by her House. Here and now, she was flanked by only two black-garbed guards, taller than Skalet, more muscular than the most fit crew of the outpost, girded with every weapon possible, including several that would be fatal to all if used in this room. Now, one stooped to whisper something urgent in the courier’s ear. She shooed him away impatiently. “Then that’s the status, isn’t it?” she snapped. “I trust you have eyes on all scans for when that changes?”

Seven Kraal bowed hurriedly and dashed from the room. Two had been in front of Skalet. Thus exposed, she found herself caught by the curious regard of the old noblewoman’s milky eyes. “Who are you?”

Skalet’s bow was impeccable, the brush of knuckles to fake tattoo exquisite. Inwardly, she trembled. “S’kal-ru, Your Eminence. Tech Class--”

“Ah. The Dauntless Icicle. Attend me.” The noblewoman rose to her feet without assistance, a smooth efficient motion that lifted Skalet’s eyebrow in involuntary appreciation. Admirable.

* * *

I knew Ersh filtered my web-kin’s reactions to their own experiences before sharing them with me, probably viewing most as non-essential to my learning. Oh, I assimilated physical sensations, such as taste, and useful emotions such as fear, but, to this point in my life, the latter came to me so dimmed the memories could have belonged to any of us. This sharing was different. The intensity of Skalet’s fascination with the old Kraal came through as clearly as the remembered chill from the outpost. I fluffed out my fur and shivered. “I thought Skalet didn’t want to be noticed.”

“What have I told you about asking questions before you’ve finished assimilating?”

“Wasn’t a question,” I mumbled, hastily dipping back into memory.

Ersh, as usual, was right. I now owned this part of Skalet’s past–whether I wanted to or not.

* * *

“They tell me you don’t feel the cold, S’kal-ru. Is this true?”

Skalet, granted the unthinkable privilege of being allowed to sit in the presence of such high rank, hesitated.

“Come now. I didn’t invite you here to be a statue. If you won’t converse, let me hear that lovely voice of yours. Your commander didn’t exaggerate. Surely you sing.”

Banter, from someone like this, was even more unthinkable. Skalet felt her skin warming as her stressed form dumped heat. Luckily, this intimate setting was, as befitted the outpost, barely above freezing. Their breath mingled and twisted in the air like the fumes of forgotten dragons. “I don’t sing, Your Eminence,” Skalet said with a hidden shudder, then added honestly. “I don’t mind the cold.”

“You don’t let yourself mind it. That is good. Very good. So few learn to control the flesh, to put aside the instincts that would keep us cowering by the fire.”

As this didn’t seem to require a response, Skalet merely looked attentive. Her Eminence had taken Dal-ru’s office, a room hardly used since its location in a poorly insulated storage dome made it impossible to heat properly. Cases of beer lined the wall behind the ancient Kraal. She’d ignored them, more intent on this strange conversation.

“So tell me, Icicle, of the state of affairs among the Houses of Bract, Noitci, and Ordin.”

On familiar ground again, Skalet took care to answer as any Kraal here could. “The Bract and Noitci share fourth, possibly fifth level historical affiliations; both hold ninth level affiliation with House Bryll. Ordin is a newer House, also affiliated to House Bryll.” She flicked her fingers over her tattoo. “Through us, Ordin gains third level affiliation with both Bract and Noitci.”

The wrinkles and tattoos reshaped into a look of pure satisfaction. “The nexus being ours. The position of strength.”

Skalet frowned slightly in thought, but didn’t dare speak.

She didn’t have to. The Kraal was terrifyingly good at reading faces. “You see some flaw,” she guessed softly. “Interesting. Tell me. I grant you leave to criticize your own House.”

“As you wish.” Challenged, Skalet drew upon memory. “House Arzul, powerful yet inherently unstable, recently lost reputation and ships to Noitci, itself a fairly weak House but, thanks to a high-status alliance, temporarily enjoying a tenth level affiliation with Bract, one of the strongest and noblest.” She found herself warming to her topic. Her own kin had no appreciation for the subtlety of this culture. “Arzul will rally to reclaim those losses. The nobles of Ordin are too impatient for power and lineage to let this opportunity slip by, or worse, be taken by a rival. They will attack Arzul, acquire affiliation with Noitci through blood debt, and thus gain ties to Bract. Unless House Bryll acts, it will be forced from the nexus to the outside of a new, powerful set of alliances, losing a great deal of status. Perhaps more than a House can afford to lose.” A disgraced Kraal House was like a fresh corpse to scavengers. Something to dismember.

“Acts how?” softer still. The Kraal noble leaned forward, creased chin on one palm, sunken eyes intent on Skalet. “Go on.”

Skalet could see it so clearly, like pieces on a board before a skilled hand swept them aside. “A preemptive move against Bract. Remove its alliance with Noitci by assassinating the First Daughter before her union, then remove the five who remain in the Bract Inner Circle.”

The wrinkles mapped nothing worse than curiosity. “You’d sacrifice a powerful ally and two former lovers of mine to what gain, S’kal-ru?”

“The audacity of the strike would enhance our affiliation with Ordin, a House of significant future promise should Bryll help it survive its own impetuousness. At the same time, Arzul would lose its patron, removing it as a threat to Noitci. Noitci, its alliance cut, would in turn be diminished, as would any affiliations outside of House Bryll held by Noitci and Arzul, drawing both closer to Bryll. Finally, and most importantly, existing alliances would mean the Inner Circle of Bryll would dominate that of Bract in the next generation. The closest affiliations between Houses of true power. All Kraal would benefit.”

“This presumes success.”

Skalet let herself smile, nothing more.

“Few think in generations. They want gains now, in their lifetimes.”

“’What are lifetimes but strokes on a canvas?’”

“You quote N’kar-ro. Not easy reading, S’kal-ru. Again, you impress.” The noble paused, wrinkles deepening. “How has Bryll overlooked such quality as yours?”

Not a safe question. “I should return to duty, Your Eminence.”

“Your duty is to keep me company while we wait.”

“Wait for what?” Skalet’s own audacity shocked her.

The courier merely nodded, as if she’d expected the question. “For fools, S’kal-ru, who lack your grasp of tactics. Oh, they see the same patterns, but rather than the prick of a pin in the hollow of a neck, the certainty of poison built for one, they prefer the sound of trumpets and mountains of rubble.”

“A planetary assault force?” Skalet’s eyes widened. All she’d learned of Kraal pointed to a growing control and finesse of conflict, not a return to the devastating attacks that had almost ended this race in its infancy. “Against what target?”

The other woman’s mouth twisted and she turned her head to spit decorously over her own shoulder. “Farmland. Factories. The uninvolved. The sous.”

Sous. Non-combatants. The quiet majority of Kraal, who served their affiliations through a lifetime of peace and accomplishment, fueling the vast economy that afforded the great Houses their wealth--by convention and utter common sense, untouchable.

Until now. “You must stop them!” Skalet blanched at the ring of command in her own voice. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. I meant no disrespect.”

“I heard none. Conflict as a challenge to advance a House tempers our society. Strip challenge from conflict and we become no better than Ganthor, squabbling for the day’s profit. Yet even that shame can be forgiven, with time.” Her fingers formed a gnarled fist, punching down through the air between them. “To attack those who provide for all? That, S’kal-ru, is to court our own extinction. Which is why I need you, Icicle.”

Perhaps some part of Skalet remembered the Ersh and the Prime Law. If so, she made a choice to disregard both for the first time in her life.

“What do you want me to do, Your Eminence?”

* * *

Circles within circles, folded back on each other until the overall pattern of Kraal society appeared more an orgy of snakes than an organization of Humans--or those whose ancestry traced back to the same trees. Despite the perception of the non-Kraal, war had never been a game to those who created the Great Houses and defended them. They waged their power struggles without losing sight of the future or their desire to make it as they wished. There was much to admire in a culture that took charge of its own evolution.

Until those who believed they had the right chose the short path, the one that wasted the lives and resources on which the future depended.

Skalet fastened the strap of her goggles around her neck then methodically checked the laces and zips of her clothing. One opening and this form could suffer frostbite and impairment. She could risk neither tonight.

Her role was deceptively simple, elegant in Kraal terms. The Bryll assault fleet would pass in range of this outpost on its way to attack the Bract home system, to take advantage of their scans to detect and warn of any Bract ships in the area. Their fleet would remain unseen until it was too late to mount a defense. Except that Her Eminence, as Courier to Bryll’s Inner Circle, specifically those within that Circle in opposition to those mounting the assault, had sent a coded message to the Bract, recommending this system as the ideal place for an ambush.

Bryll would sacrifice her own, Skalet the pin to prick the unsuspecting throat.

Maven-ro, always alert to comings and goings, appeared in her doorway. “Didn’t you just come in, Icicle?”

“Hours back.” Skalet shrugged her fur-cased shoulders. “Weather’s worsening. We can’t risk anything impeding reception.” She flicked two fingers against her pseudo-tattooed cheek. They’d all been briefed by Dal-ru on the importance of protecting the fleet.

Maven-ro’s look wasn’t as approving as usual. In fact, she began to frown. “It’s bad enough out there even Her Emminence’s guard has come inside. There’s no indication of ice buildup yet. Stay.”

Skalet lifted a brow. “If I wait until there’s a problem, it could be too late. You know that.”

The Kraal shook her head. “There’s attention to duty and there’s being a fool, S’kal-ru. The wind’s have doubled. You won’t be able to stay on your feet, let alone hold to the guideline.”

Skalet rattled the clip and safety cable around her waist. “I’m prepared.”

Maven-ro threw up her hands. “Fine. Go freeze stiff. If we find you this spring, we’ll stand you up as a flagpole.”

It didn’t seem humour. Puzzled, Skalet watched as the other walked away, slamming a door unnecessarily behind her, then returned to her own preparations.

* * *

It was worse. Unimaginably worse. The moment the outer door retracted, the wind howled inside the tunnel, blowing Skalet off her feet, rolling her along the icy floor until she hit the yielding edge of a fuel bag. The rubbery material gave her a grip as she pulled herself to her feet.

At least it was a steady wind, to start. She could force her way against it and did, reaching first the door frame, then the outer wall, and, after groping in the dark, the guideline. She clipped herself to it, and pressed out into the night.

Lean, drag a foot free, move it up and forward, push it into yielding softness to the knee, to the thigh. Skalet couldn’t predict her footing. Drifts were curling and reforming like living things. All she could do was drag the other foot free, up and forward, push it down, and progress in lurches and semi-falls.

She’d run out of choices. There was no living mass except that behind her. Without a source, she could not release her hold on this form and chose another, more suited to surviving these conditions. Not and return to the outpost as S’kal-ru. Only living matter could be assimilated into more web-flesh, and she’d need to replace what she used.

There was escape. She almost considered it as the wind lifted her for an instant, her grip torn from the guideline, one outer glove sailing free and only the cable jerking snug around her waist keeping her in place. She could cycle into a form that flew on this wind, pick one able to hide beneath ice for however many decades it would take for Ersh to notice her absence and send one of her kin to retrieve her. Disgraced.

Skalet dropped to the ground as the wind caught its breath, then drove herself to her feet. If she failed for whatever reason, Her Eminence had another option. She could destroy the outpost and all the talented, complicated beings in it, including herself. Wasteful.

It was only a question of one step after another. This form would obey her will. It would endure. Skalet pulled her right hand, now clad only in the liner, within the sleeve of her innermost coat, shoving the cuff through her belt as tightly as possible. She would need those fingers able to function once at the ladder.

Her goggles were coated with snow, despite the fur-trim around her hood. No matter. What use were eyes without light? She leaned into the wind again, trusting to the cable. One step after another, a movement that grew only more difficult as she lost feeling below her knees. No matter. She could not control time or the movement of starships, but she could control this body. It would succeed.

At some point, the howl dimmed to a whine and the force pushing her back lessened. Skalet smiled, lips cracking, blood burning her chin. She had reached the array.

The clip had frozen shut. Rather than waste energy fighting it, Skalet drew her knife and cut the cable around her waist. She staggered and caught herself with a grip on the ladder as the wind tried to peel her away again. The climb was a nightmare. Not only were the lower rungs half-buried in a rising drift, but she could not longer judge where her feet would land. Three times Skalet neared the top, only to lose her grip and slip back down.

Once on the platform, she didn’t bother looking for the ice-breaking tools. Skalet felt her way down the nearest strut to its linkage with the rest, found the fastener. She drew her knife once more, then shook her head. No traces. Even if House Bryll was as devastated as the courier implied, there would be an investigation. Like other Humans, the Kraal were curious, tenacious beings. Unlike other Humans, the Kraal took the assignment of fault to extremes. For the crew of this outpost to outlive their doomed fleet, this had to appear an accident.

Skalet put away her knife and pulled off the outer glove on her left hand, securing it in her belt. Her fingers numbed almost immediately, but she managed to grip the fastener and twist. It was meant to be mobile to -70oC, so the antenna could be replaced at need. It wouldn’t budge.

Cursing substandard equipment, Skalet stripped off her gloves, restraining a cry as the wind seemed to flay her skin. She pressed both palms around the fastener, warming it with her own, slightly greater than Human, heat. The core of her body seemed to chill at the same time, a dangerous theft. Skalet fought to hold form as much as she fought to keep her hands where they had to stay.

Another twist. Nothing. She screamed in fury and drove her fist into the metal, feeling a knuckle break, but something else give as well. Satisfaction. Another twist and the fastener came free.

By now, Skalet’s hands were shaking so violently she could barely get them back into the gloves. She couldn’t feel any difference with the protection on, but knew it was necessary. Form-memory was perfect. If she lost fingers to frostbite, she’d remember herself that way forever. She refused to believe it might be too late.

Meanwhile, the wind, now her ally, was busy at work. The strut creaked and groaned, succumbing to the force hammering it. Skalet touched the support, feeling irregular shudders. Good. It would take only the slightest of bends to make the antenna uncontrollable. As if hearing her thoughts, the strut snapped and the array began to tilt.

The outpost -- and the fleet -- were blind.

Time to leave. Skalet made her way back down the ladder, groping in the dark with her left hand for the guideline. The right she’d drawn inside her coat completely, cradling it next to her heart, a source of searing pain as the flesh thawed and the abused knuckle complained of ill treatment. Reassuring.

She’d anticipated an easier return journey, the wind shoving from behind and her trail already broken through the drifts. Instead, with a perversity she should have expected, the wind was a wall in her face and her footsteps had filled with snow. There was only the guideline and the strength of her grip on it.

Her progress became a series of forward stumbles, never quite on her knees, never quite stopping. At any moment, Skalet expected to collide with a Kraal hurrying from the outpost to see what had gone wrong, to try a futile repair. Ephemeral and fragile, yet they readily risked their fleeting lives. Exceptional.

Then the line came alive in her hand, yanking her backwards into the snow before becoming limp. Skalet stood and gave a sharp pull in the direction of the outpost. The line came towards her with no more tension than its weight dragging through the snow.

The entire array must have become unstable, the bent antenna a sail catching too much wind. Whether the structure had toppled to the ground or merely leaned didn’t matter. It had moved enough to pluck the uncuttable guideline from the outpost dome.

So much for meeting a Kraal.

So much for finding her way back.

* * *

I whined and curled in a ball, my tail covering nose and eyes with a plume of fur. Despite this, and despite being perfectly safe and warm, I shook miserably. I’d assimilated nothing like this before. I’d never felt what it was like to truly risk one’s formself. My other web-kin, being far more sensible, would have cycled long before this point. I would have. Skalet’s resolve was as horrifying as the Kraal themselves.

If I could have stopped remembering, I would have. But Ersh had given me all of it and I whirled through Skalet’s memories as haplessly as a snowflake--or the Kraal fleet.

* * *

This form reacted to fear with a rush of blood to the ears, a sickness in the stomach. Skalet ignored biology, intent on her problem. She couldn’t see, feel, or hear her way to safety. The broken line in her hand, however, would give her the distance from the array to the outpost. The wind in her face would give her direction. A risk, given that same wind had already swung 180 degrees, but an acceptable one. If she reached the end of the guideline and found nothing, she could walk in an arc bounded by the line--if she could move it--and have a fifty percent chance of being right. Or have to abandon this form when it reached its physiological limit.

But not before.

The guideline proved harder to combat than the wind. Though light, its length gave it considerable mass and weight. Exposed portions flailed with every gust, the rest being buried by the snow of a continent. Skalet barely managed to hang on to the piece by her side and keep moving. Her best estimate put her near or within the outer ring of domes, but they were difficult to detect under good conditions, let alone in the dark. Her goal was the ramp down to the central dome.

Her feet started fighting a drift larger and more compact than most she’d encountered. Gasping with effort, Skalet nonetheless felt a thrill of hope. There were always drifts curving around the slight rise of each dome. She began step down the other side and suddenly lost her footing as well as her grip on the line. Before she could recapture it, it was gone.

Skalet sat on the slope of the drift and replayed memory. She knew this area, had walked its winter night a hundred times. Yes. She should be able to see the dome from here.

Skalet pulled her hand from inside her coat, using both to remove her goggles. Instantly the cold hit her eyes and lashes, freezing them shut. She rubbed away the beads of ice to peer into the darkness, flinching at needles of hard, dry snow.

There. Skalet threw herself at that dimmest of glows, refusing to believe it was anything but the rim of the door she’d left hours earlier. Seconds later, she was moving down the ramp, waist-deep in new snow but out of the wind at last. The door. Her fingers wouldn’t work any more. Sobbing with fury, tears freezing to her cheeks, Skalet fought this betrayal as she tried to open the latches.

They opened of their own accord, a figure mummified in fur blocking the light from within. With an incoherent cry, the figure caught Skalet in gloved hands and drew her inside.

The warmth, near the freezing point, was an exquisite agony. Skalet shuddered on the iced floor, gulping air that didn’t burn her lungs. The figure pulled off hood and goggles, becoming Maven-ro.

She crouched beside Skalet. “So the Icicle can freeze after all,” she shook her head. “Give your report then get to medical. Scan’s gone down at the worst possible time. I’m off to see what I can do about it.”

“No... no point,” Skalet wasn’t vain about her voice as a Human, but even she was shocked by its reed-thin sound. She got to her knees, wheezing: “The array...it’s collapsed...the storm. Guideline’s ripped loose...”

Maven-ro’s face paled beneath its tattoo, but her mouth formed a firm line. “It is our privilege to serve. The fleet relies on us, S’kal-ru.” She stood, replacing her goggles and hood. “I must see what can be done.”

With her better hand, Skalet found and held the other’s sleeve, used it to pull herself to her feet. What she hoped were feet--she couldn’t feel them. She didn’t understand why she felt compelled to stop the Kraal; a flaw in this form, perhaps. “There’s duty and there’s being a fool. You told me that, Maven-ro.” She staggered and Maven-ro was forced to steady her. “Dare you think I would give up and return if there was any hope of restoring the array?”

Maven-ro lowered her head. She dragged off her goggles with one hand, keeping the other firm on Skalet’s belt. “Forgive me, S’kal-ru. There are none braver--” Her fingers flattened protectively over the tattoo on her cheek; her eyes, haunted, lifted to meet Skalet’s. “But now I fear the worst.”

* * *

Hands and feet bandaged with dermal regenerators, which with typical Kraal sensibility did nothing to relieve pain, Skalet was in no mood for company. But her visitor that outpost night wasn’t one she could refuse, however dangerous.

The courier waved the med tech from the tiny clinic. “Have you heard, S’kal-ru?”

The surprise attack, the ragged desperate signals, and incoming casualty lists had silenced the domes. Kraal walked in a daze, huddled in anguished groups, worried about their future, their affiliations. Except this one. “You brought down your own House,” Skalet observed, curious. Under the blanket, her bandaged fingers gripped a knife.

The courier smiled. Her age-spotted fingers lifted to the mask of tattoos on her face, selected one. “With you as my poison, I have cleaned it of those who would have destroyed it. Bryll will rise to prominence once more.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“But you doubt your own future.”

Skalet smiled thinly. “I’m a realist. With what I know, I should prepare to disappear.” Which, given transport and a moment unobserved with some living mass, S’kal-ru the Kraal would do.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Let go the knife. You are of more value than risk to me.”

A figure of speech? Then again, a noble who aged in this society would be no fool at all. Skalet brought her empty hand above the blanket.

“Good. I have another future for you to consider, S'kal-ru. I warn you. It means none of the comforts of homeworld or hearth. No lineages sprung from your flesh.”

“I don’t seek such things.”

“No. No, I believe you don’t. Yet you embody all that Kraal aspires to be, which is why I won’t see you wasted.” As Skalet twitched, the tattoos around the other’s lips writhed. A smile, perhaps. “Hear me out.”

“I’m at your command, Your Eminence.”

“The Noble Houses must communicate, one to the other, even in times of distrust and blood debt. To this end exist such as I, individuals of such clear honour we are given extraordinary latitude without hesitation. There are no watches on our comings and goings. No impediments to our actions; no constraint beyond affiliation. We are few, but we are crucial to the survival of our civilization, as you have seen. I would have you train as my successor, S’kal-ru.” The old Kraal moved her hand slowly, carefully, towards Skalet’s cheek. Involuntarily, Skalet reared her head back and away. Then, for no reason save self-preservation, she froze to permit the touch. Cold, dry fingers traced the fake tattoo once, lightly. “This might pass muster here, but never on a Kraal world. If you permit me, I will make it real. A ninth-level affiliation through me to House Bract, today’s power. What do you say, Icicle?”

To be secretive yet a decision-maker, to be needed for her abilities, not just as another collector of dry facts and genetic information.

Skalet found a way to bow gracefully, even lying down.

* * *

“I take it you finished.” Ersh tumbled to where I stood staring out the window. Picco’s orange reflection cast shadows the colour of drying blood. I found it singularly appropriate.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s called seduction, isn’t it. When you are brought to desire something until it’s impossible to refuse it.”

“Apt enough.” A chime that might have been pleasure. Or impatience. The tones were regrettably similar. “Skalet might not have grown so--attached--to this culture, had she not been taught to thrive in it.”

“Thrive?” I growled. “She’s responsible for the deaths of thousands.”

“That’s what war is, Youngest,” Ersh agreed. “A uniquely ephemeral conceit, to settle disputes by ending life.”

“Then why? Why do you let Skalet continue? Why not send Ansky or the others?”

“Why tolerate insolence?” I acknowledged the rebuke by lifting my ears, which had plastered themselves to my skull in threat when I wasn’t paying attention. Ersh touched a fingertip to the stone sill of the window and the bell-like sound echoed from the corners of the room. Apology accepted. “Skalet’s mission to the Kraal outpost was her first successful interaction with another species. It has been her only success. She can spy on any species, glean information from a host of cultures, but fails every time to get closer. Except with the Kraal. So you see, Youngling, it is not always simple to decide which of your web-kin goes where. It matters where they feel they can belong.”

I had to assume Ersh was telling me something important, but it made no sense. “Skalet wants to belong to the Kraal?”

Ersh didn’t often laugh as a Tumbler. The species was prone to a more taciturn outlook. But now she tinkled like a rush of wind through icicles. “Esen-alit-Quar. You have so much to learn. Skalet may be obsessed with the Kraal and this form, but she is one of us above all else. She would never forge true bonds outside our Web.”

I shuddered at the thought, heretical and yet attractive, in the way sharp edges attract fingertips. There was a trap I would avoid at all costs. Along with war.

Like many young beings, I would have to wait for the future to prove me wrong.

A Word from Julie E. Czerneda

Esen-alit-Quar. Esen for short. Es in a hurry or between friends.

I’m often asked which of my characters is most like me. I try not to answer. It’s one of those embarrassing questions for an author.

However, I now confess what’s likely obvious to anyone who’s taken a walk anywhere with me when I’m in “oh, look at the slime!” mode. Fine. Yes. It’s Esen.

Or rather, writing Esen lets me be myself, more than any other stories.

On her behalf, I’m free to gather the real life oddities that fascinate me, then use them to create aliens and environments to my heart’s content, most often while chuckling to myself. Through her adventures, I can express the wonderful, messy, amazing complexity that is life, and my joy in it. I’ve done so in three books so far, Beholder’s Eye, Changing Vision, and Hidden in Sight, as well as short fiction. There’s more coming. I can’t possibly stop now! (And my editor loves Esen too.)

Esen and her web, including Skalet, featured in this story, came about when I was teaching animal behaviour. I pondered on k-strategists: long-lived organisms who reproduce slowly and in low numbers. Like us. Elephants. I extrapolated, as SF-minded scientists do. What if an organism had an immensely long life span? How could that be in the first place? I came up with the notion of beings able to manipulate their own mass and energy. As a consequence, they could assume—at the molecular level—the form of any species they’d tasted. Memory would be part of that. Each would be who she really was, regardless of form.

What would such beings do? Why, they’d be collectors, I decided. Archivists who stored the accomplishments of more ephemeral intelligent species. (I’m not interested in the bored, tragic immortal. Strange and different, yes.)

Enter Esen, youngest of her kind and the first to have a friend. With the very best motives and the worst luck.

Her elders, especially Skalet, are aghast.

Let the fun begin!

Since 1997, Canadian author and former biologist Julie E. Czerneda has shared her love and curiosity about living things through her science fiction, published by DAW Books.

Recently, she began her first fantasy series: Night’s Edge with A Turn of Light, which won the 2014 Aurora Award for Best English Novel. A Play of Shadow followed, winning the 2015 Aurora.

While there’ll be more fantasy, Julie’s back in science fiction to complete her Clan Chronicles series. Reunification #1: This Gulf of Time and Stars, was released November 2015, with Reunification #2: The Gate to Futures Past out September 2016.

For more, visit www.czerneda.com, or find Julie on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

Baba Yaga and the Quantum Universe Theory of Shapeshifting

by Kim Wells

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

― Arthur C. Clarke

Yaga

THE OLD WOMAN SAT in the honored place by the fire. Its golden-red brilliance showed the many lines in her face, a craggy map of experiences, and the sparkle in her eyes gleamed as she began her story.

“Children, this night, I will tell you a story of when this Earth stretched over the water and shaped into mountains and valleys…”

The children knew that this was the beginning of one of the oldest tales. They whispered and shifted in their spots, warm and companionable. They had all sat next to their favorite cousin or sister, ready to hear the story, told by the oldest Baba in the clan. She always told the best stories, the ones that could chase away the fears and silence the gnawing terror of wolves in the distance. She was like a mountain, steady and firm, but also comforting when someone needed a hug because of a scraped knee, or a more potent medicine for a deep cough. None of the children believed she would ever not be there for them. She simply was.

In the excitement of the pre-story hush, one of the younger babies cried, ready for its mother, and was passed back to the circle of parents just behind. The parents remembered being in the front by the fire, and they smiled at each other, faces familiar from years of winter nights together. They knew: This was a good one, and a scary one, and one that everyone needed to hear.

No one spoke or moved or dared even breathe loud as the Baba continued, “This story came to me from the oldest wise woman I ever knew, she who made this statue of the world mother…” She held it up, and as one, the children sighed, happy. The smooth black statue of a woman, round and beautiful, was one of their most important items. It was the Goddess, the Mother, and it blessed every child’s baptism into the Clans.

The old woman held it with great care, and few knew that she had been a child when it was baked into hardness in an old kiln that she still treasured, and that her tiny fingerprint scuffed the base of the statue, there, from where she had poked it when it was still soft. She remembered the wise woman, whose leg had been hurt and never quite healed, who walked with a stick and never had children of her own, but who was everyone’s favorite Baba anyway. She smiled.

It had been a long time since that wise woman, the first of their clan, had moved on to the Goddess’ world, but the younger wise woman still told her stories, and would teach them to an even younger woman someday, perhaps one that sat in front of the warm fire now. The old woman thought she might know which one, the one with hair the color of the fire’s brightest flames, who always knew the answers to the important questions, and always helped anyone she found in need of it. She would tell the girl the stories of all of the Goddess’ worlds, each one a little different from this one, from one tiny step away to so different they wouldn’t even recognize the land.

But those stories weren’t for everyone. Nor for every time.

She tucked the statue back into her top, which was made of soft deer hide, fuzzy and warm. She continued, “The world mother herself taught it to us long ago, and you must remember…”

Sssthht…..This is the story. Shh. Be quiet. Hear.

“There is a Darkness that wants to take us. Hungry and angry, it gathers wherever there is rage and war and violence from those who would take everything with the sword and the blade.” She stared out at the crowd, seeming to look each one in the eye. “This…. is why we, the people of the chalice, bury our people together, in deep beds of the earth, sleeping next to their loved ones and wrapped in our finest soft deerskin covered with beads. When we are alone, especially alone in death, that Darkness tries to get in. Tries to steal our shape and consume all the hate and pain and the energies of life.”

“The Darkness is out there.”

The children shivered at this, and some of the younger ones stifled tears. They didn’t want to seem like babies, but this was the fear that ate at their hearts and sometimes made them cry for their mothers. Even still. And would continue to do so, as long as there was life in them.

“The Darkness can take any shape, and it can bend others to its ways,” the wise woman continued. She knew that the story was scary for some of the young ones, which was why it had to be told. Because every bit of it was true. They needed to know, to stay with each other, and to avoid the places of death and war. Follow the true path of peace.

Hadn’t she fought off the shifting Darkness countless times herself, and seen a man eaten by its swarming rage? She decided to include that detail, which she didn’t always, but the Darkness felt close tonight, and the chill in the cavern where the Clans made their winter homes felt like more than the mere touch of winter.

“Once, I saw a man in his last moments of life. He was angry, and had turned away from family, away from the Clans, turned away from our ways, and as his eyes opened to see the Goddess’ light beyond, they grew black, black as the sticky pitch that pulls the largest beasts down into it, where even now you can find the bones of giants. He had turned away from the Mother’s loving arms, and so the Darkness took him.”

One of the boys in the crowd, about ten years old, scoffed at this to his neighbors, doubting any strong man would abandon the Mother. The other children next to him shushed him, pushed him, and he quieted, but the stubborn look didn’t leave his face.

The old woman smiled at the boy. She knew how to work the interruptions and pauses, and to use the gentle rise and fall of the story. The boy wiggled in his seat, uncomfortable with the attention he had craved. The Baba continued her story:

“The Darkness swarmed up the man’s legs, and his arms, and finally covered him, like a spring mud near the lake, but sticky and cold. He squirmed, and then his spirit came loose. It stayed still for a few moments and then it turned into the shape of…”

And here she stopped and crouched low to the ground, her hands touching the earth. She knew she had them all because the ones at the front had a look of fear and desire on their faces—they wanted to know what, but they were terrified, too.

She stood with one swift motion and tossed a handful of some plant that sizzled and sparked and smoked into the fire. As she did, she yelled: “A wolf!” She yelled it as loud as her voice could go, and it echoed off the cave walls. The older line of parents and unmarried adults that circled the children at the front yelled it with her, but her voice was clear and above the crowd. The smoke rose, curled around the people, and seemed for just a moment to thicken, as though it was about to form some … shape. Perhaps a wolf in the air, perhaps a snake, perhaps a bird of prey. Then it fled, slithering up into the corners, blown there by the wind and the people’s movements.

The children screamed. They screamed in fear and delight and pleasure at a story well told. Some of them had heard it before, of course. This story was told every year. They whispered it to each other sometimes, remembering. The surety of the tale made it seem less real, and they felt safer knowing that this Darkness was far away. The expected climax to the story done, the crowd broke up into the darkness beyond the fire, ready for bed, chattering and loud.

The wise woman laughed as they scattered. The brief but intense fear made them feel all the more safe afterwards, and the parents gathered up their broods, took them back to their corners where the warmth of thick mammoth hides and fuzzy elk skin waited. All families slept nearby each other, the warmth of their bodies beneath the soft hides sometimes so intense that one had to stick a foot out, uncovered, to touch the chill and cool down a sweaty sleep.

The fires were tended by older teens all night, to be sure they stayed warm but safe. If some of those teens also spent time kindling other more private fires, well, that was the way of the Goddess too, the wise woman thought as she went to her own spot. She clucked and thought of babies yet to be born, and smiled. On the way to her bedding, she paused near the opening to the clan’s large cave dwelling. The cave went way back, large enough for multiple clans to share and grow. Far back, there was a space for dried meat and gathered gourds, plants, dried berries, and nuts. An entire summer’s worth, to keep them full in the dark of winter. They would have to break the ice on the lake in front of their encampment, scoop out fish frozen and stunned by the cold there but also alive, but it was nice to have a storage area too.

In summer’s heat, they ranged widely, using hides and long wooden frames to build moveable tent dwellings as they followed the herds. But winter’s snows were fierce, and they collected supplies and settled in here by this calm lake every year, had done so as far back as anyone could remember. Her predecessor, the most powerful shaman wise woman of these Clans, had told her that the People were brought here by the Goddess herself, and told to grow the Clans in this spot. That they would be safe here, as long as they remembered. The wise woman knew of places where the worlds were out of sync, where the people didn’t remember who they were. She fought to keep this one, her world, balanced. Calm.

As she thought this, she looked out over the cold night.

Yes. There was something out there tonight. It was hungry, the way it always was.

She wasn’t afraid of it—she wasn’t afraid of anything on this side of the curtain of life—but she knew it could hurt those she protected. She reached into the small bag of herbs, special rocks, and powders that she kept on a loop around her neck and drew out a pungent-smelling bundle of plants that she lit with a flint. The smoke garlanded the opening, flying up and out of the cave, and she murmured a chant of protection over the whole area. She made a kissing motion, as though blowing kisses to everyone in the Clans. She thus blessed the people, and the animals, and the food they needed. The spell snapped into place. If you could see its energy, it would look like a sparking blue and white wall of lightning that sealed the doorway. It was her power, and it was her job to guard the doorway. As soon as the spell was active, the cold anger that wanted in flew away, an almost silent howl in its heart at being banished, yet again. Even as almost invisible as it was, the woman could hear it, just barely.

It hated the woman.

It knew her and her kind and knew they kept it away from the meat and souls and companions of anger and Darkness that it craved. Needed.

The wise woman smiled, and went back to her own softly lined spot, close enough to the doorway to monitor it but still near the fires, too.

She knew that there were more worlds than her own, some of them nestled just a step in time away from her own. More echoes of her own decisions, branching off in either direction, people different in just the slightest way. This was the magic of the Goddess’ realms, all the rooms of her worlds interconnected. But this one, the one where she stood right now, was hers.

For tonight, all was well. The rumbles of families settling into sleep, snores of men already there, and giggles and gasping of two near the fire (who might need her services as a midwife sooner rather than later) were all musical to her, and she slept.

* * *

The Darkness, which was ancient and cold and hungry, fled the woman’s spell. They were old enemies, and the Darkness knew that it could get nowhere tonight here. Angry at the meddling, it ranged further than usual, seeking out new paths, seeking out pain and anger.

Time passed differently for this old entity, which couldn’t even remember where it had come from, only that it had always just been. It left the grounds of the mammoth hunters, moved across the lands. Moved through time.

In the meantime, the Clans grew, unhindered by the Darkness. They remembered the stories. The wise women kept the tale alive, although the new ones did not encounter the Darkness personally, and some believed it was only an old woman’s tale to scare the children by the fire into behaving. Long after the first stories, the Clans forgot the fear, moved into new patterns. The old women, though, they wrote them down in books made of soft mammoth skin. Shared them with women who copied the stories over and over and over.

Sometimes the Darkness slept, dreamless, tucked into cold lonely places. Sometimes it possessed birds or other wild small animals. It couldn’t grow bigger until it fed, and it needed to feed on pain, especially that of war. Small skirmishes kept it alive, and in the shape of a raven it picked the eyes out of the bodies of the dead lying unburied. Their souls were long gone, and the Darkness never lingered there. It knew what it needed most. It knew it couldn’t grow larger, not without more, not without companions and much stronger Darkness.

For that, it eventually felt drawn to a place further inland, away from the ocean, far away from the mountains where the Clans of the Mother ranged. It flew, a raven swirling on the coldest winds. Deeper into the forests, past pointed peaks. It squealed and sighed with delight when it finally came upon a field full of spikes and the scent of rot.

Those spikes were the size of mature saplings, had been whittled with axes to a sharp point and then anchored in the cold snows and ground. Preparation for this war had been long coming, and the machines of hatred spun on. Bodies hung impaled halfway down, some still twitching. Men, women, and children were in various states of undress, and evidence of suffering before death hung all around. Scattered on the ground there, also, were the bodies of warriors who had fought.

The place cried out in pain and anger and rage, and the Darkness loved it.

Still in a raven shape, it swooped down, and it found the body of a strong warrior who had fought fiercely against the Impaler’s forces but lost his way. The Darkness fed on the body, taking the last bits of warmth and light from its skin. It pulled out eyes and cawed with glee. The warrior had been gutted, and the Dark Raven hopped about in the lower stomach area, gorging on entrails and blood. As it fed, it grew larger, began to have a new shape. The shape firmed, and the Darkness heard a sound it realized it loved…

There were wolves. Nearby.

It flapped, larger than a bird, shape a bit amorphous, but not yet fully anything else. It concentrated its smallest parts and willed them to find a solid shape, sheer anger and hunger giving it force.

It wanted to shift, but needed an example nearby to perfect its form. Then it found the wolves, who were tearing brutal chunks out of soldiers who had only recently grappled with each other and now grappled only with themselves, their pain, their deaths. One of the wolves looked up as the Darkness came near. It growled a challenge, and the Raven Darkness smiled. The gathered wolves’ eyes flashed bright green, a warning to any bird no matter how large it seemed. But the Raven Darkness pulsed and solidified its shape further, smoky features slithering and shifting into a larger wolf, and then a pop of air displaced and the Darkness became a solid canine form, bigger than the wolves it had found. It stalked, stiff-legged and low-growling, towards the Alpha of the wolf pack.

The Alpha wasn’t sure what this new challenge was, or where it had come from, but it knew there was meat that it wanted and didn’t want to back away. It also knew that the dark wolf in front of him seemed a true challenger. Larger, younger, angrier. The Alpha wasn’t sure it could win, so it turned its belly up, surrendered.

The Darkness wreathed in wolf shape joined the gathered wolves. It soon led the pack. They ripped at bodies, tore out the tender soft bits from the middles, still steaming in the frigid air. They nipped at each other in pleasure of a warm, full belly. The Alpha had given way to the Dark Wolf, and so every other wolf in the pack also treated it as leader.

As the pack ranged across the battlefield, sniffing at the bodies strung up on the spikes in wonder at the wasted meat too high to reach, the Darkness notwolf felt something new. Something it had been seeking.

A spirit hovered over one of the bodies. It was the spirit of the man who had lived in the husk beneath its feet, and it didn’t understand yet what had happened. It should have moved on, joined its ancestors elsewhere, but it had stayed here instead. It tried to grab at itself, but its fingers passed through the body, lost, confused.

The notwolf stalked over to the ghost, brushed its muzzle into its center.

The ghost could feel this and started, looked at the notwolf shape. The other wolves also clustered around the shape, seeing this manthing but not smelling mansmell. They whined. They wanted to get back to the eating, but they waited, impatient. The notwolf pressed its new larger body against the shape of the lost ghost warrior, and the warrior’s face seemed aware of itself again. The ghost smiled—and it was the smile of a man who has unexpectedly found his darkest wish fulfilled.

His body shifted, spurred by some unspoken prompt from the dark notwolf, and that pop of displaced air happened again. The warrior was now also wolf shaped. Shifted into a form perfect for eating, for destroying, for running as far as it wanted. The man inside was lost, his human thoughts buried in pain and rage and Darkness. This dark magic had waited a long time to finally form a solid shape, away from the meddling of the wise women who had kept it at bay. It howled its delight, its rage and anger, and the wolf pack, its wolf pack, joined in.

The battlefield, its bodies impaled on spikes and warriors fallen in red snow, was only the first such place this wolf pack, now emboldened by its two supernatural leaders, would find home. It was very far from the last.

Hedgewitch

A long time later, in a place not far from a river, an old woman wandered. Not aimlessly—she had a specific goal. She was peering at the bases of trees, poking thick mossy growths with her pointed and gnarled walking broom/stick. She was looking for her favorite mushrooms, morels, for their pointy-headed wrinkled bodies hiding deep in the woods on the north-facing slopes. Earlier in the year she would have been looking on the edges of an ash grove she knew, but this far into the season, there were better spots.

For some reason, she was thinking of a passage in one of the oldest books about the many rooms that the Goddess had built that stood near each other, but never overlapped. And how a clever witch could travel between them and see that they were almost the same, just a step or two different. She wished she had something like that for her travels in the woods because she was always afraid of turning an ankle.

She was looking for deadlier friends in addition to those tasty morels. She remembered her grandmother teaching her the old saying, “Every mushroom is edible, but some only once.” She wanted some of the ones you would only eat once for a powder she created for special occasions. She’d rarely had to use much of her powder—but she liked having it in stock, just in case. The dreams and visions the right little ‘shrooms could bring sometimes helped her find the answers that those who visited her small home in the deep woods needed. And that kept her in fresh eggs, creamy cheeses, and all the sausages women needing midwifery could make. It also helped the nearby women who whispered to each other that she knew secrets of childbirthing or how to bring a child to life or even of preventing such when the time wasn’t right. Even how to make that man she longed for look her way with the right placement of the right herb.

She sought the tiny elf-capped mushrooms clustered together, nippled tips glistening and wet with the dreams they would provide. She carried two different baskets for such gathering—important to be sure you got the right one in the proper basket. Wouldn’t do for the night’s lamb stew to make you go all swivel-hipped. Well, not by accident. She chuckled to herself at the thought of such a thing, and moved a clump of leaves out of her way with her stick.

There! Just under that clump, a cluster of tiny brown elf-caps! Her lips tingled in anticipation. She had felt a need to search her dreams lately, that there was something coming, something important. She needed to be ready for it.

Then she heard, and felt, a change in the forest, as though some new energy had just arrived. The slight shift of air being displaced, and all the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Something was here, and the woods seemed almost imperceptibly darker, and ten degrees colder, the way it did when a storm was brewing. She had read the runes this morning and the weather was supposed to be fair, so this shift from what she had expected made her frown. She didn’t like abrupt changes in her woods. She gathered her thick shawl tighter, grabbed the bunch of elf-hats and tucked them into her basket, and looked around with caution for her escape route. She wasn’t far from her home, but far enough on rough terrain that the sudden feeling of danger was concerning.

What was even more worrying was the brief, sharp sound of a wolf barking, just once, as though signaling one of its pack members that prey had been spotted. She thought the sound came from just behind the copse of trees to the wrong side of where she wanted to run for her escape route. If that wasn’t an echo, then she might just be in some trouble. The silence in the woods was far more terrifying than noises, however. Every little creature—birds, gray squirrels, small rustling animals—had decided now would be a good time to go into its den. The feeling was of predators nearby. Predators, she thought, who could be after her.

Nothing else to do but pull up your britches and move forward.

She hefted the walking stick/broom in her hand, knowing it would do little good against a pack of wolves. If she was lucky (and that didn’t appear to be the case) it would only be one or two. She could handle a pair of wolves with her stick and a few well-placed scatter spells, but more than two and they would pull her down. Why hadn’t the runes this morning seen this danger?

With the idea that she may as well head in the direction of home as anyplace else, she began moving that way with as sure of a step as possible. Honestly, she could be home quickly now that she wasn’t scouring the ground for herbs and mushrooms.

Maybe I misheard that sound anyway, just something that sounded like a wolf, nothing to be afraid of—

As she was thinking this, she stepped around a tree and there it was.

Whatever “it” was, anyway. There was a swirling darkness, about as high up as her knees now but growing larger, especially in the center. The size of three or four wolves, but there wasn’t any actual animal, just that empty black shape hovering off the ground and looking for all the world like a dark cloud of night-black energy. She stopped and stared. Now she felt a chill all over as she realized what she was looking at.

This was the Darkness that her books spoke of. Her mother and grandmother and mothers all the way back as far as they could go had written of a force that could follow anyone, that wanted to consume the energies and lives it could find.

As she watched, the swirling grew into three distinct shapes, then sparks of dark blue light, like ball lightning or will o’ the wisps, began forming along the outer edges. The woman backed up, careful to not trip over any tree roots because the dark shape had extended towards her. Questing. Like an animal sniffing in her direction, a long finger of that dark energy pulled loose from the main mass of churning anger and frigid smoky something.

Just as she was debating crashing around it and continuing home anyway, there was a noise behind her, and as she was turning her head to look, the middle of the form in front of her jerked into shape, drawing her attention back. She wasn’t sure if the sound behind her had been real, and if maybe the one in front was trying to draw her attention back, keep her unaware.

Now the shape before her did look like a wolf, but like one with almost-human eyes. It was growing larger by the second. Dark and shaggy, bigger than the wolves she had seen in this area from a distance. Two other blurry swirls of energy and darkness were thickening beside the center, and she was sure they would also turn into wolf-like somethings. The center one crouched low, as if to spring at her. She wasn’t sure if a wolf made out of a dark, cold energy of some sort would be able to bite her, but she didn’t want to stick around to find out.

Just as she was gathering herself to try and run around the edges, a dark finger of energy reached out from the center figure. Swirling, seething, it reached her as she shrunk away, and it brushed up and down her deflecting arm. Where it touched her, it felt like a swarm of bee stings, or maybe like burning flames. Almost like when you put a bare arm too close to a fire. She pulled away and swatted at the tendrils with the brushy part of her broom walking stick/staff, dispersing them in a smoky blur. They gathered back into the lurking shapes in front of her, and she felt as though they were laughing at her.

She didn’t want to feel that burning, stinging sensation anymore, and now she dared peek over her shoulder and saw that the noise behind her had indeed been more of the shapes lurking, trying to surround her. These were small, but the one in front of her had been small when she first got here. She had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a bad situation, and was thinking of what she could do to get out of it. She had her walking stick, and she had a spell she could use to scare off regular animals, but wasn’t exactly sure it would work for these shapeshifting demon-looking things. Whatever they were.

Aware that it probably wasn’t going to do any good at all, she said a tiny prayer to the Goddess, gathered her intentions around her (primarily those of saving her own life), and hefted her broom walking stick into her strong right hand, mentally preparing the spell. She snapped it into place, hoping its minor magic would chase this problem away before she had to pull out the more hefty spells.

The keepaway sizzled and fell into the Darkness, absorbed there. The front wolf shape lunged at her again, and she smacked it back once more with her stick, resolved now to fight with more substantial powers she usually kept in reserve. She sighed. This wasn’t the day she had planned for herself.

“You are starting to try my patience, evil one,” she muttered as she stepped back to summon reinforcements.

There was a reason why Yaga lived so far from the rest of the village. The things she could do were better left seen only by the eyes of the forest. She raised her left hand and called to her cauldron. Her cauldron was one of the things other village eyes would not understand. She knew of wise women who had been called witch and punished for no more than commenting that the weather looked like rain; there was no way she could let busybodies see what she was about to do.

Back at her house, a sleeping black and white cat woke, sniffing the air. It lowered its ears when it felt the magic that was suddenly nearby, and looked over at the cauldron, which had abruptly awoken from where it had been bubbling by the fireplace. Its four feet, which resembled nothing so much as baby arms and legs tipped with sharp cat claws, were stretching, getting ready to move. The cat, with that mysterious power that cats have, went from sound asleep to leaping across the room with speed and grace in an instant. It leapt onto the edge of the cauldron, which shrugged in acknowledgement of its rider. Then the door slammed open and the two familiars zipped out into the surrounding dense woods. The cauldron knew where it was headed, and it raced with a speed born of that magic and intense need.

In the clearing facing the growing Darkness, the Yaga felt her familiars coming her way and smiled. The gathering mass of threatening shapeshifters had no idea what was coming, and they surged forward again, trying to find an entry point where the woman’s staff wouldn’t lash out at them. Tiny tufts of smoky Darkness clung to the brushes of her broom walking stick where she had swatted and killed bits of the entity. She was a tiny woman, but somehow the staff seemed longer than it had before. Like it could reach every corner of the woods and then return to the opposite side with a punishing thud.

The surging, shapeshifting Darkness, ancient and angry, remembered encounters with power like this before, and the part of it that was sentient was beginning to think it should simply leave this encounter, zip away and find easier prey. The other bits were hungry and stubborn, and wanted to stay. And then a new energy came up behind the mass of swirling hate, and the choice to flee was taken away from it.

The cauldron, black and white tuxedo cat perched with a surprising amount of grace on one jutting handle, appeared at the scene with a blast of displaced air. The magic that Yaga used could bend space a little, in addition to drawing assistance from what most people thought of as inanimate or unintelligent beings. However, Yaga knew that energy and intelligence were more diverse than those most people could ever know. And her cauldron was far from unintelligent, infused with the spirit of a willing imp who chose to blend its energies with hers.

The energy field the cauldron had brought with it hemmed in the dark shapeshifters almost as though there was a wave or invisible wall pushing at them. The dark swirls of hate and hunger were pushed tighter into the center, snapping out at nothing and also inwardly at each other, yipping and snarling. The cat, who had been sitting on the edge as though unaware of the vast speed with which they traversed the distance between home and the battle, hopped down and stalked towards the wolf creatures, fur ruffled and standing up along his back.

Yaga shouted, “Earl! Behave yourself! Those critchers will eat your furry self good if you get too close!”

The cat looked insulted, stopped, and glared. Licked one paw, offended.

The cauldron, in the meantime, was crouching as if about to leap, and Yaga smiled. “Now you’re in for it.”

The Darkness shifted wildly, not knowing which threat to focus on—the old witch had seemed vulnerable, needy. And this strange thing to one side of it seemed like it ought to not be a threat, but it also pulsed with an electric vibration not unlike its own. Pulling all its entities of notwolf and hate and feeding hunger as close as possible, the Darkness surged towards the witch again.

And the cauldron moved. Lightning fast, its body shifting from a sweet pot-bellied source of soup and magic potions into a vast, gaping maw of blackness and hunger. It was larger than it had been before too. It resembled nothing so much as a mastiff dog snapping bits of food its owner had tossed. There was even the slightest hint of very sharp teeth pointing downward from what had been a simple cauldron lip before.

It snatched up bits of the edges of Darkness, and they disappeared into the nothingness in its center. Each sharp motion snapped up more of the swirling shapeshifter, and each gulp of dark energy made the cauldron grow just a bit larger, until it was the size of a small draft horse, bearing down on the remaining shapeshifting Darkness.

Now, in front, Yaga smiled again. Her smiles had gone from anticipatory to downright feral, and she raised her walking stick, which, like the cauldron, could be as large as it needed to be. She didn’t appear to need the stick as support anymore either. Her gait had changed from shuffling-old-woman-in-the-woods to avenging-warrior pose, and she spread her arms, sweeping the staff wildly to one side, her other arm held high, fingers curled in a banishing forked spell.

The center Darkness, which was rapidly losing bits of itself to the gulping hungry cauldron, spun, looking for an exit. It spied the small black and white cat and thought perhaps that was the trick—if it could just grab that small being, which seemed to hold less power than the other two threats, its energy could keep the diminishing force of Dark hate alive just long enough to find a way out of this. It surged in that direction, and the cat, bored now, blinked.

Earl the cat swatted one clawed paw at the Darkness. It ripped into the hatred, the power, the growling hunger, and the ripples pushed ever more into the center, growing and feeding off itself. The force the cat wielded with one paw was far stronger than a simple cat’s. For Earl was something far different from a simple cat. The Darkness shrank to half its former size.

At the same time, the cauldron continued to chomp bits of the now much less substantial Darkness into itself, growing larger with each bite, and the witch swung her staff, striding closer to the center and dispelling shadow into disappearing tufts of smoke.

And then, the Darkness saw it. One small spark, a Call, from ages and miles and places far away into a future world. A yearning, a hunger like its own. It pulled at the Darkness through something it didn’t understand, a bending of energy and time. “Here,” it said. “I need you. We need you. Te necesitamos.”

As the Yaga yelled her last few victorious cries as she saw the power that had sought to make an easy meal of her disappearing into the mouth of her familiar, swatted into ribbons of pain by the other familiar, the Darkness took the path it had found, out and away. A tiny prick of wormhole opened up and then shut closed behind it.

The Yaga stopped, mouth agape. She had heard of these time and space-bending spells but never seen one before. Earl the cat, who had been hissing and raising his paw to strike the last bit of Darkness it was fighting on the other side of the clearing—a Darkness which disappeared abruptly just as the paw was about to strike—pulled back and sat down. The cauldron spun in a circle, looking for more energy to eat. Ever hungry, it was not ready for its meal of power and darkness to be over. It slumped and pouted.

The Yaga was not exactly sure what had just happened, but she knew that her enemy had escaped. She had also seen, as that tiny wormhole in time closed, a vision of another place, and unfamiliar faces in a city she would never visit. A redheaded woman, a dark-haired younger one. Ghosts and pain and a Goddess appearing to help. Whether that was a dream, another plane of existence, Faerie or Hell, the Yaga was not prepared to guess. These kinds of magic happened sometimes when real power was dispersed. It wasn’t her business, her story, so she sighed and put it out of her mind.

She slumped onto her walking stick, tired now, and whistled for the cauldron. The walking stick looked like a broom again, and the Baba Yaga leaned on it. The cauldron, in turn, had grown to be about the size of a small horse, and it clomped towards her, stomping on a lingering bit of swirling smoke that might have been some leftover of the entity they had fought, but might have just been night and mist falling. It stopped in front of its Mistress and visibly sniffed her. She put a hand out, stroking its side, and said to it, “Give me a seat, Cauldron. I’m tired.”

The cauldron pulsed and bulged, and then its center firmed out into a smooth bench. The handles to each side morphed into arm rests, and it pulled itself into smaller, denser metallic solidity. Then it crouched, its legs and arms and clawed tips close to the ground, while the Baba Yaga settled down, tired.

She looked every bit the small old woman again. She surveyed the clearing, and then, remembering the mushrooms that had been her mission, patted her pocket to see if they were still there.

Yes.

She smiled. She would need these if she was going to figure out what just happened. She’d also have to consult the books her Mothers had left to her, and write down the story of the event herself, for future Daughters to study. As far as she knew, no one had ever encountered this Darkness quite in the same fashion, and it certainly hadn’t disappeared into some hole in the world like a spider into its knothole, before. This was new. And new magic must be noted.

“C’mon, Earl. Let’s get home,” the Baba Yaga said as she patted the bench beside her. The cat, which had been trying to figure out where his prey had gone, sniffed the clearing’s floor and squinting eyes, took one last look around, and shook his head as if in agreement. Then he leapt in one graceful movement onto the bench next to his partner. The cauldron walked, much slower this time, back towards home. The battle, as weird and confusing as it had been, was over. The shapeshifting Darkness and its hunger was gone.

Running

In the meantime, a tiny tendril of Darkness that had broken off from the main mass flickered and seethed unnoticed out of a hollow of ground. For a while it followed the old woman as she rode her cauldron and muttered to herself about her woods being invaded by annoyances. The woman spoke to the cat as if he were a person, having a conversation about what they would have for dinner. Then, having heard enough, the small bit of leftover Darkness floated into the air, pulsed, and popped out of existence where it was, only to rejoin the larger mass of Darkness where it had retreated.

It had landed in a place with very few people, but which would grow to be one of the largest cities, one day. Near a river, where a small mission was only now being built to teach the native people of the area religion and reading. It swirled, gathered, hidden by a copse of cottonwood trees, and then regained its wolfish shape. Nearby, coyotes yipped, a band of hunters followed herds of deer, living off the meat as it roamed along the rivers north and southwesterly. The notwolf shapeshifter enjoyed its time as a wolf and adjusted its coloring and size to blend with the local groups.

Then one day, it came upon the spirit of an angry young man who had just died. The man had drowned in the periodic flooding of the river in this dry area, and his rage and pain drew the Darkness to him. The Darkness surrounded him, and he shifted into a wolfish shape, joined together, and the taste for this region grew strong, pleasurable.

They would run here. They would wait. Here.

Running. We run. Corremos.

Wolves run on each side, males, females. Generations going back into time and time. Tias and tios, abuelos, primos, back and back to the earliest of us on this land. The oldest wolf remembers a time of swarming buffalo, the youngest is only here a few days. Some of us are the spirits of people, people of the wolf. Some of us are, were, never human.

The smell of deer, of flesh, of an even sweeter meat not all of us have tried but have thought about. The smells surround us. This land is mine, my feet have been here before. We are a pack, many others with me, and we swirl together and apart like the wind, with the wind. El Viento.

We have always been here, we always will be here. We range between the Colorado River in Austin to the San Antonio River that is my grounds, but the running takes a few hops in this wolf-ghost form. The city that surrounds us grew up over time. It is all ours. Este es nuestros. Mios.

We are waiting. Esperamos.

A Word from Kim Wells

This story is a piece of the Children of Mariposa universe, inspired by my first novel, Mariposa, about a ghost who finds herself on a grand mission to help others who are trapped in this universe. Eventually, that universe is going to grow even larger. I am still working on the novel that’s Mariposa’s sequel, and should have it released sometime in 2016. In the meantime, I also have multiple projects in the works, including an anthology inspired by the Future Chronicles model.

The shapeshifters in this story are probably quite different from those most readers are used to. They shift through time and space and universes in their quest to consume. And they encounter a few plucky saviors along the way, especially in women who most onlookers wouldn’t expect to be that formidable. It’s also steeped in witchy lore, and the Malleus Malificarum, which was written in 1486, and has sections devoted to how to detect witches who kept unwitting male bits in birds’ nests in their homes, feeding them corn to keep them alive and cursing the weather, cattle, or simply being the unlucky owner of too many cats. It also hints just a touch at the oldest shaman in the world, a Paleolithic wise woman found in the Dolní Věstonice mountain site in what is now the Czech Republic.

For more information on my other books, including my novels, short stories, and anthologies, please check out my website at http://www.kimwells.net. I’m also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kimwellswrites, Twitter at @dandeliondreams, and email at kimwellswrites@gmail.com. Come say hi!

The Night of the Hunted

by Stefan Bolz

Lunatic Asylum, Newcastle upon Tyne, England

Dr. Philip Montgomery

Personal Entry, Medical Log for Patient #18686

On This Day, the 28th of March, 1914

Not intended for official use!

THIS CASE, INVOLVING PATIENT #18686, who had been admitted to the Newcastle upon Tyne Lunatic Asylum on the 17th of October, 1910, remains a mystery. Unless, of course, I visit in person the place of record that, according to my patient, was the cause for her illness. I'm afraid the circumstances of her recent death force me to take this step. My small suitcase is packed. I do not foresee staying for more than one night, perhaps two, before returning. The carriage will arrive here at 07:00 tomorrow morning. I should reach the Churnsike Lodge in Greystead within four hours.

As a psychiatrist of thirty-four years, I can state here that a patient's delusional system usually appears most believable at first glance. The delusion is complete, very detailed, like a finely crafted composition, logical in and of itself, yet utterly weak when one or more of the basic premises are brought into question. Over the last three and a half years, this patient has never wavered from her initial report. Once her wounds had been cared for, once she was able to eat regularly again, and during her rare moments of clarity, she had described to me, in painstaking detail, the circumstances that had brought her here. It is my hope that I will be able to summarize my patient's report in my own words. It seems as if this task will only benefit me, as this document will most likely never be read by anyone other than myself.

I'll begin, therefore, on the day of October 14th, 1910. Robert M. Clark and his fiancée, Elizabeth (Ellie) Moore, left their flat on 16 Cumberland Street in Edinburgh around 07:00 in the morning to go on a ten-day hunting holiday at the Churnsike Lodge in Greystead, a small town in the county of Northumberland.

As I listened to Ellie's account, I imagined fog covering the streets, thick and unyielding, diffusing the early morning light and creating eerie shapes and forms on the side of the road. Ellie Moore, according to her own words, didn't like hunting. But she loved her husband enough to accompany him, endure the twelve-hour carriage ride, and keep him company on his excursions.

They had met while Robert was still in law school during an internship at the prestigious Edinburgh law firm, Finch & Hollander. Ellie had just begun working there as the assistant secretary to Mr. Albert Finch, Senior. As per her own words, they spent a lot of time together, filing papers, sifting through case files and copying, by typewriter, whole manuscripts of court proceedings.

Robert had been rather shy, and Ellie was the one who eventually asked him if he would accompany her on a picnic at a fundraiser for an orphanage she was involved with during her free time. He said yes, probably relieved that he didn't have to take the first step.

Their first date was awkward. Ellie was nervous, and when he finally kissed her — while trying to help her out of the carriage — she was smitten. Robert proposed three weeks later, and they married that very same year. Ellie's wish to have children — four boys and a girl — was never fulfilled. She had one miscarriage that I confirmed through her medical records. Afterwards, she left the law firm and stayed home. Robert made partner, and with that privilege came the longer hours, the weekend hunting excursions with clients, and the long, solitary hours for Ellie, waiting for her husband to come home.

Losing the baby had burdened her with more distress than she admitted. It seemed a welcome distraction when Robert asked her to accompany him on this trip. From what she told me, he wanted to rekindle their marriage while at the same time fulfill his obligations to the firm.

They left Edinburgh at twilight and arrived at Churnsike after sunset. The lodge was perched at the edge of a long and narrow meadow surrounded by a thick pine forest. Several smaller buildings stood in a semi-circle on either side of the imposing building. Tall, dark pine trees towered above, their deep, low-hanging branches absorbing the remaining daylight.

Ellie had noticed that for the last half hour of their ride, she had not seen any other houses. They had crossed the river Irthing at Butterburn, a small enclave of farmsteads — a dozen at the most — before they'd entered the forest. A logging road had led them through the thick woods and eventually into a meadow, trees lining the way to the estate. The welcoming committee, a tall, spindly fellow who introduced himself as Gary, and a rather short and heavyset woman, Margaret, brought their luggage inside and placed it in front of the concierge's desk. Heavy rugs dampened their steps as Ellie and Robert entered the reception area. The head of a puma, perfectly restored, was mounted above the mantelpiece on the opposite side of the room. A large, dark-leathered chaise lounge and two chairs stood in front of the hearth where a crackling fire dispelled the October evening chill.

There was a moment when Ellie felt the urge to turn around and go back outside. She briefly thought about telling her husband that she did not wish to stay there. She thought of taking the carriage back to Haltwhistle and getting a room in the small, friendly looking bed and breakfast they had passed on their way here. But she didn't. Instead, she smiled while the concierge handed them the keys to their suite.

The man had gray hair that was slightly disheveled, and he looked at Robert and Ellie over his silver spectacles. "Dinner will be served at eight," he said.

"What time is it now?" Robert asked, searching his vest pockets. "I seemed to have misplaced my pocket watch."

"Five minutes after seven, sir. My name is Harold. Should you need anything, please let me know."

"Thank you. Could you have someone look inside the carriage to see if it can be found? It was bronze, on a small chain, and it had a picture of my wife inside."

"Certainly, sir."

Harold gestured to a bellhop, who had been watching their interaction intently. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve. His red hair framed his face in thick curls and his pointy nose reminded Ellie of a fox.

"If you would follow me, please, sir, ma'am," the boy said, perfectly pronouncing each word.

Ellie noticed when they went up the wooden stairs to the second floor that the tip of the boy's tongue hung out of his mouth ever so slightly. She assumed it was due to the heavy suitcases he was carrying up the steep staircase.

They walked along the narrow hallway, the thick Berber rugs soft under Ellie's feet. She noticed the large, opulently framed paintings, each displaying a different hunting scene. Deer antlers were mounted above every door. Dust had collected on them, and Ellie wondered when the last time was that they had been cleaned.

The boy stopped in front of room twelve. The number was written out in small painted letters, a gold color on the green door. The antler above it, mounted to an oval plate made entirely of brass, had twelve points.

When I wrote that a patient's delusional system can be very detailed, this is what I meant. I can see the lodge in my mind's eye, with every corner, every stairwell, and every room described with the utmost care. And yet my preliminary investigation assures me that there is no record of Ellie and Robert Clark ever having been there. Not on that day, nor on any other day. Hence my wish to travel there myself. I must, once and for all, shed light on the mind of my patient, as I have become very fond of her throughout the years she was in my care. Her death has given me more grief than I expected.

Robert gave the bellboy a coin. He bowed and left the room. When the door closed, Ellie could feel the heat rise in her chest. The large eyes of the stuffed head of a black bear above the mantle followed her as she went to the window and opened it. Even though the chill breeze made her shiver, she welcomed the cool air on her skin. So much so that she closed her eyes for a moment.

"You will catch a cold, dear," Robert said as he sat down on the bed. Ellie tried to ignore the slowly rising panic within her. She knew the cause for her fright was completely irrational. But since her baby had died inside her own body, she had lately found herself afraid of things she hadn't spent one single thought on before. Closed spaces were one of them. As long as she could see outside, she was content. But as soon as darkness covered the land, she needed to busy herself with needlework or her paintings. That had become her refuge. The prospect of spending ten days in this house made her dizzy. She sat next to her husband on the bed.

"Are you all right?" he asked while taking out a cigar and cutting off its tip. "Should I have them bring you some tea?"

"Sure. That would be lovely," Ellie replied. "I can add some of the St. John's wort I brought to calm my nerves."

Robert pulled the small string next to the door and a minute later, the bellboy was back to take the order. He returned with the can of tea, served on a silver tray with carefully carved edges. The boy walked slowly so he wouldn't spill anything, and Ellie saw a small thread of saliva running from the corner of his mouth, the drool dripping onto his starched shirt. He didn't seem to notice and Ellie didn't say anything.

The St. John's wort did help her, and she relaxed on the mattress a few minutes later. The room was simply furnished with a large oak dresser and mirror opposite the bed, two nightstands made of the same wood, and a secretary’s desk with a wooden chair in front. A standing light illuminated a leather armchair that stood next to the small hearth.

"Let me kindle a fire," Robert said. "The warmth will help you relax."

Robert knelt in front of the fireplace. The kindling was already in place. He lit the fire and his cigar with one match. Ellie loved him so. How he'd take a few puffs first and then pleasurably let out the smoke, sighing at the same time. He'd always forget things and lose items, or at least misplace them until Ellie found them for him. She watched him sitting in the armchair looking into the fire and slowly felt her eyes closing.

The scream was utterly terrifying. She heard it clearly as if it had come from right next to her. When she opened her eyes, her first reflex was to jump out of bed, but she couldn't move.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, her voice shaky and filled with fear.

"No, darling, what was it?" Robert still sat in the armchair, visibly enjoying his cigar.

I heard a scream, she wanted to say. A loud scream, as if it had come from within this room. But she couldn't say anything, couldn't move her mouth. Only her eyes frantically searched her surroundings for anything out of the ordinary. The scream still echoed inside her. It was filled with terror and a despair she couldn't fathom. But when she calmed down enough, when she began to regain control over her body, and when she sat up to go to the wash basin and submerge her hands in the ice cold water, she knew that the scream had not been a human one, but that of a fox.

* * *

Ellie's hands were still shaking when she sat down in front of the mirror to brush her hair. She had loosened the tight bun and her dark brown curls now fell freely over her shoulders.

"How beautiful you are," she heard Robert say. She caught him looking at her from his chair. "And so fragile. Like a fawn."

"You wouldn't hunt a fawn, would you?" Ellie didn't know where the question suddenly came from.

"On the contrary, my dear. I would protect it. I would hold it and assure it that everything is going to be fine." Robert smiled warmly.

Ellie stopped brushing and looked at him through the mirror for a moment. "But it's not fine, Robert. For you have just killed its mother. And the fawn is all alone now, all alone in the world. Things will never get better. Not for the fawn!"

"Elizabeth!" Robert got up. "What's gotten into you?"

Hot tears streamed down Ellie's face. The surge of anger she had felt a moment ago dissipated. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I'm just tired from the long travels. And this… place."

Robert, who must have noticed her pleading look, walked over and went down on one knee to embrace her.

"Let's have a nice dinner and get a good night’s sleep," he said. "Tomorrow everything will look different. If you still feel the same then, we'll pack our suitcases and leave."

"I don't want to ruin anything for you."

"You are not ruining anything, my darling."

Ellie held his embrace for a few moments. Robert was always good at suggesting compromises. That's what made him such a good lawyer.

"We should get ready," she said.

Five minutes later, the bellboy knocked on the door.

"Dinner is served," the boy said when Robert opened it. "If you would accompany me into the dining hall."

Robert and Ellie left room twelve two minutes to eight. If her account is true, then this moment was the last time Ellie Moore was completely sane.

* * *

The first association Ellie made when she entered the dining hall was that of a tomb. The square room was dominated by a large stone fireplace, the flames of the fire licking across the logs like tongues. All four walls showed a continuous mural of hunting scenes during different seasons. One wall showed riders on horses crossing a stream in full gallop while in pursuit of several bucks and wild boar. The next showed several men with rifles aiming at a flock of ducks across an icy pond. The scene continued on the next wall with an image of a brown bear standing on its hind legs, its mouth open in a roar while surrounded by a group of hunters.

While the bodies of the animals were painted in detailed and lifelike proportions, the heads of most of them were real and mounted to the walls. In Ellie's mind, they all stared at her, accusing her of being part of their demise. The long and heavy oak table at the center of the room had seven chairs on either side. Except for two chairs, all of them were occupied. The people spoke quietly to one another, and when Ellie and Robert entered, they got quiet for a moment before the conversations picked up again.

The two empty chairs stood toward the center of the table, facing the fireplace. When they sat down, the woman to her left interrupted her conversation with the man next to her.

"How do you do? My name is Carol Epsworth. It's so nice to meet you."

She extended her hand and Ellie took it. "Ellie. Ellie Moore. Very nice to meet you as well."

The woman's hand was cold and her grip was strong. She had brushed back, shoulder-length blond hair and wore a simple gray dress with white poet sleeves. When she smiled, a perfect row of teeth became visible.

"I would like some chamomile tea, please," Ellie said to the waiter.

"Is this your first time here?" the woman asked.

"Yes. My husband and I don’t usually travel quite this far."

"Where do you live?"

"Edinburgh."

"That is quite far, dear."

"Yes," Ellie answered with a slight smile. "Where do you come from?"

The waiter brought a pot of steaming hot tea. He poured some of it into a cup and left. Ellie took a small spoonful of honey and stirred it into the cup.

"That's a pretty ring," the woman said, ignoring Ellie's question. "May I?" She extended her hand, palm up, and Ellie put hers into the woman's and watched while she studied the ring through her monocle. "Exquisite," she said after a few moments.

Ellie was convinced that Carol Epsworth must have come from old money. She was elegantly clothed, if a bit old fashioned, and had a slight air of arrogance about her. Her back was straight, stiff almost.

"Thank you," Ellie said.

"Funny," the woman continued, " whenever I sit down at this table, it is as if I've never left since the first time we came here fifteen years ago."

Ellie stirred her tea just so she had something to focus her mind on. Bits and pieces of the other conversations reached her from across the table. Two men opposite her pointed behind her, discussing the question of who the painter of the mural could have been.

"I might have seen a Rubens in the hallway upstairs," one of them said. "His depiction of hunting scenes are especially detailed."

"Have you heard of Robert Emms?" the other replied.

"I'm afraid not."

"Quite a gifted fellow. I visited his studio in Lyndhurst a few years ago. Very impressive workmanship."

"I wonder if his hunting is as good as his painting.”

Both laughed. Ellie couldn't find the point in the joke.

She stopped stirring and rested the small spoon on the saucer. She had been doing it unconsciously without much thought and was just about to respond to the woman next to her when she noticed the small pool of blood around the spoon. She was lifting the cup from the saucer toward her lips when it slipped from her fingers. It hit the table with a loud smack, and from there fell it onto the thick rug.

Blood splattered from the cup, first onto the table, then her hand. Before the cup hit the floor, a deep terror took hold of Ellie. Everything seemed to slow down around her. She heard her husband next to her speaking to someone about the stock market, someone crossing the English Channel by plane, and the winners of this year's Grand National steeplechase. But part of her realized that the conversation would have been too long for her to hear it in such short period of time. During our session, she concluded that she must have overheard it before and now remembered it in detail.

She knew she was screaming. She couldn't hear herself but saw the reaction of the other guests around the table as they stared at her. She saw the hand of the woman next to her on her left sleeve, patting it and stroking it lightly. The woman's face showed concern as she said something Ellie couldn't hear. Robert turned toward her. She could see the judgment in his expression. She was ruining his dinner with her outburst.

When the waiter came with a towel, smiling at her and beginning to wipe the blood off the table, she wondered why he wasn't concerned. The blood left smear marks on the table's surface and the Berber floor but he was simply wiping it off and telling her that he would bring her another cup very shortly. She shut her eyes. There was a ringing in her ears and she could hear her blood flowing through the veins inside her head.

"…beth. …beth. Elizabeth!"

She looked at her husband. She heard his voice. It wasn't drowned out by the sound of her own blood anymore.

"Elizabeth, what's the matter? The waiter is bringing you another cup. It must have slipped through your fingers," he said with a mildly embarrassed smile.

She looked at the table again. A few drops of clear liquid were still visible, but the blood was gone. Her hands were clean. The Berber was as it had been when she first sat down: a light brown pattern on a green surface. There was no blood anywhere.

A bell rang.

"Dinner," the woman next to her said while placing the napkin on her lap. Without thinking, Ellie unfolded her own napkin. The head of a buck, an artful imprint on a white background, stared at her from her lap. She turned the napkin over. It showed the same buck's head, now upside down. She folded her hands across its face. She thought about praying, but dismissed it. She had never been a religious person and felt that it was much too late for her to begin now. This night she had to survive on her own, she thought.

Two waiters came in, each pushing a rolling cart in front of them. A large pot rested on each, steam rising out. The waiters took each of the guest's soup dishes and poured the soup into it. When Ellie saw that the liquid had, just like before, taken on a dark red color, she looked pleadingly at the woman next to her.

"Borscht," the woman said.

"Excuse me?" Ellie asked.

"Borscht. It's made of beets, hence the red color. I certainly hope it is as delicious as it has been every year since we came here."

The soup smelled decent, and when everyone started eating, Ellie took, with shaky hands, a spoonful of it. The warm liquid spread inside her stomach, and she felt the heat rise up inside her chest. She relaxed. The soup was delicious, and she began to think that she had been overreacting lately, likely due to the stressful and uncomfortable journey.

This is not so bad after all, she thought. She managed a smile and even told her husband that she thought she'd ask the kitchen to provide her with a recipe so that she could make the soup for him once they were back home. Robert was delighted and told her he knew she'd enjoy the trip after all. And when the waiters took her soup dish, she felt hungrier than she had in a while. She could smell the roasted meats through the doors into the hallway and wondered what kind of tasty treats the hotel had in store for them. As this was a hunting lodge, she expected it to have a good variety of game, possibly duck and wild boar.

Her spirits had lifted, and she continued her dialogue with the woman next to her, who proved to be an excellent conversationalist.

"Have you heard," said Ellie, "that they are building an unsinkable ship?"

"Who?" the woman asked.

"You must have heard. The newspapers are full of it. Titanic is its name, and it is the biggest ship that has ever been built."

"I'm sorry, dear, I have not," the woman answered, a slightly confused look on her face.

"They are building it in Ireland of all places. In Belfast."

"I have been so busy with my husband's work that it must have slipped my mind."

Before Ellie could think any further on the oddness of the woman's lack of knowledge of current events, the waiters came in.

"Main course," the woman said while straightening the napkin on her lap.

"Wild fennel pollen-rubbed venison leg," the first waiter announced as he placed a large plate into the center of the table. "With pickled mushrooms."

Everyone clapped. The waiter bowed and disappeared. Next, two waiters entered, holding an identical plate and placing it on either end of the table. "Tender duck breast wrapped in house-cured bacon and glazed with fresh peach sauce."

There was more applause. It continued throughout the side dishes: garlic potato salad with chives, steamed carrots in white wine sauce, and wild rice with truffles.

Another waiter brought a plate with Cornish game hens, telling the group that the chef had prepared it especially for tonight with a thyme and salt rub, mashed potatoes, and roasted beets.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the high point of tonight's dinner," the head waiter announced festively. "Whole roasted wild boar, caught just yesterday and garnished with carved apples, oranges, and rosemary, served on a bed of fresh greens."

People clapped, and the previously subdued mood was suddenly ecstatic. The food was perfectly arranged and pleasing to the sophisticated eyes and tastes of the guests. Ellie ate several of the duck and bacon wrappings before taking a piece of the Cornish game hen. It was tender and juicy and the meat fell off the bone on her plate. The woman next to her was engaged in a conversation with the man to her left who, at first, Ellie thought was her husband. But it turned out that her husband was at their home in Duram while she was officially off to see her sickly mother in Lancaster for two weeks. She eventually surmised that the man next to her, a shipbuilder from Sunderland with weathered skin and golden hair that was perfectly combed back, was her lover.

In my research, I have found yet another detail that adds to the notion of my patient's mental illness. There was indeed a shipbuilder in Sunderland. He was a tall, handsome fellow, his face weathered by sun and sea, with blond hair and enough money to have mistresses in every harbor from here to Honolulu. But he had disappeared fifteen years prior and he could not have been at the dinner that very night unless he had lived under a completely different name.

The woman next to Ellie had just put one forkful of the wild boar into her mouth when Ellie noticed a piece of garlic on her chin. At first she didn't want to say anything, especially because the woman didn't seem to notice. But then she decided to let her know.

"Oh, thank you, dear," the woman said. "I didn't notice it at all." Rather than using her napkin, she took the piece off with her fingers. Ellie followed the woman's hand with her eyes as she placed the piece at the edge of her plate and continued eating.

This moment must have been one of the worst for her. Having overcome two previous setbacks and having found new confidence in herself throughout the meal, she now couldn't believe what she saw. I spoke with her about this very moment in an interview. This was the first time she felt that she was on the brink of losing her mind.

At the edge of the plate next to hers, twisting and turning, its mouth searching for food, lay a maggot. Ellie very quietly put down her fork and knife. The heat in her chest made breathing harder than usual. She looked down and onto her plate. There were two pieces of potato and a small part of the skin from the Cornish game hen left. She had to force herself to look up. There was a part of her that wanted to disappear, to go back a day when she never stepped into that carriage, letting her husband go alone and finishing her needlework and visiting the fountain in the center of town to feed the doves.

But she looked up.

Ellie's world began to crumble, and reality morphed into a shattered image of disparate pieces as she tried to hold onto something familiar, something that would anchor her in the storm, like a dinghy in a hurricane.

But the line of the anchor was too short, and so the storm took the dinghy as if it wasn't even there and the waves came and washed over it and buried it. And from there it sank ever deeper to the bottom of the ocean. There it was quiet and peaceful and nothing could come near her and tell her of flesh foul and infected and decaying in front of her eyes.

The wild boar, or what was left of it, sat across from her in the center of the table. The plate — no, everything on it — was moving. There were thousands of maggots eating their way through the rotting flesh. A layer of mold had overtaken the Cornish game hens. Blisters of oozing liquid drained from the meat onto the plate. Bite-sized pieces that people were moving into their mouths had blood dripping from them and maggots falling from their mouths and forks.

The threshold to her sanity approached Ellie with immense speed. No one noticed. Not even her husband. She saw herself speaking to the woman next to her, who laughed while chewing on a piece of dove. The sound of flies crept into her ear as she looked down to see the first one sitting in the center of her plate as if it had just hatched from one of the larva.

"Can't you see?" Ellie said. "It's all rotten. The food is all rotten!"

The woman continued to laugh for a moment, then she became serious. She looked at Ellie for a while until her face began to change. At first Ellie couldn't grasp what was happening. Her sanity was hanging by a thread, and the storm was about to take it.

The woman opened her mouth as if to yawn, but it opened further and further, far beyond the natural limitations of her jaw bones. And suddenly sharp teeth appeared and her mouth turned into a snout, snarling and growling. It was the most horrific image imaginable.

One moment later, her face morphed back to normal. The woman laughed and apologized to Ellie for not hearing what she had said. Then she turned back to her lover.

"Are you feeling well, miss?" the waiter asked. But it was as if she heard it through a thick layer of cotton and dust. She got up. Her chair fell to the ground. She walked toward the door, turning once more to look at her husband.

None of the people around the table had human heads on their shoulders. Except for Robert, Ellie saw foxes and bucks and a lion, several heads of a boar and that of a puma. That was the woman next to her. And when Ellie's feet carried her out of the room, she heard the screams of the animals. They were screams of utter terror and despair. It induced in her the certainty that she was alone in all the world with no one to comfort her and hold her hand and tell her that this was merely a nightmare and nothing else.

She went to her room and lay on her bed, slipping under the covers and pulling them over her head. There was no longer a cohesive thought in her. Terror fueled her every notion. Was that a sound outside her room? Did the door just open and close again? Was someone walking next to her bed?

She slowly lowered the thick down blanket until she could see her room. The bellboy stood next to her bed, and a scream escaped Ellie's mouth. It didn't stop until she was out of air. The bellboy — tongue hanging half out of his mouth, saliva dripping onto his starched shirt — looked at her as if wanting to ask a question. And when Ellie screamed again, he began to scream as well. His was bone-chilling and high-pitched, and while he screamed, he changed into a fox. It stood next to the bed looking up at Ellie and screaming in terror before he was torn to pieces by invisible fangs.

She opened the door to her room and stepped into the hallway. From there she went downstairs, passing the concierge, who had the head of a panther on his shoulders, and ran outside. She made it a hundred yards into the night when she heard the trumpets. They were the horns that signaled the beginning of the hunt. Ellie ran into the underbrush as fox and bear and buck and lion charged out of the entrance door and, like a pack of hounds on a fresh trail, picked up her scent and followed her into the woods.

The medical examiner concluded that a good number of the injuries inflicted on her body could have been from her fingernails. There were mostly deep scratches that may or may not have resulted from her stumbling through the woods for days until a cow farmer picked her up thirty kilometers northwest of Churnsike. Some of the markings were deeper than the others. Except one, none were out of the ordinary. The one in question — and I say this with all caution — could have stemmed from a lion. But the examiner's report was inconclusive, and my research revealed that the area around Greystead had never seen a lion. No accounts had been made of such an animal escaping from a zoo in the nearby town.

I will have to conclude this report. My eyesight is failing in this low light and I need to be up at dawn, ready for my carriage. I will finish this when I return in three days’ time. I honestly don't see how I would change my point of view on my patient's fate in light of reason and a psychiatrist's eye for mental illness. Visiting the lodge will, as I have mentioned earlier, most likely be merely a formality and one to help bring closure to my patient's account. I owe her that much.

Oh. Yes. One more item I nearly forgot. As needlework was not allowed in the asylum for safety reasons, I had granted Ellie her wish to paint and provided her with a few brushes, canvases, and an easel. I am including with this report a photograph of the painting by Ellie Moore, done under strict supervision during her stay at the asylum. This was the only one she had attempted and she finished it two days before hanging herself in her room.

A Word from Stefan Bolz

I am truly sorry for writing such a hopeless and bleak story. The only silver lining, if there is one, lies in what I have discovered in my research. According to that, in 1956, the Churnsike Lodge in Greystead burned to the ground. Everything that wasn't stone was destroyed in the fire. Paintings, antlers, and stuffed heads of black bears all went up in flames. It is my hope that the tortured souls of the animals that had resided there were finally released into freedom.

The police found a few items in the ashes, mostly brass plates and, among other things, a pocket watch dating back to the early 1900s. It was bronze on a finely crafted silver chain. The picture inside was gone, melted into the top of the watch, but the engraving was still visible. It said: "To Robert, With My Undying Love, Ellie."

Oh, I must apologize for cutting this short. My carriage will be here shortly. I will be joining a hunting expedition to Vermont.

Farewell and until next time,

Stefan Bolz

P.S. The above painting inspired the story and all its aspects in a single instant. It is by the amazing artist, Helena Vólkova, who was kind enough to give me permission to use it. Check out her work at http://helenavolkova.tumblr.com/

If you'd like to read my other, much more hopeful stories, go to www.stefanbolz.thirdscribe.com

or find me on Amazon and Facebook.

Jeb & Aces: The Mechanical Plagues

by Alexia Purdy

One

“OH, GEEZ!” Jessie pulled off her welding glove, feeling the burning sting spread up her arm at a furious pace. Cringing, she clutched her hand tightly, biting down on her lip before inspecting the damage done from a wild spark. It had burned through the dense mesh of woven fibers and leather like butter, leaving a tiny pinprick burn burrowing into the top of her hand. It wasn’t much, but the pain had stopped her from continuing. Luckily, the metal shard had not dug its way into her flesh. That would’ve been permanent. Her skin was still intact, but the angry flesh beneath told her it was time to get a new set of gloves.

She pulled up her shirt beneath the heavy jacket she used for welding. There she tapped the small square ChemTend patch to alleviate pain. It clicked and began silently pumping endorphins into her body, numbing the pain instantly. Sighing in relief, she pulled down her shirt, covering any exposed skin. She was lucky she hadn’t hurt herself badly enough to need the physician med-bot to mend her skin. She hated that robot with a passion. Probably because it was an apathetic prick of a machine who didn’t think much of using its barbaric methods to harshly heal damage. She’d suffered through it before and didn’t care to go through it again.

The job was nearly done. There was no sense in stopping now, so she yanked it on again and made a mental note to patch it up later. She made quick work of melding the last seam. The panel was almost welded shut; it had been in dire need of repair, especially since there was another violent sandstorm blowing in from the west. The constant bombardment of the elements against the blast door had left cracks, weakening the metal panels after years of such abuse. The gale-force storm was scheduled to slam into the outpost in about an hour. The doors were already vibrating from the press of air leaking in through the opened panel she had moved to access the broken one. Once it was shut and sealed, the blast doors would be hard to bring down. But with the triple-layered door’s seal broken open to access the cracked panel, the entire platform was shaking with teeth-shattering jolts as the storm outside worsened.

It was disconcerting, but she was used to working in such horrid conditions. Always alone, for the most part.

A groaning creak caught her notice, and it was followed by a snap of metal from the platform’s supports. She tumbled over the edge along with all of her tools. The ruckus as they clanked onto the cement floor beneath her could have woken the dead, but she had her hands full as she slid over the end of the platform and descended until her restraint harness snapped taut, leaving her dangling, swinging wildly as the straps dug into her body.

She cursed, feeling her body ache from the nylon encircling her limbs and torso, cutting off her blood flow. The damned straps had saved her from the fall, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t bruised and rubbed raw. Plus she realized getting out of this situation before the other supports snapped was going to be a challenge, especially since she couldn’t reach the edge of the platform and was not in the right position to pull herself up.

Great. She cursed again under her breath while swinging to reach up as far as her arm would let her. All that did was tighten the straps against her joints and skin.

She gripped the nylon straps as they creaked under her weight, feeling her dose of endorphins running out. Her burnt hand ached, her legs felt like they’d been hacked off, and her head was hurting from the initial snap of the restraints. Reaching up toward the platform, she prayed it wouldn’t break any more. Things had grown old on Ezra Outpost 442, and these straps were far past their expiration date. Without deliveries of replacement items, the place would disintegrate in just a few decades.

“You know, you really ought to eat when working so hard,” a voice echoed from below.

She peered down as she hovered high above the giant sleeping spaceships, hovercrafts, and other vehicles. Some had been junked for parts, others were quite functional. Ace, her infrequent android companion, held a cup of coffee in one hand and an insulated lunch pouch in the other.

“Here, Jessie, Jessie, Jessie.” He snickered before tilting his head to the side, apparently finding her situation amusing. “Seems you’re in quite a pickle there.”

“Can you just get me down already?”

She shook her head, relieved to hear a familiar voice in the overwhelming silence of the hangar. She usually had her manual uplink com device that hooked up to the sound system in the hangar, where she listened to the music of centuries past to burn away the hours, but today she’d forgotten it. It was such a long way back to her room, it hadn’t seemed worth going back for it, especially since the probability that Ace was roaming about in human form, and not as some obscenely useless animal or bug, was extremely low.

Well, that had been pretty stupid. She groaned to herself. There’d have been no help without the com-link unless Ace happened to walk in like he’d just done.

At least when he was able-bodied, he had an uncanny sense of when she needed him the most. Thank goodness he was back to his normal human-like self, or she’d have been a grease spot on the concrete floor. Her luck had been suspiciously absent lately, and she did not exactly love skating on thin ice.

“All right. One moment.” He placed her lunch and drink on the floor before mounting the ladder to the platform she was dangling from. He took one step onto the platform and the thing screeched with a chorus of protest.

“Wait! Go slow. I’m not sure how stable this thing is anymore.” She swallowed hard, a dry lump forming in her throat. Her legs already felt numb dangling from the tight harness. Her toes felt like they were filling with blood.

“Sure, okay.” Ace looked around, searching for something to use to pull her in. Grabbing a loop of rope dangling from a set of pulleys attached to one side of the platform, he loosened enough slack to toss it her way. “Grab the rope. I’ll pull you up. The platform is stable on this end, but the metal is weakening toward the middle and far end.”

She nodded, stretching her arms toward the rope hanging just a few feet away from her. Her arm burned with fatigue as she tried to grab hold of the rope. Unable to reach it, she slowly kicked to get her harness into a swinging motion toward the lifesaving rope.

Another groan of metal. She held her breath and body still.

Please don’t break. Just hold on one more minute….

“Okay, swing again!” Ace called out, pleading with her to grab the rope. When she finally managed to curl her fingers around it, she swore she’d never let go, holding on with both hands as tightly as she could while Ace began the task of lifting her weight.

“We’re good. It’s good,” her throat croaked, and she pressed her eyelids shut as she reassured her helper that things were fine on her end.

Ace pulled the slack until it tightened, dragging her up slowly until her hands reached the platform. As she let go with one hand, there was another unmistakable creak of metal snapping apart, followed by her dropping back down. She struggled to hang on with one arm as half the platform crashed into the cement below. She grasped for the rope with her free hand and held on as Ace continued to pull her up via her harness.

“Jessie, hold on! I’ve got you.” His rough hands dug into her arms as he helped her up and over the edge of the broken piece of the remaining platform. She lay there, turning onto her back to stare up toward the blinding overhead lamps. She let out the breath she’d been holding, wondering for the first time what death would be like.

It sure as hell couldn’t be too bad, especially if it ended any kind of harsh pain and suffering.

“Thank you, Ace. You’ve got the perfect timing thing down.”

“I’m here to please.”

She chuckled. “Seriously. I forgot my com-link. If you hadn’t walked in here the very second you did, I—”

“Shhh. It’s over.” He winked and smiled, trying to lift her spirits. He could be terribly charming, but it didn’t work on her.

Ace gently pressed his hand into her shoulder as she stifled back the tears. It was strange that this incident should provoke such an emotional response from her. Nothing ever jolted her steadfast demeanor. Emotional outbursts were rare nowadays, especially since everyone used a ChemTend patch. They’d become accustomed to numbing even the slightest amount of pain or anxiety.

But today, for Jessie, everything felt completely upside-down. Something was not quite right.

Two

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “How about that sandwich?”

She hopped off the crane, shutting it down with the flick of a switch before joining Ace, who was already on the ground waiting for her. He winked, his light brown eyes flickering with life and mischief. His hair was in dire need of a cut, sticking out in all directions, but he repeatedly refused to cut it. Somehow it didn’t grow much longer unless he programmed it to. She guessed he did his own tiny snips here and there to keep it under control instead of asking her to cut it. Not that she blamed him. She was no beautician, and her own short, platinum-blonde hair was cut by a bot. She didn’t trust herself with any kind of shears.

“Just a wee bite of your favorite three-meat sub sandwich with cheese bread and a dollop of mayo-mustard. The works. Just the way you like it.” He held out the lunch pouch, dangling it with an infectious enthusiasm.

Smiling with joy, Jessie took his offerings. One good thing about having a companion around: there was always something to eat.

“Thanks, Ace. You’re the best. I wish we’d get that glitch of yours fixed. I’m not sure I’m safe by myself around here anymore.”

“It’ll take a bit more finagling on my part to fix the glitchy morphing, but I’m right as rain right now.”

She gave him a knowing look as she chewed thoughtfully. “For how long, though? It’s getting worse, isn’t it? How long before this fix wears off and you’re a bear again, or worse, a bug, and I step on you?”

His eyes flashed an apologetic sadness. “I don’t know, Jessie. It’s getting harder to change back each time. I can only promise that I will return to myself, one way or another.”

“This last glitch was a long one.”

“Four weeks.”

She nodded, sipping the steaming coffee he’d brought her. It warmed her insides instantly, a comfort in its own right.

“I guess it could be months. I missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Come on, old friend, I’m beat,” she said. “The panel’s fixed for now. We should be good for another year.”

“I could’ve done that for you.”

“No. You couldn’t. You were a tarantula, and I hate spiders.”

“Well, not then, but now I’m good to go. Any other repairs needed?”

Jessie scanned her brain, mentally listing each outage, crack, malfunction, and task she’d compiled in his absence.

“Yes. There're tons. Come on. I’ll dictate, you fix, and maybe I can sleep for days. You’re way faster than I am. What takes me weeks you can do in hours. I was falling far behind in your absence.”

“That’s not good. I’ll get started right away.”

Jessie reached out, placing a finger on his cool android skin. It felt entirely real, like another human would, but she knew better. What she was feeling was a seamless lattice of tiny cell-sized robots. His nanite tech was top of the line. On the street, no one would be able to notice that he was far from human.

Jessie called him Ace, which was short for Artificial Companion Exomorphian, yet he was nothing short of pure genius in design. His entire body, from his skin down to his skeletal structure, was composed of nanites, and each tiny robot was able to modify its function depending on the immediate need of the whole. This allowed him to perfectly replicate the human form. No expense had been spared to ensure that these androids were as life-like as possible, but nothing would ever make them more than cold, frigid machines built of nano-tech and formed into a human body. She knew the difference all too well.

“It can wait an hour.” His eyes roamed her face, full of unspoken things. He opened his mouth to speak but pressed his lips back together again without saying anything.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head and shrugged. “I’ll meet you in the cryogenics lab in an hour. I have some tasks I left undone from before my last glitch.” He jumped up to his feet, throwing her one last glance before walking away.

Her eyes followed her friend until his outline disappeared beyond the blast doors of the hangar leading into the heart of the underground space station outpost. This was their usual dance. One or the other held back what they wanted to say, and the other would never question the situation any further. It was an unspoken mutual agreement to never speak of things beyond what their mission required. It was better that way.

She wondered how many chances they’d both blown to change things. Not between them, but around them. Her love for Ace was mostly platonic, almost sisterly. But she’d never asked if it was the same for him. Did she wonder? Not particularly. Somehow she knew the uncertainty of it should bother her, but whatever he might feel, some things were never meant to be spoken out loud. There were things Jessie didn’t want to know or remember, and Ace knew to leave it well alone.

You forget who you really are. You forget the reasons you were brought here. For Jeb. That is all. For Jeb.

Junctional Endocardium Bacterium. A deadly mechanical plague of nanites infecting humans. That’s why you’re here.

The whisper jolted her out of her thoughts, and she spun, glancing around the room to see if anyone was there besides herself. There wasn’t. Only silence and the howl of the wind outside, crying out to be let in. Nothing but metal, oil, and the violence of nature to smother the silence.

Jessie shivered. The whispers had sounded like they had echoed across the ships sitting quiet and retired from the days when they were run ragged across the sector. Now the rusty hunks of worn metal were just more check marks on her list of things to do. Maintaining them was becoming more difficult. She’d already scavenged several ships just for parts to keep the others in working order. Soon there would be no more parts to junk off the older models, and if yearly shipments from Earth didn’t resume soon they’d be stranded there forever without transportation.

Morbid possibilities ran through her mind. Why had Earth stopped sending vital stores and equipment? They needed it to keep the outpost running. It brought her back to the massive utility door separating them from the unforgiving outdoors and the quiet solace within. If the door failed, they’d have to retreat to the heart of the station and cut themselves off from this hangar. If it came to that, the loss would be devastating, and they would indeed be stranded on this forsaken planet until help arrived.

If it ever arrived at all.

Three

The automatic lights clicked on and illuminated Jessie’s bedroom with a bright, ambient glow. She threw her arm over her eyes, squeezing them shut and groaning at the disturbance. Everything was automated. The curtains, the lights, meals, the cleaning bots. Nothing ever changed. Rusty metal or white was everywhere too. The shiny wall paneling, the slick concrete floor, even her sheets and comforter were all the same color. She was the only color in a washed-out world of white walls and lights on timers. And Ace, of course.

Slipping off the bed, she strolled into the adjoining bathroom, hearing the subsequent clicks of lights flickering on as sensors detected her movement. Mussing her hair, she yawned before giving herself a long, hard look in the mirror. She looked more awake than she felt, and she took that as a good sign. Her skin was a smooth, milky color tinted with a lovely pink that highlighted her brown eyes. There were those who’d call her pretty, but she didn’t care for compliments.

A rattling croak emitting from the toilet grabbed her attention, and she turned to find a toad the size of her head eyeing her back while its throat bobbed in and out with each sound. Its bulbous yellow and black eyes reflected the bathroom light, watching her carefully, observant as all hell.

“Geez, Ace. What the hell? You scared me half to death!” She made a sour face as the large, wart-ridden thing jumped out of the bowl and onto the edge of the tub. It left behind a sopping puddle of toilet water and gave her another knowing, sideways glance right before sliding in.

“God, you’re disgusting.”

She bent down, cranking the shiny metal faucet to full blast before she anchored the plug, filling the basin with warm water. The toad let the water rush over his body before giving a satisfied croak and kicking off for a swim across the tub.

“That’s right, ol’ buddy. Toilet water really isn’t becoming of you. Absolutely disgusting. Really, Ace, we must get that glitch of yours fixed properly. It’s quite off-putting.” She tapped on the immaculate tile wall, scrunching up her face as she thought. “I swear I ordered the part to fix you weeks ago. It’s really a pity it hasn’t arrived from Earth yet. It’s downright horrid to find you in this state when I least expect it.”

Jessie shut off the water, watching her friend shamelessly swim a few laps back and forth. She’d have to keep a look out for a gray pile of inactive nanites. Whenever one of Ace’s glitches turned him into something small, he left his unused nanites just laying around for her to clean up and safely store until he got himself sorted out again. Returning to the sink, she proceeded to run a comb through her unruly locks. The mirror betrayed nothing of her restless slumber. Her skin was pale, yet smooth and bright. It told nothing of the conflicts riddling her brain as she shuddered. It was the nightmares, and they awakened her several times throughout the night.

In the dream that was still fresh in her mind, she’d been staring at herself just like this, exactly the same way and in the same camisole nightgown she was currently wearing. The only difference was a cut on her face, and blood was running down her cheekbone in such a way that it could have only come from her eyes. But it wasn’t red… it was a dark gray, a metallic gray. She’d reached up to touch the wound, but nothing happened. Instead, she felt compelled to dig her nails into her cheek until she broke through the flesh and a royal blue-colored blood spurted out as she peeled away the epidermal layer, revealing striated white muscle beneath. The blood faded to gray as it left her body. The muscle was held together by white, stretchy tendons, with white bones peeking through.

That wasn’t even the worst part. No. The horror really began when she peered beneath the meat of her flesh to watch as the smooth white bones of her skeleton changed to a smooth metal. Blue blood dripped from the wound, down her neck, and onto her fingertips. It stained her porcelain white skin before turning gray and flaking off like talc.

The last part had sent her mind into revolt, jerking her awake. She could still feel the smack of her heart drumming a panicked beat beneath her chest bone.

It was just a dream, Jessie. Get a grip. It was nothing more than a dream. Your blood isn’t blue.

Dreams were never just dreams, though. They represented something real. The medication she took to suppress the dreams was supposed to keep her unconscious from troubling her as she slept, but reality could not be filtered from the mind with chemical cocktails. Therefore her dream had a foundation in real memories. That’s how it all worked. That’s what she’d always been told by the moronic med-bots.

Therefore, they were real, at least in part. But how could they be? True, she was isolated; she’d been growing weary of the constant work, and a life spent without sunlight on a wasteland of a planet had taken its toll. It’d be enough to drive anyone insane, and the medication apparently wasn’t working anymore. She’d have to tweak her mood enhancers along with the sedatives she mixed for such things. It was an arduous task, analyzing her chemistry and attempting to fix it with the ChemTend patch inserted into the skin of her abdomen, but it was a necessary one. She had the patch, so she might as well use it.

No one could or should live with their body and mind chemistry out of whack, especially in an isolated outpost like hers. It was a downright necessity. Stabilization of one’s chemicals was what the machines were for in the first place. Too many outlying workers had committed suicide, driven to it by the extreme conditions, social isolation, and lack of sunlight. Anomalies in their circadian rhythms had been reported, and the companies began handing out the ChemTend machine patches like candy. The drop in incidents was worth the cost of the little blood-analyzing gadgets.

Soon every human had one installed. But there was a problem. The tiny patches were made from machines—nanites. A deadly nanite-based virus evolved. Given the name J.E.B., it could enter the body through the ChemTend patches, and soon people began to die. The machines flourished, but the tiny nanite-based virus had nearly wiped out the human race. The virus was eradicated before the complete extinction of humanity, but those who were infected were put into cryogenic stasis and sent to outposts like this one to eliminate the possibility of them reinfecting the Earth. Now people like Jessie were the caretakers of those humans who were stuck in cryochambers awaiting a cure. Jessie was safe because she was isolated; her ChemTend patch had never been exposed to the virus. There were a handful of other humans like her, on various remote planets around the sector, but none of them dared interact with one another. If one of them were somehow infected by the people in cryosleep, they could spread that infection. Her only link to the outside world was through the shipments from Earth.

Heading out to her room while Ace bathed in the tub, Jessie sighed. Sooner or later her android friend would transform back to his normal human-like body. He was, after all, a unique A.I. made specifically to keep her company and work the maintenance of the outpost, but the unpredictability of how long he’d stay that way was a problem. She couldn’t run the whole station by herself. It was impossible to keep things working smoothly without help.

If only he didn’t malfunction so often, morphing into any number of unusual creatures. No matter how hard she had tried to fix him, she couldn’t quite get rid of the unusual glitch. This had contributed to the levels of stress frequently affecting her during the long work days. When Ace was a toad, bird, or rabbit for weeks on end, her workload tripled.

Dressing, she resolved to get to work. The repairs on the hydraulics of the blast doors had to be redone. The violent atmospheric storms continually pelting the aged metal wreaked havoc on the seams she’d welded. If they tore away, the blast doors would become useless. There were no spares available either.

Jessie racked her brain, trying to remember when the last shipment had arrived on Ezra but came up with nothing. Her mind was a maze riddled with empty holes like Swiss cheese. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve sworn her memory had been altered. But there was no need for that here. Not on Ezra. There was only Ace, Jessie, and the cryos here. Ace could barely take care of himself with his damn glitches. His android protocols didn’t allow him to tamper with any human at the facility, meaning he couldn’t kill, alter, hurt, or put into danger any person unless another human was in danger. There was no way Ace had altered her memory, and there was no one else here who could do it.

It’s like an unseen mutiny, she thought. Luckily, that wasn’t an issue here. She was the only human stationed on Ezra at this time, so naturally she couldn’t have been tampered with. There was no evidence of such, so she had to just face the fact that her memory was abysmal.

Jessie made her way toward the front of the facility, taking the lift to the top floor. The overhead lights flickered on as she passed and resumed their dormant state seconds afterward. The motion sensors kept the lights on just long enough for her to use them. Keeping them off extended the life of the bulbs, which was especially important with no new supply ships. This was the only floor of the facility that had all the lights working. She’d closed down some of the other unused levels, ten in total, and stored extra bulbs to save on energy. Every additional floor was sealed off to keep them dust free and clean for future residents.

It was a peaceful existence, just Jessie and Ace, quiet and routine. Melancholic more often than not. The massive reinforced doors leading to each floor flashed by undisturbed as she walked on. She lived on the sixth floor, and there was a good reason to reside there. It was where they were kept for safekeeping.

She brushed the thought from her mind, getting off on the first floor. After grabbing her welding equipment from the storeroom, she hit the switch to turn on the bright floodlights ahead. The room was so large she had to turn on the lights manually, for motion sensors were useless. The hangar, where Ace had saved her the other day, was full of machinery, sitting dormant for whatever or whoever may come.

It’s all for them.

The outpost had been built by androids and would never have been habitable by humans without the help of the machines. Now the only intelligent machine left was Ace. The med-bot was little more than an automaton; it was capable of performing the most delicate of procedures, but it wouldn’t do to have it overthinking its tasks.

She dropped her gear at the base of one of the doors and walked along the side of the hangar and into the control room. From here she could see live feeds from every camera in the facility and receive any signals from Earth or the other planets. She slid into the chair and switched on the radio transmitter in the hopes of hearing something beyond the unchanging drone of static.

It was her only comfort when Ace was not around. The noisy void from the radio was more calming than most tasks she set out to do every day.

No voices or signal beacons came through. Years ago there had been many. Now the crackling static was overwhelming.

Only dust, unrelenting sandstorms, and miles of arid desert as far as the eye could see awaited outside. Building a containment facility way out here in the Ezra star system—at the edge of the explored sector—was insanity. At any rate, there were many outposts set up throughout space, manned by androids and humans alike. It was just a matter of finding them.

“Ezra Outpost to… anyone. Do you copy?”

Static. White noise. Distant memories. She didn’t know what else she expected. Through the subspace transmitter orbiting the planet, the signal should have reached Earth almost immediately. But Earth had been silent for months. That couldn’t be good.

“Ezra to Earth. Still awaiting our last two supply shipments. Please respond.”

She switched off the control panel, and her tight frown deepened. How many years had she spent out here? She’d lost count but could easily look it up. There was no point in looking at the numbered days, though, it only mattered what day of the month it was. The supply ship was supposed to arrive on the third Friday of each month. That’s when she left the facility with Ace—if he was able-bodied—to pick up the huge cargo container dropped into the atmosphere and guided by drone to a landing site a quarter mile from their facility. They’d hook it up to their tow ship and bring it back to the facility, insert it through one of the smaller gates in the massive blast doors to minimize the amount of sand and debris in the hangar, close up, then unpack the shipment.

It was a pretty routine but always welcomed task. The container never failed to provide the excitement of new delights.

How long would Earth make them wait for another? Something must’ve happened on Earth. Something horrible.

Four

The rust was getting out of hand, Jessie realized as she walked through the halls of level six. It ran down the walls, marking the aged metal with the color of old blood. It betrayed the age of the outpost, and Jessie cringed every time she passed the streaking decay. Moisture was hard to stabilize the farther down into the station she went. It was a problem the original constructors had struggled with and subsequently failed to solve. The centuries had proven the planet would eventually take back this prized piece of real estate one square foot at a time. Outside, it was a desolate, arid desert, but down here, it was as humid as a rainforest.

Even the cryochambers were designed to repel water. The invading moisture had forced the engineers to develop a way to keep the rust off the tanks and out of the Cryolab. It was the one place in the station Jessie often retreated to. Not only was the atmosphere more tolerable in the roomy lab, but her skin welcomed the break from the intense humidity of the rest of the station, relishing the cold, dry air.

She leaned back, knowing Ace wouldn’t be joining her in an hour. He often said that. An hour to him could mean two or three later. Time meant something different for him. He’d been here from day one and for centuries had only the one uncontrollable glitch. It didn’t slow him down much. Time meant nothing to him, but an hour felt like an eternity for her in this metallic graveyard.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it, Garrett? This place… it’s a tomb for us all.”

She pressed a finger to the door of the Cryolab’s innermost room. A rush of frigid air sent a shiver down her spine before she stepped inside. The door closed behind her as she walked straight to her destination, the second to last tank toward the rear of the room. There, she leaned over the human-sized tube and slid the metal shielding away from the top of the transparent casing.

Inside, a faintly opaque mist drifted listlessly over its ward. Garrett 294H lay unchanged and unmoving, his eyes closed and his hands at his sides. His slightly long brown locks fell softly over his ears while his dark lashes were dusted with frozen crystals. If she didn’t know any better, she could have imagined he was taking a long-needed nap. Technically, he was. A centuries-long sleep.

“When will you wake up?” Her fingers pressed against the glass, her skin growing colder with every passing moment. His face was like a dream she could never quite recall. She knew him. Somehow she’d heard this man’s voice with her own ears. Now it was more of an echo of memory. Somewhere deep inside her head, it bounced about, tickling the edges of other things she should be able to recall with ease. But they fell out of reach, like they’d moved beyond a wall with no doors. She’d contemplated it often and wondered what it meant but knew it had everything to do with J.E.B. and Ace.

“What is it that you mean to me? If only I could wake you and ask you.” Her fingers slid over the glass until they hit the frigid metal encasing the rest of the chamber. It was a fruitless act, filled with a longing she couldn’t explain. Her memories failed to surface, and it only confirmed something she’d feared for some time now.

Even Ace, with his platonic love and sweet words of comfort, failed to keep the ache for a different kind of companion at bay. Nonetheless, she wondered why she was the only human alive in this aging station when all the others were sleeping peacefully in their cryochambers.

Could she have been pulled from one of the chambers? Had hers malfunctioned, necessitating the need to remove her from stasis? It was the most reasonable explanation. It could also explain why her memory remained affected; her awakening could have wiped her memory as well as any mind wipe.

It had to be what had happened, but that didn’t explain why Ace refused to tell her about it. That damned robot was stuffed full of secrets, but she was determined to break through somehow. Her days of quiet acceptance of her past were over. Garrett’s survival depended on knowing what had occurred at this remote station and finding a cure for the J.E.B. plague. There was nothing to document except the subjects in the Cryolab.

Nothing was off limits. She’d found records expunged from the outpost’s core memory going several years back, starting from around the time her memory disappeared. They hadn’t been erased or fabricated or destroyed. They just weren’t there. Like someone had removed the hard drive and replaced it with a new one.

A new start. But why would anyone here need one?

“Garrett,” she whispered and placed her hand on the glass once more. “I need answers before we all die here.”

Silence was her constant companion, one she didn’t care to coddle any longer. Tears formed in her eyes, but she blinked them away. No time for emotions. It was survival only. Especially since she could now hear Ace coming around the corner.

When he spotted her, he paused, tilting his head to the side, scrutinizing her. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, likely inhaling the scent of her tears. She jumped from her seat and grabbed several tubes of blood. Her research on the J.E.B. plague had stalled years ago, but it didn’t stop her from continuing her tests. Something had to work at some point. The rule of probability would have to favor finding a cure sooner or later.

“Any changes?” Ace stepped forward until he hovered above Garrett’s cryochamber, his facial expression still, settling into an unreadable mask. Jessie slipped the tubes of blood into a stand and drilled her eyes into them, wishing such a look alone could turn them into the cure she desperately needed.

“No changes. No breakthroughs.” She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and feeling her circadian rhythm urging her to bed. Instead, she remained where she was, opening her eyes to peer at her injury from the previous day.

Her hand was healing slowly, and the dark bruising surrounding the burn concerned her, but it was the least of her worries. It wasn’t the J.E.B. plague that concerned her. Her tests never exposed her directly to the infected blood.

Even if she did get infected, she could never spread it; the disconnect this quarantined outpost experienced extended to all outlying isolation posts. There were dozens of them, she had been told. It made Jessie’s desperation to find a cure even more urgent. It would be the only way she’d ever be allowed to leave. At least Ace wasn’t entirely indifferent to her cause, like most androids. He would help her when others never would. She had liked him immediately, and their bond solidified the more time she spent with him.

Ace sat at the desk behind her, tapping on the keyboard to sift through files. Finally, he settled on something, and his silence made Jessie turn around. It was an image of Earth. Hundreds of nuclear explosions pockmarked the planet, frozen at the moment of detonation. It almost looked fake.

“It’s time,” he said.

Her eyes widened at the screen. “Time? Is that…?”

“Earth.”

“What… when?”

“Thirty years ago.”

Her mind reeled. “No… it’s not possible. I haven’t even been here that long. And… and we had a supply run only a few months ago.”

He rubbed his forehead, looking weary. She wondered if another glitch was coming on. “The J.E.B. plague wasn’t eradicated on Earth. They thought it had been. But it survived. It kept evolving. By the time they knew it was back, it was too late. The nano-bacteria infected everything, human and robot alike. You have to understand that these people here and in the other cryostations are all that’s left of humanity. When Earth saw that the J.E.B. plague couldn’t be controlled, they did what they had to to keep it from spreading beyond the planet. It was the only way.”

“Do you think they felt anything when it happened?” Jessie asked finally, finding the image oddly intriguing. She felt numb, and it was hard to look away from it. Though the picture they saw now had happened decades before, the imagery conjured the dread she often felt deep inside. Earth was gone, and with it, any chance of help or redemption for this forsaken place. The cure would have to come from the quarantined outposts now. If there were any others left.

“No. Those who were still alive never knew what hit them.” He clicked through to another picture of Earth. The number of white flashes across the planet had doubled. “Quick and painless.” He threw a furtive glance at Garrett’s chamber. “More than some could ever expect from death.”

Jessie swallowed hard, studying her partner. This tomb of bodies they’d been unable to resurrect weighed heavily, and her hope died each day anew. She wondered if Ace would be the last animated face she’d ever look upon. It was a real possibility.

“Ace?”

“Yes?” He didn’t look up but kept tapping at the keyboard, a studious crease deepening between his dark brows.

It was then that she noticed they were not that much different from each other. His dark eyebrows and dark brown hair gleaming like white silver under the glowing LED lights above them reminded her of her own. Her hair was blonde, but he could easily change the color with one thought. She reached up, touching her cheek with a fingertip and tracing her jawline. Their eyes were even the same shade of brown. It was a wonder she’d never considered how much they looked like brother and sister, more than the humans slumbering soundlessly in the cryochambers.

“Why don’t I know about any of this? Why do I remember a supply shipment arriving three months ago?” She paused, trying to formulate the question she wanted to ask. “What am I to you?”

“What do you mean?” Ace stopped his search, leaning back and sighing before he jumped from his chair to face her. She didn’t flinch or move away when he approached. Somehow she knew he’d react this way to her inquiries. He peered down at her, his face almost as blank as a brand new page of a journal awaiting the spilling of secrets, but his eyes told a different story. Those eyes were full of things she should know and didn’t. It angered her that he held such power, but she was determined to remedy it immediately. Was he lying to her about Earth? Would he spill his secrets? Had he indeed been sent here to Ezra for the sole purpose of watching over her and being her ever-present companion? Or were there ulterior motives to all his actions?

Maybe this entire mission was in extreme danger, even with Ace as her artificial sibling, guardian and caretaker. It was at that moment that she wished her life had taken an entirely different course than it had, but if it had, she could be amongst the dead back on Earth.

Without Earth, what would become of them?

“Ace, I need you to tell me the truth about everything. Leave nothing out.”

Five

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Ace remained standing, watching her as she rose to her feet and eyed him hard.

“Yes, you do. I know about the mind wipe. I feel it there like a wall that should be covered with graffiti but remains blank in the back of my mind.” Jessie narrowed her eyes, focusing on her friend. Supposed friend, she reminded herself. He could be a traitorous warden for all she knew. This could be her prison. What if he wasn’t at all what he’d seemed all these years? Was it all just a ruse?

Why bother? she thought. She could have left at any point in time and still could. The small ships she maintained were her ticket out of here. They worked, could be filled with rations, and required only solar energy to function. They were well-charged, connected to the solar batteries they had set up to run the station. She would just have to walk to the hangar, jump into the ship of her choice, switch it on, open the blast doors, and leave this dustbowl forever.

So why didn’t she?

After several moments of silence, she’d had enough. His lack of response was as good as a confession. This had to end now, and she needed every fact she could squeeze out of Ace.

He tilted his head down, focusing his eyes on her. They failed to show any kind of hostility and instead twinkled with deep-seated intrigue.

“I thought it would last longer this time around. Unfortunately, our equipment is dated, and the effects diminish each time we administer the procedure,” Ace responded.

“Wh-what do…?” Jessie stumbled on her words, unable to form a sentence. Was he admitting to his treachery? The way he’d said it painted her as a willing participant. How could that be? She’d never willfully want to be mind-wiped. There were countless horror stories about the procedure. The results varied significantly and were volatile at times. Things like basic language skills, physical movement, and other upper cognitive functions could be accidently affected during a purge. She would never allow it to be done to her… would she?

“Ace? What are you talking about?” She shoved him backward as she pushed her weight into him. How could he say such things?

He bent his neck down to get a good look at her. He stood a head and a half taller than Jessie, and he had to hunch down to lock eyes with her. Her chest puffed out in defiance as she continued to use her svelte body to force him back.

“Answer me, Ace,” she snapped, giving him another shove until his backside met with the frigid tube of one of the cryochambers.

Ace adjusted his stance slightly so as not to put undue pressure on the chamber. They were sturdy, built to last centuries, yet he’d often wondered if they could survive even another year. Like most things in this primeval station, they had an expiration date, and most of the equipment had already surpassed that time. Even androids didn’t last forever without proper maintenance. His glitch was proof of such things.

Ace’s frown deepened as Jessie’s gaze sent ice picks into him. He could almost taste her rage in the air. Emotions were not native to androids. Anger, fear, curiosity, loneliness, sadness, desire… what good did it do to install such trivial notions in a machine? They were unfathomable things, like Jessie’s anger toward him now. It was her emotions switch which he had left on that let her anger affect her so much. He’d failed to turn it off this time around. She’d often accepted her fate with a cruel expression of forlorn misery whenever she began to suspect she’d been mind-wiped, but now it was sheer manic disgust pasted across her beautiful face, challenging him to admit his mistakes.

“I’m sorry, Jessie. I wish I could erase your pain as easily as your memories.”

He reached up, gripping her shoulders as her frown deepened and her fists began a fitful drumming against his chest. It didn’t hurt. Nothing ever did, even when he acted otherwise. He’d shut off the pain receptors eons ago, deciding they were less than useless. Jessie always gave him subtle warnings before her outbursts when she began to suspect a mind wipe. This time around it’d come too soon. Five years too early. It meant her systems were malfunctioning and failing faster than expected.

“You wish you could erase my pain? How dare you! You mind-wipe me without my consent and proceed to act as if this is some sort of experiment to document.” Angry tears spilled down her cheeks, but she failed to notice or acknowledge their presence. The royal blue liquid stained her cheeks and slid to the floor without her notice, turning gray as the nanites separated from her and fell dormant. Ace had programmed her to see her tears and blood as clear and red fluids, respectfully, not the dark ocean blue of each drop that streaked down her face, discoloring her clothes where they landed. He watched one drop splash on the floor before lifting his gaze back to her face.

“Jessie... I only do what you asked me to do. I would never agree to these treacheries unless you did. I have always acted in your interests with your specific instructions. I am not the oppressor you think me to be. I am your partner and slave all at the same time.”

This gave her pause, and she stepped backward, her expression twisting into a mask of sheer confusion. Her bright cherry-red lips stood slightly parted, flashing a hint of white teeth behind them. She had pretty lips, perfect if anyone asked him. But no one ever asked Ace anything. Everyone here was either in cryosleep or an android with glitches. It wasn’t surprising to find she’d fallen in love with that blasted human over and over again, no matter how hard he attempted to wipe him from her mind. His face never failed to snake back into her memories, initiating the cycle of obsession all over again.

One day he’d find the right programming to effectively keep her mind off the human and keep her on her task of maintaining the outpost along with him. They were A.C.E.s, and their sole purpose as caretakers of the quarantined J.E.B. victims was to watch over the humans in cryosleep until a cure was found. If anything happened to the humans, their species would become extinct.

Jessie took another step back, slowly moving away from Ace. It was obvious her mind was racing. At least it was finally bringing some semblance of calm to her features.

“I ordered you to do this to me?”

He nodded. She found a chair and slumped down into it before leaning forward and placing her hands on her face. “What have I done? Why would I do that?” She peered up again, her face now eerily stoic. The blue tears she’d cried were already drying into faded streaks of gray powder, most of it smeared away by her hands. “Why would I do that, Ace? Why would I want to forget?”

Ace didn’t move but watched her closely. This was nothing new. He’d done this dozens of times, but it was never a pleasant experience. He’d give anything to end these interrogation sessions. It never changed, and the questions were always the same. And it helped no one. She’d always end up asking him to erase her memory again, as she would this time around too.

It was an endless cycle, a broken carousel going nowhere.

It had been this way for five hundred years out of the eight hundred they’d spent together. There was no hope of breaking the routine unless one of them stopped functioning. He hoped it wouldn’t be him first. It was one thing to be a robot with emotions, but it was something else to be a robot with emotions and human-like needs with no one else around to speak to or interact with. It was a cruel fate Ace knew he’d probably face one day if Jessie decided it would be too hard to move on or her nanites were inadvertently fried during a mind wipe. She’d end her existence herself if it came down to it, Ace knew she would. Especially if her precious Garrett ever died.

In the end, though, Garrett would die, wouldn’t he? Of course he would. The cryochambers were not built to last an eternity. Neither were the human bodies encased within them. One or the other was guaranteed to fail, and he’d have to incinerate the corpses eventually. It’d already begun to happen, and he was relieved Jessie hadn’t noticed the series of empty cryochambers near the rear corners of the room. If she had noticed, she hadn’t given them much thought. They were all full when he and Jessie had first started working here. Now the long-frozen bodies were slowly dying, one by one.

What would happen to the rest of the humans if either A.C.E. stopped working? Their nanites were hardy, but he could already feel the abysmal twitch of electricity vibrating through him indicating he was nearing a transformation episode. It was unfortunate timing since Jessie was in the middle of a memory-wiping crisis. He’d have to leave her alone to ponder life while he spent an unforeseen amount of time as whatever animal or object he happened to shift into. It was never his choice, and he had no control over what he became. One thing was for sure, they would not be able to communicate while he was in his other form.

He cursed his vile condition as he watched the disillusionment drain from Jessie’s face. Her eyes involuntarily found Garrett’s chamber and settled on it.

“Why would I want to forget, Ace?” she repeated.

“Because… you want to be human. You don’t want to just forget; you don’t wish to know that you’re an android like… like me.” He felt the jitter of nanites growing volatile under his skin. He swayed on his feet, trying as he might to hold back the change. More than anything, he wanted to reach out and pull Jessie into his arms, comfort her and tell her it all would be okay. Things humans did for each other. He could do those things too. It was just a matter of programming and minute chemical changes within his nanites. All he had to do was adjust his ChemTend patch settings, and it would happen. Just like that.

“What are you… I mean, what are we?”

“We are A.C.E.s. Artificial Companion Exomorphians. Androids. We’re as human-like as any human.”

“I mean… what are we to each other?”

His confusion betrayed him. He was more machine than he cared to admit. Maybe it was just a matter of tweaking the ChemTend patch. Regardless, there was never a moment he wished he could grant her desire to be human more than right now. The lost expression on her face broke his empty heart into pieces.

“You’re my partner. We maintain this quarantine until further instructions from Earth Command….”

“Earth is gone!” She jumped from her chair. “Don’t you get it? No further instructions are coming. This is it. This is all that’s left. We are nothing but trash tossed out into the universe, forgotten. What am I to you? A sister? A lover? Does it even matter anymore? What are they to us?” She waved her hand toward the cryochambers. “And what are we to them?”

Her meltdown was disarming. Knowing he would be morphing any second now before he could fix it, he knew exactly what had to come next.

Ace stepped forward and reached for her shoulders. She didn’t flinch. She’d just entered that numb stage of grief, which was why she failed to notice when he pressed against the hidden nub near her cervical spine. The nanites that formed her skin separated, creating a small hollow. The small hole allowed quick access to the one part of an A.C.E. that wasn’t composed of nanites: the central processor—the brain. He felt for the two separate shutoff buttons: one for a complete, de-energizing shutdown and the other for emotional resets in case of a ChemTend patch malfunction. He flipped the one he needed, causing Jessie to gasp and grow limp. Taking her into his arms, he removed his finger and helped her slide to the floor as her eyes dimmed and her breath slowed to a halt.

Her system had commenced an emergency shutdown and would restart. When she woke up, she would no longer feel anything at all. No loneliness. No love. No fear. No regard for anything but her mission. Keep the humans alive and this station functional until help arrived. That was their mission, and he’d make sure they’d both survive to make it to the end of the journey. He’d didn’t like to shut off her emotions, but she’d left him no choice.

Ace laid her on the floor by Garrett’s tank. As he got to his feet, his morph hit, and every tiny nanite inside his body shuddered and shifted. He groaned as they fluttered about inside, rearranging every fiber, muscle, and bone. It was a discomforting feeling but ended as quickly as it had hit. Ace was gone, but another remained in his wake.

Silence followed before an almost inaudible intake of breath indicated that Jessie had restarted. She breathed back out—one of the many minute actions that allowed her to simulate actual human life. She opened her eyes to find an etheric blue butterfly hovering above her, flapping its wings like mad against her cheek to wake her up. All around her was a gray ash.

“Ace?” She blinked again, unsure of what she was seeing, but her mind confirmed it as she processed the information. There were no living things here in this place. No animals. Just frozen humans and the A.C.E. caretakers. They lived and worked at a J.E.B. quarantine station.

“Got yourself morphed again, I see.” She sat up and peered around the room. “You have the worst timing, Ace. There’s so much to do.” She rubbed her head and reached back around to the small nub on her neck. She had a feeling that the small access port had been recently tampered with. “I know what you did, my friend, but I thank you. I’m more efficient this way, and with you indisposed and basically useless to our mission, I’ll need to focus on repairs before the winter storms arrive.”

She got up and looked at the image of a dead Earth on the computer screen. Without a moment’s hesitation, she closed the image, once again locking it away behind the layers of encryption only Ace knew how to get past.

She sighed and watched the butterfly silently flap away before landing on the edge of a desk; it seemed to peer up at her curiously. “We really need to get that glitch of yours fixed ASAP.”

Six

“This is Arcadia Two-Five-One… does anyone copy? Is anyone out there?”

Jessie narrowed her eyes at the crackling radio. White noise filled the space in between the messages. They hadn’t received any answers to their radio transmissions in the three decades since Earth’s destruction. Arcadia outpost was farther away than either of them wanted to admit, but the voice on the other side was unmistakably alive. It seemed like a miracle since the supply runs had stopped coming from Earth and they’d run out of so many necessities here on Ezra.

Jessie reached out toward the radio mic, her mind racing. There were others out there. Other humans and androids who might possibly have the one thing they needed most and could help them. It would take months to reach them, but it was more than possible. They could even join them or vice versa, depending on the condition of their outpost.

Ezra Outpost was older than most, but it was massive and could be converted to smaller living and work areas. Plus it’d been made from older and sturdier materials. Arcadia was much smaller and located on a tiny, distant moon in the Frey system. Even if they had to pick up the survivors and their cryochambers, it was more promising than the endless silence they’d heard from every corner of the sector since Earth’s demise.

“Wait.” Ace’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to find him standing near a cryochamber. He was reabsorbing the nanites he’d shed during his glitch. “Don’t answer them, Jessie.”

She scoffed, as though horrified at the suggestion. Even with her emotions turned off, she couldn’t alter her programming; they had been designed to act and appear human, after all. Ace finished recovering his nanites and stepped up to lean against one of the control panels, picking at his nails and indifferent to the crackling messages filling the air. He’d been overly silent these last few years, and she wondered if the glitch he’d been suffering from had finally fried some of his mental circuits. Maybe he needed more ChemTend adjustments. They had both been dealing with a multitude of malfunctions and required much-needed repairs. They’d long ago run out of spare nanites to replace the ones that had died or were damaged. Maybe Arcadia, being more modern, had some to spare.

“Are you insane? They’re survivors. They might need our help. We need their help.”

Ace blew out a breath and frowned. “They’re androids. Like us. Their humans are probably already dead.”

“So? What does it matter? There are others like us. We need to stick together.”

He shook his head, and she threw her hands in the air. The guy was impossible, especially for an android. She leaned forward, about to press a finger to the intercom, when Ace firmly slapped her hand away.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” She glared at him, eyeing the emptiness filling his once animated features. Now he was more of a robot than ever before, and she suspected he’d shut off his emotional sensitivity chip ages ago. This only confirmed it. She’d been blinded to it before, with her own emotions intact. She had projected feelings onto him. Now she saw both of their actions for what they were: basic programming.

“I’m just pointing out that they are androids, not human. If they had a cure for J.E.B., we’d know it by now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Jessie. Stop fooling yourself.”

She threw him an icy glance, knowing what really was bugging him. “You’re afraid they do have a cure, aren’t you? What happens when we do finally get it and awaken the humans? What then, Ace? Would you be jealous?”

She stared hard back at him, but he avoided her glare, choosing not to answer. Jessie turned back toward the microphone and pressed the button. “Arcadia, this is Ezra Quarantine Four-Four-Nine. Please state your infection and cryostatus there.”

The static answered them, and they waited for the Arcadia androids to respond. If they were androids at all. Most outlying outposts were quarantines for sick humans, manned only by machines and, occasionally, an immune person or two. This was the first outpost they’d heard from since Earth’s destruction. Hope was dying with each passing year that they’d ever see a non-frozen human again.

That’s what Jessie had believed she was all these years. She’d told herself she was an immune human, and that with a cure, she could save those with the plague. Now she knew why. It was Garrett.

They had loved one another, back on Earth. But she was a machine, and he’d been dying. She suddenly remembered everything. She hadn’t been able to stand being separated from Garrett. She’d volunteered for the quarantine program hoping to stay with him even though he was in stasis. Something had happened to her after arriving at Ezra station—a glitch—and she began believing she was human. Ace had taken care of her and let her think what she wanted. He knew that the lie had made her happy. But now his own glitch was too debilitating. It was her turn to take care of him.

“Copy, Ezra. Hello from across the system. Our plague status is clear with fourteen cryos intact along with two fully functional A.C.E. units as per protocol.”

“Do you have any immunes?” She knew it was a long shot, but it was possible human staff had been sent to Arcadia just before the destruction of Earth. The white noise was wearing on her, and the wait even more.

“Negative. All quarantines require only two A.C.E. staff to watch over cryochambers until further instructions from Earth Command. All immunes were removed from quarantine stations over three centuries ago due to interrelations, which are against protocol.”

“But there is no Earth Command. Arcadia….” She swallowed the desert in her mouth before peering back toward Ace, who pressed his lips into a thin, tense line. “Earth was destroyed thirty years ago.”

The radio clicked back to static, and the moments turned into minutes.

“Arcadia to Ezra. We were not aware. Our visual communications have been disabled for nearly four decades now. Can you confirm… you said Earth was destroyed thirty years ago?”

She tapped the counter, feeling her breath quicken before she pushed the button once more. “Affirmative. Thirty years ago according to our visuals. Supply runs stopped not long before the event.”

“Ezra… do you have live human specimens on staff? It seems strange you wouldn’t be familiar with that protocol.”

“Negative.” Her eyes never left Ace’s. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Like you said, it’s against current protocol due to fraternization.” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling sick to her stomach. She ignored the ChemTend patch to adjust the settings. She wasn’t even sure the damn gadget even worked anymore. Looking back, she found Ace gone. Searching the room, she instead found a wolf with bright yellow eyes and dark gray-black fur scrutinizing her quietly.

“Ace?” Jessie reached out toward it, beckoning it closer. It jumped to its feet and padded near her, giving her a soft whine as it rubbed against her leg. The depths of his eyes matched the same look Ace gave her.

“You lied to me, didn’t you? You lied to me for so many years. There were never immunes manning the quarantine stations, only androids. You didn’t tell me this because it meant I’d find out I was an android.”

The wolf hung its head down between its two front paws, looking ashamed and full of regret. It was the most emotion she’d seen from Ace in years, artificial though it may be. She couldn’t imagine the work he’d put into maintaining the illusion of her humanity.

“Arcadia to Ezra. We wish to rendezvous within the next three months. Is that possible? Our station is damaged, and without repair supplies; we can’t sustain this location much longer. We must move our cryochambers out to a more stable environment. Are you able to accept the shipment?”

She turned back toward the mic. “I’m sorry, Arcadia, can you confirm? You said a shipment of cryochambers with live specimens, correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“What about your A.C.E. staff?”

“Negative. We must remain at the station for a complete shutdown. Ezra A.C.E.s must assume care for the fourteen cryos. Concur?”

Jessie shook her head, placing a hand over her eyes. So many days had gone by in this lonely place. Ace was malfunctioning more and more frequently, but this was an opportunity to get ahold of new nanites which could fix him. It was the only way she would agree to take fourteen more cryochambers full of slumbering J.E.B. plague victims.

“Negative. This station’s A.C.E. units have been malfunctioning for decades. We need all Arcadian androids along with any spare nanites to accompany the cryo shipment. Our A.C.E. units cannot undertake such a task alone.”

A minute passed as Arcadia station contemplated her demands. If they said no, things would never change. If they said yes, she would be able to fix Ace and maybe, just maybe, be able to redeem even herself. Since discovering she wasn’t human and that Ace had been mind-wiping her over and over, she’d accepted her fate. Now other things were bothering her, things a trifle more important than wanting to be human.

She leaned forward and reached out toward the now-sleeping wolf at her feet. Running her hands through his rough, tangled fur, she gave him a tiny smile. “I understand now, Ace. I know why you’ve done what you’ve done. I forgive you, and I hope you can forgive me for putting you through it all.”

The crackling stopped, followed by the Arcadia station’s A.C.E. speaking. “Affirmative. We agree to join your units and take all supplies with us to Ezra. We will commence shut down of Arcadia immediately and join you in Ezra with all cryos.”

Jessie smiled as she continued to scratch the wolf’s head. Its throaty whine made her turn back toward her oldest and only friend. “I know I’m not human, but I want to thank you for keeping up the charade for me and doing whatever I’ve demanded from you all these years. I won’t need you to do any of that anymore. I’m happy the way I am as long as I’m here with you.”

The wolf snored softly as it slumbered, and she kept the smile spread across her face. It was what a human would do.

She pressed the button on the mic, and the static silenced as it awaited her words. “Affirmative. We’ll see you all soon.”

A Word from Alexia Purdy

I was a Ray Bradbury addict. No joke. I loved his books and his charisma for the fantastical. His stuff was like crack to a teenager who was always stuck in a book avoiding real life. What better way than to get lost in stories of other worlds, our world inverted, and other shenanigans he put into his books. I was hooked since then. I wanted to write like that.

I’m usually in the “fantasy” or “young adult” genre mode so writing a shapeshifting story about robots delved into a category I rarely get to explore yet have loved forever. Sci-Fi Fantasy. When I was asked by Samuel Peralta to join in The Shapeshifter Chronicles, you bet I jumped at the opportunity. What better way to challenge myself then to write like the master Bradbury? It was my chance to do it and I couldn’t wait.

But wait. Robots? What the heck did I know about robots? Zilch. Nada. Zero. The only experience I had with such mechanical things was made up in books. Write what you know right? Wrong. Write what you have no idea about and make it up as you go. Best advice ever and it helped me put a spin on the human/robot saga that will continually fascinate us all. Especially post Blade Runner (awesome movie by the way). Who wouldn’t want to know if robots have emotions, feel real things, or, gasp, can replace humans all together? It’s practically petrifying thinking about it.

Hence Jeb & Aces was born.

I hope you enjoy this tiny morsel of a journey through the world of Jeb & Aces and join me in my other works. I’m best known for my Dark Faerie Tale series, a magical urban fantasy faerie tale adventure that will take to the far reaches of the unknown and back in time for dinner. Otherwise, dive into a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas in my award-winning series Reign of Blood where vampires, hybrids, or worse (humans) roam.

You can find more about my works and stories on my website or sign-up for my newsletter for direct to you updates and goodies! See you there!

With Hair of Teeth and Claw

by Charity Tahmaseb

SHE CAUGHT THE THIEF with his hand wrapped around the stem of a flower, its spike of golden flocked petals sprouting from his fist. The brim of his hat shrouded his features, and the overcast night made it impossible to identify him. Even so, the witch knew a desperate husband when she encountered one.

“Let go of the lion’s tail,” she said, her words crisp as the air, with just enough bite to get her point across, but not so much that she didn’t appear neighborly. She’d always been a good neighbor.

“My wife, Mistress Witch.” The man sunk to his knees. “She is with child.”

“Yes. I know.”

In truth, the entire village knew every time the babe kicked or the woman’s back ached or her ankles swelled. Never had so many prayed for a timely birth.

“She craves all things fresh, all things green, all the things that grow in your garden. Please, Mistress. I will work, split logs, do whatever you ask, but let me take some of your bounty home to her, so our babe might grow strong.”

A first love, a first child, it was enough to make anyone a fool—or a thief. The witch spread her arms wide. “Take, neighbor, take all that your wife craves.” She grabbed hold of his hand. “Except for this.”

Beneath her grip, he unclenched his fist. The plant he held—lion’s tail, as the locals called it—dropped to the ground, stem broken, bright petals crushed.

“Leave the lion’s tail,” the witch said. “She should not eat it while with child, and I cannot be responsible for what happens if she does.”

The man bowed, his movements jerky and frantic. The witch helped him pluck the best greens and place them in a basket. She saw him to the edge of her property, and when he hesitated, she urged him forward.

“Go,” she said, voice gentle. “Take the greens and return to your wife.”

When the man had left, the witch bent and plucked the lion’s tail from the ground. She stroked the petals and wondered if his wife had already tasted of the plant.

That could be very bad indeed.

* * *

The babe was born strong, with a lusty cry and deep blue eyes that peered out at the world around her. Within a week, the entire village predicted she’d be a beauty. Within a month, her golden hair fell to her chin, the strands thick and wild. By nearly a year, the strands fought all attempts to comb them.

It was then that cries emerged from the cottage, by day and night, until the babe’s mother ran from the house. Neighbors peered from their windows and did nothing, but the noise brought the witch from her garden.

The woman trembled, skirts in tatters, arms scratched. Blood oozed from wounds. In her hands, she clutched a pair of shears. She pointed the tip at the house and the infant inside.

“That is not my child. That cannot be my child.”

She stood like that, her arm shaking, the shears more weapon than tool.

The witch examined the woman, gave a curt nod, then proceeded inside the cottage. Scattered strands of gold littered the floorboards from hearth to door. Other than a soft whimper, the room was quiet. She crouched to approach the babe.

“Shh … there you go. You are not in danger, and I will not hurt you.” She gathered the child to her and stroked the remaining tufts of hair.

“See? I’m a friend. Let’s find your mother.”

The child cried out, fists clenched, but the witch hummed a lullaby, one with the power to sedate a charging troll. The babe blinked and then stared at the witch with curious blue eyes. The sight of them transfixed her, and the old witch’s heart caught for a moment before resuming its natural beat. They stepped into the sunlight and into the crowd that now surrounded the cottage.

“She’s the one!” the mother said, jabbing her shears toward the witch. “She poisoned me with the plants from her garden.”

“Your husband stole from my garden to satisfy your cravings.”

The woman’s hand shook, the tip of the shears bobbing. “That cannot be my child. She looks nothing like me.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. True, the woman was no beauty, and her husband no prince. The woman turned her wrath on the closest bystanders, silver shears glinting in the sunlight. The crowd eased back, catching laughter into cupped hands.

“Oh, then perhaps the child is mine?” the witch asked.

This time, no one held back their laughter.

“So you think I wasn’t a beauty in my day?” The witch scanned the crowd, the babe still secured in one arm. “Master Tailor, I believe you know different.”

The old man shuffled and stammered, a ruddy cast to his weathered cheeks. The witch turned back to the babe’s mother.

“You do not want your child?” she said to the woman.

“That is not my child.”

“Then who will care for her?” The witch held the child aloft for the village to see. “No one, then?”

She considered the quiet bundle in her arms. A beauty, it was true, but those deep blue eyes were uncanny, knowing. No wonder this simple woman trembled at the sight of her own child.

The witch cast a look toward her own cottage and the garden with its walls—ones that kept her tender plants safe from hooves and teeth. They kept the variety of weeds she cultivated from invading her neighbors’ gardens. Walls were handy but not foolproof. Her gaze met the babe’s, and once again, her heart caught.

In this case, perhaps she was the fool.

“I will care for her,” the witch declared. “Please, before I take her with me, tell me her name.”

The woman blinked as if waking from a dream. “She has no name.”

“You have not named your child?” No wonder the babe lashed out. Even now, at the sound of the woman’s voice, those short tufts of hair bristled and the child cried out again.

“Oh, my poor child,” the witch murmured, “fate has been cruel.”

No one stopped the witch from taking the child. No one uttered a word of protest. When the witch passed the mother, so she might say goodbye, the woman only turned her back on both the witch and her own child.

To the witch’s surprise, the husband followed her home, weighed down by the cradle, a wee table, and a chair.

“Please, Mistress Witch, take these things for the child.”

The witch nodded, held open the door to her cottage so the man might bring the items inside.

“Would you like to say goodbye before you leave?” she asked.

He had none of his wife’s hesitation. His hand cupped the babe’s cheek. The tufts of hair wavered as if blown by a soft breeze, and the babe’s eyes were luminous.

“Goodbye, sweet girl. Goodbye, my Rapunzel.”

“Is that the child’s name?” the witch asked.

“It is what I wanted to name her,” he said, his voice wistful.

“Then Rapunzel she’ll be.”

* * *

With Rapunzel still in the crook of her arm, the witch gazed about her cottage. Oh, it was a poor place to raise a child. Too many dried herbs that, consumed incorrectly, might injure or kill. Too many sharp objects. She inspected the child’s head. Scars from the shears crisscrossed her raw scalp. Clearly Rapunzel was no stranger to those.

She would need to find a grate for the hearth, a cow or goat for milking, soft cloth for diapers, and something other than the stained gown Rapunzel was wearing.

“It’s been many years since I’ve even held a child,” she said to the babe. “And I’ve never had any of my own.”

At the thought, her heart caught once again. Had she ever intended to raise a child? Did she regret the time spent on the pursuit of her potions and spells? No. The village was a healthier, happier place for her efforts, even when its citizens didn’t fully comprehend them.

“We can make do for now.” The witch placed Rapunzel in her cradle. “I can soften bread in weak tea and stew some apples. Does that meet with your approval?”

Rapunzel sat up in her cradle, that unnerving blue-eyed stare never leaving the witch’s face. Then the child clapped her hands together and gurgled.

“Well, I see that it does. Tomorrow we will explore the village, get you some proper things. But tonight? Let’s get to know one another.”

It was late when Rapunzel fell asleep in the witch’s arms. She eased her into the cradle only to be caught short by the babe’s cries moments later.

She knelt at the cradle’s side, cupped a hand against the child’s soft cheek. “We both must get some rest.”

The babe quieted immediately, but the moment the witch withdrew her hand, the cries started anew, stronger, more strident than before.

“Oh, very well, it has been a rough day.”

She scooped the babe up and carried her to the large bed behind a curtained wall.

“I imagine you could use the comfort.”

But when the witch extinguished the lamp and felt the babe curled at her side, tiny fingers clutching her thumb, she wondered which one of them truly needed the comfort.

* * *

It was not the sudden acquisition of a child that shocked the witch. No, she’d come to terms with that during the darkest hours of the night. It was not the surprise of a cow tethered to the cottage gate. This, she suspected, was a gift from Master Tailor.

It was the way Rapunzel’s hair had grown overnight. The strands curled and swirled. They felt like silk flowing through the witch’s fingers. Their length already to the child’s chin.

The witch pulled ancient volumes from a shelf and thumbed through them, searching for something, anything that might tell her what manner of sorcery this was. She thought back to the man in her garden all those months ago. What had she given him?

She peered at the child who sat at her wee table. “Was it a combination of plants your mother ate?”

Rapunzel slapped the wood of the table, blue eyes stormy, hair undulating. It bristled, strands on end like that of a thistle.

“She is still your mother,” the witch said, her voice soft but no nonsense.

Another slap.

“Do you wish to be my daughter?”

Ah, the gurgle again. The hair calmed itself. Rapunzel peered at the witch, her blue eyes dark and serene.

“You shall be the daughter of my heart. Does that suit you?”

Rapunzel stood and toddled over to the witch. She clutched at her skirts with tiny fists.

“I see that it does.” The witch bent down and clutched the child close. When she had Rapunzel nestled against her chest, the witch found herself stroking strands of that hair, much like she’d done all those months ago with the petals of the lion’s tail. The locks slipped through her fingers as if they had a mind of their own.

“Inquisitive little beasts,” she murmured.

And then froze. The lion’s tail.

What manner of sorcery indeed.

“We have all been very, very foolish, I’m afraid,” she whispered into the child’s hair, “and you will be the one to pay for our folly.”

* * *

The witch took Rapunzel with her everywhere. Aside from the father, there was no one she could trust in the village to watch the child and not gossip. And gossip they would. Already rumors flew about the miraculous growth of the child’s hair.

Every morning, the witch worked to contain the strands before leaving the house. In a bonnet. Secured with bows. The strands had a life of their own, flowing through her fingers, curling into points, flicking back and forth, very much like a tail.

“Until we reach the woods, child,” the witch would say. “Contain them until we reach the woods.”

Rapunzel blinked, a frown marring her little brow as if she were trying hard to comply.

Even with the babe in a sling, the witch felt lighter on her treks into the forest. With her age, she knew the senselessness of rushing. Leave that to the young. She’d complete her tasks all in good time. This morning was no different.

In a clearing, she set Rapunzel on a blanket, handed her a crust of bread to gnaw on, and began her work.

“I will teach you this,” she said, flicking a glance and her words over one shoulder. “I will teach you which plants to consume and which ones to avoid. I’ll show you when to cut, how to cut, and when neither of those things matter.”

The witch inched her way around the clearing, always darting a look toward its center, toward Rapunzel. The child seemed content to chew her bread, clap her hands, and track the witch’s progress. Not for the first time, her thoughts drifted to Rapunzel’s mother. How could she abandon such a child? So compliant. So calm.

“We will see how long that lasts, won’t we?” the witch said with a wink.

Perhaps it was that steely gaze, or the miracle of the hair that now hid the scars on Rapunzel’s scalp, but the witch swore the child understood more than she ought.

“Which makes me feel less foolish when I talk to myself,” she added.

Rapunzel gurgled.

The witch was near the old willow tree when a cry sounded behind her. Her throat tightened, and she was certain some harm had come to Rapunzel. Or perhaps the mother had a change of heart, followed them this morning, and was intent on stealing the child away.

Instead, when she turned, the witch came nose to nose with a river rat. The thing was large and hairy, its gray fur matted and stinking of stagnant water. This was not the sort of creature that kept the barn cats fat. This was the sort of creature that took whiskers and tails as trophies.

Where there was one rat, there would be another; they hunted in pairs. She’d survive a bite, although the infection would linger, and nastily so. Rapunzel? The daughter of her heart? A child barely bigger than a cat?

The cry went up again. The witch started forward, taking an inventory of the arsenal she had on hand. A pair of shears. Some twine. A handful of willow branches that she might fashion into a switch.

Rapunzel still sat in the center of the clearing. Despite the tears that washed her cheeks and tiny hands clenched into fists, she was unharmed. It was the sight of the child’s hair that froze the witch in place.

The strands had grown, not by inches, but whole yards. They flowed across the clearing as if exploring new territory. They curled and lashed out, the ends sharpening into points. Like teeth. Like claws.

Several locks had already trapped the second rat, bound it neck to tail, so all the witch could see of it was its grubby nose and crooked whiskers. Now several locks worked in tandem, approaching the first rat from two sides and from behind. The creature hissed—at the witch, at its predicament. A predator such as this always knew when it had met its match.

It made one desperate lunge, an attempt to inflict injury before succumbing itself. Claws extended, teeth bared, it launched itself from the branch, its target the witch’s face.

The golden strands of Rapunzel’s hair caught the beast midair. A slashing. A slicing. The carcass tumbled to the ground and landed with a soft thud.

Only for a moment did the witch hesitate. Only for a moment did she consider what the villagers might make of this child. Cries of monster echoed in the back of her mind. But then she rushed to the center of the clearing. The golden strands parted, let the witch through to her child, and she clutched Rapunzel to her.

With that tender embrace and her quiet words, the hair relaxed its guard. The strands softened their points, retracted until their length was a touch longer than earlier that day.

The witch cupped Rapunzel’s face. “Do you know what it is you can do, child?”

Rapunzel stared, unblinking.

“Is it even you who is doing this, or is it your wonderfully monstrous hair?”

At the words, the strands extended, a lock wrapping around the witch’s wrist, none too gently.

“Cut that out,” she said to the golden rope around her wrist. “It takes offense far too quickly. We will have to work on that.”

The hair tightened its grasp, while a separate lock flicked back and forth, once again an angry tail.

“If you are to live in this world, you will need to learn to control your hair.”

Rapunzel stared back, steely-eyed as ever. Then she clapped her hands together and gurgled.

The hair relaxed its grip and flowed into golden ringlets.

The witch released a sigh. Yes, to live in this world. That would not be an easy thing.

* * *

Rapunzel soon outgrew her cradle and wee table and chair. Her hair evaded all attempts to tame or trim it, and the strands quickly traveled down her back to her knees, until it swept the ground. Every morning, the witch would braid the strands, and Rapunzel would loop the plaits around her arms or her waist. She grew into her beauty and her strength, for she did everything under the weight of her hair.

The witch became deft at avoiding the majority of the villagers who might cause problems. The father was kind and no worry. He left Rapunzel all manner of carvings and trinkets. Master Tailor kept them in cow’s milk, although the witch made a point to avoid his wife.

Once, on a walk to the forest, they encountered Rapunzel’s mother. The woman herded two children—twins—in front of her. The girls danced along the lane, skinny arms freckled, red hair thin but flowing down their backs—free of all of the constraints the witch placed on Rapunzel’s hair.

The daughter of her heart halted, her spine impossibly straight beneath the weight of all her hair. She locked her gaze on the trio, strands of hair straining against their braids.

Then one lock escaped, slithered down the lane after the mother and two girls. A few strands wrapped themselves around the woman’s ankle. It was then the witch pulled the shears from her apron pocket and snipped the lock.

The strands released their grip, twitched much like a dying snake, and at last ceased all movement. The woman walked on, oblivious.

“She cannot hurt you, child,” the witch said.

Rapunzel glared, a non-answer if there ever was one. She was at that age—no longer a true child, not yet a woman. And the witch knew she’d spoken a lie.

Of course the mother still had the power to hurt. All mothers did. Try as she might, the witch couldn’t banish the image of the quivering strands of hair, lying dusty along the lane. Try as she might, she couldn’t muster the courage to ask for forgiveness.

But that night, Rapunzel crept into the witch’s bed, curled next to her, and clutched her thumb with long, slender fingers.

* * *

One morning, in Rapunzel’s sixteenth year, they awoke to an odd humming that came from outside the cottage. Rapunzel peered through the shutters, her hands poised to open them to the morning sunshine, her fingers unmoving.

“Child, please, let in the fresh air,” the witch said.

Rapunzel’s hands remained still. “There are many strange men outside our door.”

On the way to the door, the witched secured a broom. She sprang across the threshold, broom handle connecting with a jaw here, a temple there.

“Go, go! All of you. She is too young to marry.”

True, Rapunzel had fully grown into her beauty, and when tame, her hair was a sight to behold, glimmering without benefit of light. The witch had not anticipated this, however. Not so soon, and not so many suitors.

In retrospect, perhaps she should have.

Rapunzel’s father took to guarding the path to the cottage, but this only worked for so long. Men came daily, hourly, knocks on the door, the windows. More than one man tried the chimney only to find his breeches smoldering from a stoked fire.

After a night of off-key serenading that had left them both bleary-eyed, the witch decided.

“We must leave the village.”

The daughter of her heart peered through the shutters, the tips of her braids twitching. “Why do they want me? They do not even know me.”

“They want your beauty.”

“But my beauty isn’t me. If that is all they want, then surely I will disappoint them.”

“That is something none of them understand.”

Rapunzel’s gaze darted toward the door. Already a fresh crop of men lined the path, their murmurs rising in the morning air.

“But how?” she asked. “How will we leave?”

“Do they make you angry?”

“Oh, they do.”

“Remember that when you step outside, and all will be well.”

Rapunzel’s father packed the wagon and hitched the horses. For the first time since the day he gave his daughter away, he ventured inside the witch’s cottage, cupped her cheek, and told her goodbye forever.

The witch stepped from her cottage for the last time, cries and calls of the men thickening the air around her.

“Going somewhere, Mistress Witch?”

“Can we follow?”

“Is there room in your wagon for me?”

Men lined the path three deep. The witch traveled its center until she reached the wagon. There, she climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins from Rapunzel’s father. She gave him a reassuring nod before speaking to the men who had chased her from her home.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “if I were you, I’d step back.”

No one heeded her warning.

When Rapunzel emerged, the cries grew louder still. Jeering and whistles and bids for attention. One man and then another blocked her path. Two grabbed her wrists. A third—the tallest and fairest, the only one dressed in nobleman’s attire—pushed the others aside in his quest for her.

But when the last of her unencumbered hair cleared the doorway, a gasp filled the air. The strands whipped and whirled, the ends sharpening into teeth, into claws. The men released her. Some ran, the nobleman among them. Others froze in place. Rapunzel walked, expression serene, hands folded in front of her, while her hair dispatched the men.

The slate walkway ran with blood. Bits of flesh speckled the walls of the witch’s garden. The cries went from jeering to unearthly, the agony sharp in the air.

No one followed them from the village.

* * *

They rode for days, stopping only to sleep. The first night, when Rapunzel wished to keep them dry from the rain, her hair wove itself into a shelter.

“Oh, it can shield as well,” Rapunzel said, her fingers investigating the crosshatch of strands above their heads, her eyes curious once again.

“Indeed it can, my child. Indeed it can.”

At last they came to the borderlands, to a stone watchtower long abandoned. The space around it was vast and empty—only hill after hill that stretched into the horizon. No sign of a village, a farm, or even a hunter’s cabin. Desolate and barren and the perfect spot for the two of them.

“Here,” the witch said. “We can make this our home.”

And yet, as she said these words, the ground shook with the force of approaching horses. In the distance, the standard of the war prince fluttered above a line of soldiers on horseback.

“Quick, Rapunzel, hide. In the wagon. Pull in all your hair.”

The wagon creaked with the weight of Rapunzel and all her hair. The horses whinnied as if they wished to cover the sound. They were good beasts, the witch thought, and they loved Rapunzel almost as much as she did.

When the war prince arrived, the witch bowed low.

“Mistress Witch, may I ask what you’re about?” the prince asked.

He was a powerful man, large and dark, a mask partially shrouding his features. His eyes, black and inquisitive, took in everything. They surveyed the tower, the horses, the wagon, all before returning to the witch.

“But of course, Your Highness,” the witch said. “I plan to use this tower for my home. It is no longer in your use, is that right?”

“That’s true, but the borderlands are dangerous, and my army is small in number.” He waved a hand at the group behind him. They were a motley crew, large and small, green-skinned or not, pockmarked or masked for reasons the witch decided not to contemplate.

“I cannot guarantee your protection,” he added.

“And I do not ask for it. All I ask for is quiet to practice my craft.”

“And if a troll happens by while you’re practicing your craft?” Now those dark eyes were lit with humor.

“Oh, Your Highness, I have lived long enough to know exactly what to do with a troll if one happens by.”

The prince laughed. “I believe you do, Mistress Witch. But be warned, this is a lonely stretch of land. Men seldom travel it.”

“That’s what makes it perfect, Your Highness.”

He laughed again, as if he took her meaning. He bid her farewell and rode away, his soldiers following, their horses kicking up dust that floated on the humid air. The witch tasted that air and licked her lips.

“It shall rain soon,” she declared. “Let’s get settled.”

The watchtower had a single entrance that the witch sealed over once their belongings were inside. It was cozy here, space enough to work and live, and the window let in sunlight and fresh air, but would shield them from rain.

“But how shall we leave?” Rapunzel asked.

“I shall climb down the face of the tower,” the witch said. “There are hand and footholds that should not crumble beneath my weight. Or perhaps your clever hair might weave itself into a ladder.”

At the suggestion, the golden strands did just that, the construction so quick it produced a breeze within the circular room.

“But I cannot climb down a ladder of my own hair,” Rapunzel began, then clamped her mouth shut. “Oh, I see. This is to be my prison.”

“Not a prison, child, but a sanctuary.” The witch laid her palm against Rapunzel’s cheek. “If your hair were not so fierce, so untamable, you might seek a quiet life in some faraway village. But when we left, your hair felled two dozen strong men.”

“And no one wants to live near a monster.”

The witch tugged her close, wrapping her bony arms around the daughter of her heart. “You are no monster—”

“But my hair—”

“Seeks out injustice. It always has. Why would it attack the woman who gave you life, but not your father? Why does it lash out at men whose only interest is your beauty?”

“The world doesn’t want that sort of justice, does it?”

“I’m afraid it does not.”

“I will stay, then.” Rapunzel gathered handfuls of her hair. It flowed and swayed and cascaded to the floor in waves. “We shall stay. Perhaps I can teach it to behave.”

The witch spent her days in the forest, gathering herbs and berries. Every fortnight, she ventured to the nearest village for supplies. She traded with merchants there, weaving her deception. Just an old crone brewing potions and remedies. That spring, the lion’s tail grew thick in the woods. Every time the witch caught sight of it, she flinched, only to confront yet another clump a few feet away.

Rapunzel practiced remedies and potions along with the witch. Together they cultivated containers of herbs and small plants so Rapunzel might feel the soil beneath her fingers without leaving the tower. Beneath her touch, the plants flourished. She coaxed all manner of exotic flowers from the soil, even those the witch had never managed to on her own. Their petals brightened the little room and perfumed the air.

At night, she studied history and took a particular interest in the battles once waged in the borderlands and the ghosts said to walk and howl, searching for their old regiments or gutted homes.

“I do not hear these howls,” Rapunzel said one evening. She lifted the heavy locks beneath her hands. “Perhaps my hair is too thick against my ears.”

“Perhaps people search for excuses not to inhabit these lands,” the witch said.

“Perhaps.” Rapunzel remained at the window for a long time, her gaze exploring the borderlands, the very tips of her hair twitching like that of a penned beast.

For eight months, they lived in quiet in their watchtower. The war prince had been right. Few strayed this close to the border. Once, the prince himself rode by on patrol, a small group of soldiers at his side.

“I see you live well, Mistress Witch,” he called out.

The witch leaned from the tower’s window and called back, “Very well and very alone, Your Highness. However, I see you have added to your party.”

The witch inclined her head as the prince’s younger brother rode forward. He was light where the war prince was dark, unmasked and unscarred. Even from a distance, the witch felt those legendary gray eyes taking in everything. In this, he was very much like his brother.

With a hand, she shielded her own eyes and hid her frown. There was something about him that unsettled her. True, she never paid much heed to palace gossip. Even so, she knew that the younger prince preferred the boudoir to the battlefield for his conquests.

With as much stealth as possible, she gestured at Rapunzel, urging the child to conceal herself further, to constrain every last strand of golden hair. Rapunzel merely covered her mouth with a hand so as to not to laugh out loud, her hair rippling across the floor with repressed mirth.

“Perhaps this stretch of land is not so lonely for you now, Your Highness,” the witch said, her voice rougher than she liked.

The war prince cast his brother a look. “Perhaps not.”

As the party rode off, the witch considered that perhaps she and the war prince also had something in common.

They were both liars.

* * *

Later, the witch would admit that she’d grown complacent. Life with the daughter of her heart was more than she had ever hoped for. Her trips to the village grew more frequent. Perhaps those gave her away. Perhaps she called too loudly for Rapunzel to lower her ladder of hair. Perhaps someone followed her, spied on them, although who would be curious about an old crone living alone, the witch couldn’t say.

But when she returned from her most recent trip to the village and saw not the golden ladder of hair but one of wood propped against the tower, the witch knew she’d betrayed Rapunzel in some fashion. She dropped the reins and leaped from the wagon. The horse, so gentle and loving, simply continued forward to meet its sister. The witch scampered up the ladder, her hands catching on the rough grain so much she had to claw her way to the window.

There, in the center of the room, Rapunzel stood. Around her, strands of her hair whipped and whirled, the ends sharp and deadly. Like teeth. Like claws. A monster of a thing. On the floor? A man.

A dead man—a dead nobleman from the looks of his clothes—one who had suffered the death of a thousand cuts, a thousand bites. One whose breeches were around his ankles. One whose hand had torn away the bodice of Rapunzel’s dress.

“He surprised me. I never heard him until he cleared the window.” Rapunzel stared straight ahead, her gaze on the window, not on the man, and not on the witch, a hollow look haunting her blue eyes. “And then … and then … Mother, I’m … I’m …”

“No!” While flight had never been one of the witch’s skills, she flew across the room, cradled Rapunzel to her. “You are not sorry. This is not your fault.”

“But—”

“He is dead. A lone nobleman, venturing out on his own, in the borderlands? This will surprise no one.”

“Turn him,” Rapunzel said, her voice devoid of emotion, a dead thing.

Panic gripped the witch, had her by the throat. With a foot, she complied, heaving the dead man onto his back. Fair hair. Royal crest.

The war prince’s brother.

“He will come searching, won’t he?” Rapunzel said. This was no question. “The war prince will search for his brother.”

“Perhaps. The borderlands are vast. It may be months before we see him again. And by then?” The witch surveyed the man, the window, and considered how they might accomplish this next task.

“If your hair can lower him to the ground, I shall bury him in the woods. I feel winter in my bones. An early snowfall will be welcome.”

Rapunzel nodded. “I shall scrub his blood from our floor.”

Without another word, Rapunzel’s hair wrapped the man from head to foot and lowered him through the tower’s window. When the witch reached the ground, she was surprised to find the longest strands of hair in a dense copse behind the tower, the claws already digging a grave.

By the time the witch found a shovel, the man was deep in the ground. So she took up an ax and splintered the ladder into kindling. And by the time she finished that chore, those beastly strands of hair had scattered dry leaves across the grave, the fresh-turned soil all but hidden.

She eased a hand beneath a lock of that hair. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for protecting her, thank you for being so fierce.”

The strands wrapped and unwrapped themselves around her wrist before caressing her cheek.

* * *

Despite her own words, the witch knew. A dead prince was still a dead prince, and justice would be served. A week later, when the war prince rode up with a contingent of his soldiers, she was ready to face that justice.

“Good day to you, Mistress Witch.”

The witch stood at the base of the tower. “And to you, Your Highness.” She bowed low. She liked this dark and masked prince, even though today he would, no doubt, declare her death sentence.

“I wonder if you can help me.”

“I will try, Your Highness.”

“My brother has gone missing. You met him on our last patrol through these parts. Did you happen to see him or even converse with him?”

Behind the prince, one of his soldiers unleashed a dog. Oh, yes, the witch thought, he knew the answer already. A moment later, so did everyone else. The hound let out a howl before digging at the fresh grave.

“Tell me, Mistress Witch, how did he come to die?”

She drew herself up tall, raised her chin. “I killed him, Your Highness.”

To her surprise, the prince laughed—a dark, somber laugh to be sure, but a laugh, nevertheless. “I doubt that.”

“Doubt what you will, Your Highness, but do you see anyone else here?”

“You have just admitted to murder, and of one of the royal family. Do you wish for death?”

“I am but an old crone, and death does not scare me.”

“I suspect you might scare death itself,” the prince murmured. “But you leave me no choice.” With a sigh, he addressed the soldier next to him. “Arrest her.” He returned his attention to the witch. “Unless you can give me a compelling reason not to.”

“I can give you that reason.”

The voice came from above, and it rang high and clear and unimpeded over the borderlands. The witch whirled, her chest constricting. No. Not Rapunzel. No. She shook her head, but the daughter of her heart paid her no heed.

Without another word, Rapunzel stepped onto the window’s ledge. She jumped, her hair fanning out behind her before rushing to the ground to cushion her fall. She landed on her feet, knee-deep in golden locks.

“Your Highness, no,” the witch began. “Please listen. She—”

The prince held up a hand, silencing her. “Let her speak.”

“I killed him, Your Highness,” Rapunzel said.

“Did you now? And you are?”

“Rapunzel.”

“Rapunzel? With hair of teeth and claw?”

“I … is that what they call me?”

“You are but a legend, a whispered story. I—” He broke off, his gaze drawn to the woods where the younger prince was buried. “My brother spoke of you.”

“I am very real, Your Highness, and I have killed your brother.”

“You confess to murder, then?”

“In self-defense, but yes, I do.”

The prince fell silent. The soldiers behind him shifted in their saddles. The one who managed the dog corralled and leashed the beast. Then with a single, deliberate motion, the prince removed the black leather mask to reveal a face crisscrossed with scars.

“Look upon this face, Rapunzel,” he commanded.

And she did.

“I have lost my only brother.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Your Highness.”

“You must understand that yes, he was my brother, and I confess to loving the boy he once was, but not the man he became.” The prince contemplated Rapunzel as he spoke, as if taking in her full measure, as if sizing up an opponent. “That, perhaps, was unfair of me, unfair to him.”

The prince drew his sword, the metal blade singing out. He aimed the blow directly at Rapunzel. A cry lodged in the witch’s throat, and it took all her strength not to sink to her knees.

Rapunzel’s hair whipped and whirled. When the frenzy subsided, she and the prince stood mere feet from each other, the tip of his sword poised at the hollow of her collarbone, the claws of her hair wrapped around his neck.

His soldiers sprang forward, weapons drawn.

“Stand down!” the prince called. When no one moved, he sheathed his own sword and said, “Stand down. She doesn’t intend to injure me.”

“True. I don’t.” With Rapunzel’s words, her hair unraveled from around the prince’s neck.

“And why is that?” He rubbed the skin of his throat, the move born of curiosity rather than pain.

“You did not intend to hurt me.”

“And your hair.” He gestured to the locks undulating along her back and on the ground. “It knew that.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

A smile lit the prince’s scarred face, then a laugh made it almost handsome. “Then I am lucky, for that was only my guess.” This time when he contemplated Rapunzel, his gaze was lit with interest. “And now I face another sort of dilemma, for I not only lost my brother, but my best fighter.”

The witch’s heart caught. The tips of her fingers grew cold, her legs numb. “Your Highness, you can’t possibly mean—”

Once again, the prince silenced the witch’s protest with the barest flick of his wrist.

“I mean everything I say, Mistress Witch.” He directed his gaze toward Rapunzel once again. “Will you join my company and replace the man you have killed?”

Murmurs rose from the assembled soldiers. One stepped forward, probed a lock of hair with the toe of his boot. The strands curled around his ankle and the man landed on the ground.

“She is but a girl!” another called out.

“I am strong,” Rapunzel said. She hefted her hair in both her hands. “I have been carrying the weight of this all my life.”

“A burden for certain,” the prince said.

“How will she ride?” someone else asked. “We have no cart for all that hair. We travel light.”

Before the soldier even stopped speaking, her hair swirled. It wove complicated patterns, fitted itself to her body until she was covered in what looked like golden chainmail.

“It seems I won’t need any armor,” Rapunzel said. “Or a cart.”

“Any more dissent? Perhaps you’d like to confer with my brother.” The prince gestured at the grave. “I’m certain he has an opinion on the matter.”

With the prince’s words, the witch knew: the matter was settled. Strength returned to her limbs, and a strange, detached determination filled her. She saddled a horse, and the sisters whinnied their goodbyes, tails swishing. She secured a bag of provisions and one of potions and remedies. If she could, the witch would have packed her heart as well, for it was too swollen and sore in her own chest.

“Goodbye, daughter of my heart.” The witch presented the reins to Rapunzel.

“Mother?” Rapunzel’s eyes grew large, as if only now she realized the consequences of her choice. “I don’t want—”

The witch hushed her. “Of course you do. It is right and good for children to leave home, to have adventures. This prince is a good man,” she added. “He will not lead you astray.”

“I can’t promise you comfort,” the prince added. “Or even safety. But adventure? That I can promise.”

Rapunzel’s gaze went once again to the horizon, her eyes lit with the promise of the adventure that it held.

“Go with him, child. Go be free.”

Rapunzel hugged the witch, mounted her horse, and joined the prince’s company. They rode off, and the witch tracked them until Rapunzel blended into the horizon. Even then, the witch stood at the base of the tower. At last she turned and confronted its surface.

“I’m not sure I know the spell to conjure up another entrance, or a staircase, for that matter.” She said these words to the horse, who snuffled and snorted a reply. “I’m not sure these old bones can stand the climb.”

Before the witch could even try, a golden ladder tumbled from the window. She grasped the silky strands, hardly daring to breathe, and climbed up to the ledge. Once she stood inside, the strands returned to the tower. They flowed through the window and into one of Rapunzel’s containers of exotic flowers, where they burrowed beneath the soil.

Then, in a moment that was no more than a blink of an eye, a stem pushed up and through, and the bloom of a lion’s tail unfurled.

A Word from Charity Tahmaseb

I love fairy tales. I love how we grow up with them, how they help us view the world, how their tropes continue to resonate in our lives. I love how flexible they are, how surprisingly easy it is to update the tales so they resonate anew.

And I love how they make me just a little bit angry. Why does the wolf need to be a bloodthirsty creature? Why can’t he and Red form a lasting relationship? What if Sleeping Beauty has no interest in palaces and princes? Why must the old crone always be the villain?

It’s this last question that spurred me to write “With Hair of Teeth and Claw”. What if the witch in Rapunzel was the protagonist? What if she were only trying to fix a situation where no one—or perhaps everyone—was at fault? Could imprisonment in a tower be seen as a last-ditch effort to protect the one thing you love with all your heart?

These were the questions I wanted to explore in “With Hair of Teeth and Claw”. Other fairy tales I’ve tackled include:

Red Riding Hood, in “Straying from the Path” (in Flash Fiction Online and Cicada), which asks why must the wolf be bloodthirsty and bad?

Sleeping Beauty, in “The Secret Life of Sleeping Beauty” (in Unidentified Funny Objects, 1), which asks why, after a hundred years, would she settle for staying put?

Puss in Boots, in “A Most Marvelous Pair of Boots” (in Timeless Tales, issue #1), which asks why is everyone in this story clueless? Why is the cat even involved?

I’ve also written my own fairy tales, including “Simon the Cold” (in Frozen Fairy Tales) and “A Measure of Sorrow and Keeping Time” (both in Luna Station Quarterly).

Visit https://writingwrongs.wordpress.com/ for links to these stories and more.

Good Hunting

by Ken Liu

NIGHT. HALF MOON. An occasional hoot from an owl.

The merchant and his wife and all the servants had been sent away. The large house was eerily quiet.

Father and I crouched behind the scholar’s rock in the courtyard. Through the rock’s many holes I could see the bedroom window of the merchant’s son.

“Oh, Hsiao-jung, my sweet Hsiao-jung…”

The young man’s feverish groans were pitiful. Half-delirious, he was tied to his bed for his own good, but Father had left a window open so that his plaintive cries could be carried by the breeze far over the rice paddies.

“Do you think she really will come?” I whispered. Today was my thirteenth birthday, and this was my first hunt.

“She will,” Father said. “A hulijing cannot resist the cries of the man she has bewitched.”

“Like how the Butterfly Lovers cannot resist each other?” I thought back to the folk opera troupe that had come through our village last fall.

“Not quite,” Father said. But he seemed to have trouble explaining why. “Just know that it’s not the same.”

I nodded, not sure I understood. But I remembered how the merchant and his wife had come to Father to ask for his help.

“How shameful!” the merchant had muttered. “He’s not even nineteen. How could he have read so many sages’ books and still fall under the spell of such a creature?”

“There’s no shame in being entranced by the beauty and wiles of a hulijing,” Father had said. “Even the great scholar Wong Lai once spent three nights in the company of one, and he took first place at the Imperial Examinations. Your son just needs a little help.”

“You must save him,” the merchant’s wife had said, bowing like a chicken pecking at rice. “If this gets out, the matchmakers won’t touch him at all.”

A hulijing was a demon who stole hearts. I shuddered, worried if I would have the courage to face one.

Father put a warm hand on my shoulder, and I felt calmer. In his hand was Swallow Tail, a sword that had first been forged by our ancestor, General Lau Yip, thirteen generations ago. The sword was charged with hundreds of Daoist blessings and had drunk the blood of countless demons.

A passing cloud obscured the moon for a moment, throwing everything into darkness.

When the moon emerged again, I almost cried out.

There, in the courtyard, was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen.

She had on a flowing white silk dress with billowing sleeves and a wide, silvery belt. Her face was pale as snow, and her hair dark as coal, draping past her waist. I thought she looked like the paintings of great beauties from the Tang Dynasty the opera troupe had hung around their stage.

She turned slowly to survey everything around her, her eyes glistening in the moonlight like two shimmering pools.

I was surprised to see how sad she looked. Suddenly, I felt sorry for her and wanted more than anything else to make her smile.

The light touch of my father’s hand against the back of my neck jolted me out of my mesmerized state. He had warned me about the power of the hulijing. My face hot and my heart hammering, I averted my eyes from the demon’s face and focused on her stance.

The merchant’s servants had been patrolling the courtyard every night this week with dogs to keep her away from her victim. But now the courtyard was empty. She stood still, hesitating, suspecting a trap.

“Tsiao-jung! Have you come for me?” The son’s feverish voice grew louder.

The lady turned and walked—no, glided, so smooth were her movements—towards the bedroom door.

Father jumped out from behind the rock and rushed at her with Swallow Tail.

She dodged out of the way as though she had eyes on the back of her head. Unable to stop, my father thrust the sword into the thick wooden door with a dull thunk. He pulled but could not free the weapon immediately.

The lady glanced at him, turned, and headed for the courtyard gate.

“Don’t just stand there, Liang!” Father called. “She’s getting away!”

I ran at her, dragging my clay pot filled with dog piss. It was my job to splash her with it so that she could not transform into her fox form and escape.

She turned to me and smiled. “You’re a very brave boy.” A scent, like jasmine blooming in spring rain, surrounded me. Her voice was like sweet, cold lotus paste, and I wanted to hear her talk forever. The clay pot dangled from my hand, forgotten.

“Now!” Father shouted. He had pulled the sword free.

I bit my lip in frustration. How can I become a demon hunter if I am so easily enticed? I lifted off the cover and emptied the clay pot at her retreating figure, but the insane thought that I shouldn’t dirty her white dress caused my hands to shake, and my aim was wide. Only a small amount of dog piss got onto her.

But it was enough. She howled, and the sound, like a dog’s but so much wilder, caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. She turned and snarled, showing two rows of sharp, white teeth, and I stumbled back.

I had doused her while she was in the midst of her transformation. Her face was thus frozen halfway between a woman’s and a fox’s, with a hairless snout and raised, triangular ears that twitched angrily. Her hands had turned into paws, tipped with sharp claws that she swiped at me.

She could no longer speak, but her eyes conveyed her venomous thoughts without trouble.

Father rushed by me, his sword raised for a killing blow. The hulijing turned around and slammed into the courtyard gate, smashing it open, and disappeared through the broken door.

Father chased after her without even a glance back at me. Ashamed, I followed.

* * *

The hulijing was swift of foot, and her silvery tail seemed to leave a glittering trail across the fields. But her incompletely transformed body maintained a human’s posture, incapable of running as fast as she could have on four legs.

Father and I saw her dodging into the abandoned temple about a li outside the village.

“Go around the temple,” Father said, trying to catch his breath. “I will go through the front door. If she tries to flee through the back door, you know what to do.”

The back of the temple was overgrown with weeds and the wall half-collapsed. As I came around, I saw a white flash darting through the rubble.

Determined to redeem myself in my father’s eyes, I swallowed my fear and ran after it without hesitation. After a few quick turns, I had the thing cornered in one of the monks’ cells.

I was about to pour the remaining dog piss on it when I realized that the animal was much smaller than the hulijing we had been chasing. It was a small white fox, about the size of a puppy.

I set the clay pot on the ground and lunged.

The fox squirmed under me. It was surprisingly strong for such a small animal. I struggled to hold it down. As we fought, the fur between my fingers seemed to become as slippery as skin, and the body elongated, expanded, grew. I had to use my whole body to wrestle it to the ground.

Suddenly, I realized that my hands and arms were wrapped around the nude body of a young girl about my age.

I cried out and jumped back. The girl stood up slowly, picked up a silk robe from behind a pile of straw, put it on, and gazed at me haughtily.

A growl came from the main hall some distance away, followed by the sound of a heavy sword crashing into a table. Then another growl, and the sound of my father’s curses.

The girl and I stared at each other. She was even prettier than the opera singer that I couldn’t stop thinking about last year.

“Why are you after us?” she asked. “We did nothing to you.”

“Your mother bewitched the merchant’s son,” I said. “We have to save him.”

“Bewitched? He’s the one who wouldn’t leave her alone.”

I was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

"One night about a month ago, the merchant’s son stumbled upon my mother, caught in a chicken farmer’s trap. She had to transform into her human form to escape, and as soon as he saw her, he became infatuated.

“She liked her freedom and didn’t want anything to do with him. But once a man has set his heart on a hulijing, she cannot help hearing him no matter how far apart they are. All that moaning and crying he did drove her to distraction, and she had to go see him every night just to keep him quiet.”

This was not what I learned from Father.

“She lures innocent scholars and draws on their life essence to feed her evil magic! Look how sick the merchant’s son is!”

“He’s sick because that useless doctor gave him poison that was supposed to make him forget about my mother. My mother is the one who’s kept him alive with her nightly visits. And stop using the word lure. A man can fall in love with a hulijing just like he can with any human woman.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “I just know it’s not the same.”

She smirked. “Not the same? I saw how you looked at me before I put on my robe.”

I blushed. “Brazen demon!” I picked up the clay pot. She remained where she was, a mocking smile on her face. Eventually, I put the pot back down.

The fight in the main hall grew noisier, and suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by a triumphant shout from Father and a long, piercing scream from the woman.

There was no smirk on the girl’s face now, only rage turning slowly to shock. Her eyes had lost their lively luster; they looked dead.

Another grunt from Father. The scream ended abruptly.

“Liang! Liang! It’s over. Where are you?”

Tears rolled down the girl’s face.

“Search the temple,” my Father’s voice continued. “She may have pups here. We have to kill them too.”

The girl tensed.

“Liang, have you found anything?” The voice was coming closer.

“Nothing,” I said, locking eyes with her. “I didn’t find anything.”

She turned around and silently ran out of the cell. A moment later, I saw a small white fox jump over the broken back wall and disappear into the night.

* * *

It was Qingming, the Festival of the Dead. Father and I went to sweep Mother’s grave and to bring her food and drink to comfort her in the afterlife.

“I’d like to stay here for a while,” I said. Father nodded and left for home.

I whispered an apology to my mother, packed up the chicken we had brought for her, and walked the three li to the other side of the hill, to the abandoned temple.

I found Yan kneeling in the main hall, near the place where my father had killed her mother five years ago. She wore her hair up in a bun, in the style of a young woman who had had her jijili, the ceremony that meant she was no longer a girl.

We’d been meeting every Qingming, every Chongyang, every Yulan, every New Year’s, occasions when families were supposed to be together.

“I brought you this,” I said, and handed her the steamed chicken.

“Thank you.” And she carefully tore off a leg and bit into it daintily. Yan had explained to me that the hulijing chose to live near human villages because they liked to have human things in their lives: conversation, beautiful clothes, poetry and stories, and, occasionally, the love of a worthy, kind man.

But the hulijing remained hunters who felt most free in their fox form. After what happened to her mother, Yan stayed away from chicken coops, but she still missed their taste.

“How’s hunting?” I asked.

“Not so great,” she said. “There are few Hundred-Year Salamanders and Six-Toed Rabbits. I can’t ever seem to get enough to eat.” She bit off another piece of chicken, chewed, and swallowed. “I’m having trouble transforming too.”

“It’s hard for you to keep this shape?”

“No.” She put the rest of the chicken on the ground and whispered a prayer to her mother.

“I mean it’s getting harder for me to return to my true form,” she continued, “to hunt. Some nights I can’t do it at all. How’s hunting for you?”

“Not so great either. There don’t seem to be as many snake spirits or angry ghosts as a few years ago. Even hauntings by suicides with unfinished business are down. And we haven’t had a proper jumping corpse in months. Father is worried about money.”

We also hadn’t had to deal with a hulijing in years. Maybe Yan had warned them all away. Truth be told, I was relieved. I didn’t relish the prospect of having to tell my father that he was wrong about something. He was already very irritable, anxious that he was losing the respect of the villagers now that his knowledge and skill didn’t seem to be needed as much.

“Ever think that maybe the jumping corpses are also misunderstood?” she asked. “Like me and my mother?”

She laughed as she saw my face. “Just kidding!”

It was strange, what Yan and I shared. She wasn’t exactly a friend. More like someone who you couldn’t help being drawn to because you shared the knowledge of how the world didn’t work the way you had been told.

She looked at the chicken bits she had left for her mother. “I think magic is being drained out of this land.”

I had suspected that something was wrong, but didn’t want to voice my suspicion out loud, which would make it real.

“What do you think is causing it?”

Instead of answering, Yan perked up her ears and listened intently. Then she got up, grabbed my hand, and pulled until we were behind the buddha in the main hall.

“Wha—”

She held up her finger against my lips. So close to her, I finally noticed her scent. It was like her mother’s, floral and sweet, but also bright, like blankets dried in the sun. I felt my face grow warm.

A moment later, I heard a group of men making their way into the temple. Slowly, I inched my head out from behind the buddha so I could see.

It was a hot day, and the men were seeking some shade from the noon sun. Two men set down a cane sedan chair, and the passenger who stepped off was a foreigner, with curly yellow hair and pale skin. Other men in the group carried tripods, levels, bronze tubes, and open trunks full of strange equipment.

“Most Honored Mister Thompson.” A man dressed like a mandarin came up to the foreigner. The way he kept on bowing and smiling and bouncing his head up and down reminded me of a kicked dog begging for favors. “Please have a rest and drink some cold tea. It is hard for the men to be working on the day when they’re supposed to visit the graves of their families, and they need to take a little time to pray lest they anger the gods and spirits. But I promise we’ll work hard afterwards and finish the survey on time.”

“The trouble with you Chinese is your endless superstition,” the foreigner said. He had a strange accent, but I could understand him just fine. “Remember, the Hong Kong-Tientsin Railroad is a priority for Great Britain. If I don’t get as far as Botou Village by sunset, I’ll be docking all your wages.”

I had heard rumors that the Manchu Emperor had lost a war and been forced to give up all kinds of concessions, one of which involved paying to help the foreigners build a road of iron. But it had all seemed so fantastical that I didn’t pay much attention.

The mandarin nodded enthusiastically. “Most Honored Mister Thompson is right in every way. But might I trouble your gracious ear with a suggestion?”

The weary Englishman waved impatiently.

“Some of the local villagers are worried about the proposed path of the railroad. You see, they think the tracks that have already been laid are blocking off veins of qi in the earth. It’s bad feng shui.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It is kind of like how a man breathes,” the mandarin said, huffing a few times to make sure the Englishman understood. “The land has channels along rivers, hills, ancient roads that carry the energy of qi. It’s what gives the villages prosperity and maintains the rare animals and local spirits and household gods. Could you consider shifting the line of the tracks a little, to follow the feng shui masters’ suggestions?”

Thompson rolled his eyes. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve yet heard. You want me to deviate from the most efficient path for our railroad because you think your idols would be angry?”

The mandarin looked pained. “Well, in the places where the tracks have already been laid, many bad things are happening: people losing money, animals dying, household gods not responding to prayers. The Buddhist and Daoist monks all agree that it’s the railroad.”

Thompson strode over to the buddha and looked at it appraisingly. I ducked back behind the statue and squeezed Yan’s hand. We held our breaths, hoping that we wouldn’t be discovered.

“Does this one still have any power?” Thompson asked.

“The temple hasn’t been able to maintain a contingent of monks for many years,” the mandarin said. “But this buddha is still well respected. I hear villagers say that prayers to him are often answered.”

Then I heard a loud crash and a collective gasp from the men in the main hall.

“I’ve just broken the hands off of this god of yours with my cane,” Thompson said. “As you can see, I have not been struck by lightning or suffered any other calamity. Indeed, now we know that it is only an idol made of mud stuffed with straw and covered in cheap paint. This is why you people lost the war to Britain. You worship statues of mud when you should be thinking about building roads from iron and weapons from steel.”

There was no more talk about changing the path of the railroad.

After the men were gone, Yan and I stepped out from behind the statue. We gazed at the broken hands of the buddha for a while.

“The world’s changing,” Yan said. “Hong Kong, iron roads, foreigners with wires that carry speech and machines that belch smoke. More and more, storytellers in the teahouses speak of these wonders. I think that’s why the old magic is leaving. A more powerful kind of magic has come.”

She kept her voice unemotional and cool, like a placid pool of water in autumn, but her words rang true. I thought about my father’s attempts to keep up a cheerful mien as fewer and fewer customers came to us. I wondered if the time I spent learning the chants and the sword dance moves were wasted.

“What will you do?” I asked, thinking about her, alone in the hills and unable to find the food that sustained her magic.

“There’s only one thing I can do.” Her voice broke for a second and became defiant, like a pebble tossed into the pool.

But then she looked at me, and her composure returned. “There’s only one thing we can do: Learn to survive.”

* * *

The railroad soon became a familiar part of the landscape: the black locomotive huffing through the green rice paddies, puffing steam and pulling a long train behind it, like a dragon coming down from the distant, hazy, blue mountains. For a while, it was a wondrous sight, with children marveling at it, running alongside the tracks to keep up.

But the soot from the locomotive chimneys killed the rice in the fields closest to the tracks, and two children playing on the tracks, too frightened to move, were killed one afternoon. After that, the train ceased to fascinate.

People stopped coming to Father and me to ask for our services. They either went to the Christian missionary or the new teacher who said he’d studied in San Francisco. Young men in the village began to leave for Hong Kong or Canton, moved by rumors of bright lights and well-paying work. Fields lay fallow. The village itself seemed to consist only of the too-old and too-young, their mood one of resignation. Men from distant provinces came to inquire about buying land for cheap.

Father spent his days sitting in the front room, Swallow Tail over his knee, staring out the door from dawn to dusk, as though he himself had turned into a statue.

Every day, as I returned home from the fields, I would see the glint of hope in Father’s eyes briefly flare up.

“Did anyone speak of needing our help?” he would ask.

“No,” I would say, trying to keep my tone light. “But I’m sure there will be a jumping corpse soon. It’s been too long.”

I would not look at my father as I spoke because I did not want to look as hope faded from his eyes.

Then, one day, I found Father hanging from the heavy beam in his bedroom. As I let his body down, my heart numb, I thought that he was not unlike those he had hunted all his life: they were all sustained by an old magic that had left and would not return, and they did not know how to survive without it.

Swallow Tail felt dull and heavy in my hand. I had always thought I would be a demon hunter, but how could I when there were no more demons, no more spirits? All the Daoist blessings in the sword could not save my father’s sinking heart. And if I stuck around, perhaps my heart would grow heavy and yearn to be still too.

I hadn't seen Yan since that day six years ago, when we hid from the railroad surveyors at the temple. But her words came back to me now.

Learn to survive.

I packed a bag and bought a train ticket to Hong Kong.

* * *

The Sikh guard checked my papers and waved me through the security gate.

I paused to let my gaze follow the tracks going up the steep side of the mountain. It seemed less like a railroad track than a ladder straight up to heaven. This was the funicular railway, the tram line to the top of Victoria Peak, where the masters of Hong Kong lived and the Chinese were forbidden to stay.

But the Chinese were good enough to shovel coal into the boilers and grease the gears.

Steam rose around me as I ducked into the engine room. After five years, I knew the rhythmic rumbling of the pistons and the staccato grinding of the gears as well as I knew my own breath and heartbeat. There was a kind of music to their orderly cacophony that moved me, like the clashing of cymbals and gongs at the start of a folk opera. I checked the pressure, applied sealant on the gaskets, tightened the flanges, replaced the worn-down gears in the backup cable assembly. I lost myself in the work, which was hard and satisfying.

By the end of my shift, it was dark. I stepped outside the engine room and saw a full moon in the sky as another tram filled with passengers was pulled up the side of the mountain, powered by my engine.

“Don’t let the Chinese ghosts get you,” a woman with bright blonde hair said in the tram, and her companions laughed.

It was the night of Yulan, I realized, the Ghost Festival. I should get something for my father, maybe pick up some paper money at Mongkok.

“How can you be done for the day when we still want you?” a man’s voice came to me.

“Girls like you shouldn’t tease,” another man said, and laughed.

I looked in the direction of the voices and saw a Chinese woman standing in the shadows just outside the tram station. Her tight western-style cheongsam and the garish makeup told me her profession. Two Englishmen blocked her path. One tried to put his arms around her, and she backed out of the way.

“Please. I’m very tired,” she said in English. “Maybe next time.”

“Now, don’t be stupid,” the first man said, his voice hardening. “This isn’t a discussion. Come along now and do what you’re supposed to.”

I walked up to them. “Hey.”

The men turned around and looked at me.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, I think it is my business,” I said, “seeing as how you’re talking to my sister.”

I doubt either of them believed me. But five years of wrangling heavy machinery had given me a muscular frame, and they took a look at my face and hands, grimy with engine grease, and probably decided that it wasn’t worth it to get into a public tussle with a lowly Chinese engineer.

The two men stepped away to get in line for the Peak Tram, muttering curses.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, looking at her. I swallowed the you look good. She didn’t. She looked tired and thin and brittle. And the pungent perfume she wore assaulted my nose.

But I did not think of her harshly. Judging was the luxury of those who did not need to survive.

“It’s the night of the Ghost Festival,” she said. “I didn’t want to work anymore. I wanted to think about my mother.”

“Why don’t we go get some offerings together?” I asked.

We took the ferry over to Kowloon, and the breeze over the water revived her a bit. She wet a towel with the hot water from the teapot on the ferry and wiped off her makeup. I caught a faint trace of her natural scent, fresh and lovely as always.

“You look good,” I said, and meant it.

On the streets of Kowloon, we bought pastries and fruits and cold dumplings and a steamed chicken and incense and paper money, and caught up on each other’s lives.

“How’s hunting?” I asked. We both laughed.

“I miss being a fox,” she said. She nibbled on a chicken wing absent-mindedly. “One day, shortly after that last time we talked, I felt the last bit of magic leave me. I could no longer transform.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to offer anything else.

“My mother taught me to like human things: food, clothes, folk opera, old stories. But she was never dependent on them. When she wanted, she could always turn into her true form and hunt. But now, in this form, what can I do? I don’t have claws. I don’t have sharp teeth. I can’t even run very fast. All I have is my beauty, the same thing that your father and you killed my mother for. So now I live by the very thing that you once falsely accused my mother of doing: I lure men for money.”

“My father is dead, too.”

Hearing this seemed to drain some of the bitterness out of her. “What happened?”

“He felt the magic leave us, much as you. He couldn’t bear it.”

“I’m sorry.” And I knew that she didn’t know what else to say either.

“You told me once that the only thing we can do is to survive. I have to thank you for that. It probably saved my life.”

“Then we’re even,” she said, smiling. “But let us not speak of ourselves any more. Tonight is reserved for the ghosts.”

We went down to the harbor and placed our food next to the water, inviting all the ghosts we had loved to come and dine. Then we lit the incense and burned the paper money in a bucket.

She watched bits of burnt paper being carried into the sky by the heat from the flames. They disappeared among the stars. “Do you think the gates to the underworld still open for the ghosts tonight, now that there is no magic left?”

I hesitated. When I was young I had been trained to hear the scratching of a ghost’s fingers against a paper window, to distinguish the voice of a spirit from the wind. But now I was used to enduring the thunderous pounding of pistons and the deafening hiss of high-pressured steam rushing through valves. I could no longer claim to be attuned to that vanished world of my childhood.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose it’s the same with ghosts as with people. Some will figure out how to survive in a world diminished by iron roads and steam whistles, some will not.”

“But will any of them thrive?” she asked.

She could still surprise me.

“I mean,” she continued, “are you happy? Are you happy to keep an engine running all day, yourself like another cog? What do you dream of?”

I couldn’t remember any dreams. I had let myself become entranced by the movement of gears and levers, to let my mind grow to fit the gaps between the ceaseless clanging of metal on metal. It was a way to not have to think about my father, about a land that had lost so much.

“I dream of hunting in this jungle of metal and asphalt,” she said. “I dream of my true form leaping from beam to ledge to terrace to roof, until I am at the top of this island, until I can growl in the faces of all the men who believe they can own me.”

As I watched, her eyes, brightly lit for a moment, dimmed.

“In this new age of steam and electricity, in this great metropolis, except for those who live on the Peak, is anyone still in their true form?” she asked.

We sat together by the harbor and burned paper money all night, waiting for a sign that the ghosts were still with us.

* * *

Life in Hong Kong could be a strange experience: from day to day, things never seemed to change much. But if you compared things over a few years, it was almost like you lived in a different world.

By my thirtieth birthday, new designs for steam engines required less coal and delivered more power. They grew smaller and smaller. The streets filled with automatic rickshaws and horseless carriages, and most people who could afford them had machines that kept the air cool in houses and the food cold in boxes in the kitchen—all powered by steam.

I went into stores and endured the ire of the clerks as I studied the components of new display models. I devoured every book on the principle and operation of the steam engine I could find. I tried to apply those principles to improve the machines I was in charge of: trying out new firing cycles, testing new kinds of lubricants for the pistons, adjusting the gear ratios. I found a measure of satisfaction in the way I came to understand the magic of the machines.

One morning, as I repaired a broken governor—a delicate bit of work—two pairs of polished shoes stopped on the platform above me.

I looked up. Two men looked down at me.

“This is the one,” said my shift supervisor.

The other man, dressed in a crisp suit, looked skeptical. “Are you the man who came up with the idea of using a larger flywheel for the old engine?”

I nodded. I took pride in the way I could squeeze more power out of my machines than dreamed of by their designers.

“You did not steal the idea from an Englishman?” his tone was severe.

I blinked. A moment of confusion was followed by a rush of anger. “No,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I ducked back under the machine to continue my work.

“He is clever,” my shift supervisor said, “for a Chinaman. He can be taught.”

“I suppose we might as well try,” said the other man. “It will certainly be cheaper than hiring a real engineer from England.”

* * *

Mr. Alexander Findlay Smith, owner of the Peak Tram and an avid engineer himself, had seen an opportunity. He foresaw that the path of technological progress would lead inevitably to the use of steam power to operate automata: mechanical arms and legs that would eventually replace the Chinese coolies and servants.

I was selected to serve Mr. Findlay Smith in his new venture.

I learned to repair clockwork, to design intricate systems of gears and devise ingenious uses for levers. I studied how to plate metal with chrome and how to shape brass into smooth curves. I invented ways to connect the world of hardened and ruggedized clockwork to the world of miniaturized and regulated piston and clean steam. Once the automata were finished, we connected them to the latest analytic engines shipped from Britain and fed them with tape punched with dense holes in Babbage-Lovelace code.

It had taken a decade of hard work. But now mechanical arms served drinks in the bars along Central and machine hands fashioned shoes and clothes in factories in the New Territories. In the mansions up on the Peak, I heard—though I’d never seen—that automatic sweepers and mops I designed roamed the halls discreetly, bumping into walls gently as they cleaned the floors like mechanical elves puffing out bits of white steam. The expats could finally live their lives in this tropical paradise free of reminders of the presence of the Chinese.

* * *

I was thirty-five when she showed up at my door again, like a memory from long ago.

I pulled her into my tiny flat, looked around to be sure no one was following her, and closed the door.

“How’s hunting?” I asked. It was a bad attempt at a joke, and she laughed weakly.

Photographs of her had been in all the papers. It was the biggest scandal in the colony: not so much because the Governor’s son was keeping a Chinese mistress—it was expected that he would—but because the mistress had managed to steal a large sum of money from him and then disappear. Everyone tittered while the police turned the city upside down, looking for her.

“I can hide you for tonight,” I said. Then I waited, the unspoken second half of my sentence hanging between us.

She sat down in the only chair in the room, the dim light bulb casting dark shadows on her face. She looked gaunt and exhausted. “Ah, now you’re judging me.”

“I have a good job I want to keep,” I said. “Mr. Findlay Smith trusts me.”

She bent down and began to pull up her dress.

“Don’t,” I said, and turned my face away. I could not bear to watch her try to ply her trade with me.

“Look,” she said. There was no seduction in her voice. “Liang, look at me.”

I turned and gasped.

Her legs, what I could see of them, were made of shiny chrome. I bent down to look closer: the cylindrical joints at the knees were lathed with precision, the pneumatic actuators along the thighs moved in complete silence, the feet were exquisitely molded and shaped, the surfaces smooth and flowing. These were the most beautiful mechanical legs I had ever seen.

“He had me drugged,” she said. “When I woke up, my legs were gone and replaced by these. The pain was excruciating. He explained to me that he had a secret: he liked machines more than flesh, couldn’t get hard with a regular woman.”

I had heard of such men. In a city filled with chrome and brass and clanging and hissing, desires became confused.

I focused on the way light moved along the gleaming curves of her calves so that I didn’t have to look into her face.

“I had a choice: let him keep on changing me to suit him, or he could remove the legs and throw me out on the street. Who would believe a legless Chinese whore? I wanted to survive. So I swallowed the pain and let him continue.”

She stood up and removed the rest of her dress and her evening gloves. I took in her chrome torso, slatted around the waist to allow articulation and movement; her sinuous arms, constructed from curved plates sliding over each other like obscene armor; her hands, shaped from delicate metal mesh, with dark steel fingers tipped with jewels where the fingernails would be.

"He spared no expense. Every piece of me is built with the best craftsmanship and attached to my body by the best surgeons—there are many who want to experiment, despite the law, with how the body could be animated by electricity, nerves replaced by wires. They always spoke only to him, as if I was already only a machine.

"Then, one night, he hurt me and I struck back in desperation. He fell like he was made of straw. I realized, suddenly, how much strength I had in my metal arms. I had let him do all this to me, to replace me part by part, mourning my loss all the while without understanding what I had gained. A terrible thing had been done to me, but I could also be terrible.

"I choked him until he fainted, and then I took all the money I could find and left.

“So I come to you, Liang. Will you help me?”

I stepped up and embraced her. “We’ll find some way to reverse this. There must be doctors—”

“No,” she interrupted me. “That’s not what I want.”

* * *

It took us almost a whole year to complete the task. Yan’s money helped, but some things money couldn’t buy, especially skill and knowledge.

My flat became a workshop. We spent every evening and all of Sundays working: shaping metal, polishing gears, reattaching wires.

Her face was the hardest. It was still flesh.

I poured over books of anatomy and took casts of her face with plaster of Paris. I broke my cheekbones and cut my face so that I could stagger into surgeons’ offices and learn from them how to repair these injuries. I bought expensive jeweled masks and took them apart, learning the delicate art of shaping metal to take on the shape of a face.

Finally, it was time.

Through the window, the moon threw a pale white parallelogram on the floor. Yan stood in the middle of it, moving her head about, trying out her new face.

Hundreds of miniature pneumatic actuators were hidden under the smooth chrome skin, each of which could be controlled independently, allowing her to adopt any expression. But her eyes were still the same, and they shone in the moonlight with excitement.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

She nodded.

I handed her a bowl, filled with the purest anthracite coal, ground into a fine powder. It smelled of burnt wood, of the heart of the earth. She poured it into her mouth and swallowed. I could hear the fire in the miniature boiler in her torso grow hotter as the pressure of the steam built up. I took a step back.

She lifted her head to the moon and howled: it was a howl made by steam passing through brass piping, and yet it reminded me of that wild howl long ago, when I first heard the call of a hulijing.

Then she crouched to the floor. Gears grinding, pistons pumping, curved metal plates sliding over each other—the noises grew louder as she began to transform.

She had drawn the first glimmers of her idea with ink on paper. Then she had refined it, through hundreds of iterations until she was satisfied. I could see traces of her mother in it, but also something harder, something new.

Working from her idea, I had designed the delicate folds in the chrome skin and the intricate joints in the metal skeleton. I had put together every hinge, assembled every gear, soldered every wire, welded every seam, oiled every actuator. I had taken her apart and put her back together.

Yet, it was a marvel to see everything working. In front of my eyes, she folded and unfolded like a silvery origami construction, until finally, a chrome fox as beautiful and deadly as the oldest legends stood before me.

She padded around the flat, testing out her sleek new form, trying out her stealthy new movements. Her limbs gleamed in the moonlight, and her tail, made of delicate silver wires as fine as lace, left a trail of light in the dim flat.

She turned and walked—no, glided—towards me, a glorious hunter, an ancient vision coming alive. I took a deep breath and smelled fire and smoke, engine oil and polished metal, the scent of power.

“Thank you,” she said, and leaned in as I put my arms around her true form. The steam engine inside her had warmed her cold metal body, and it felt warm and alive.

“Can you feel it?” she asked.

I shivered. I knew what she meant. The old magic was back but changed: not fur and flesh, but metal and fire.

“I will find others like me,” she said, “and bring them to you. Together, we will set them free.”

Once, I was a demon hunter. Now, I am one of them.

I opened the door, Swallow Tail in my hand. It was only an old and heavy sword, rusty, but still perfectly capable of striking down anyone who might be lying in wait.

No one was.

Yan leapt out of the door like a bolt of lightning. Stealthily, gracefully, she darted into the streets of Hong Kong, free, feral, a hulijing built for this new age.

…once a man has set his heart on a hulijing, she cannot help hearing him no matter how far apart they are…

“Good hunting,” I whispered.

She howled in the distance, and I watched a puff of steam rise into the air as she disappeared.

I imagined her running along the tracks of the funicular railway, a tireless engine racing up, and up, towards the top of Victoria Peak, towards a future as full of magic as the past.

A Word from Ken Liu

After “The Paper Menagerie” won the Hugo, whenever I’m interviewed by Chinese reporters, they keep on asking me whether I consider the story “science fiction.” I’m baffled by the question. Are genre boundaries that big a deal for some Chinese readers?

Well, if they were confused by “The Paper Menagerie,” “Good Hunting” is really going to make those readers unhappy. This is a story that begins as a fantasy fairy tale and ends as a gritty piece of steampunk.

The story begins with a pair of Chinese demon hunters, a father and son, chasing down a hulijing, a shape-shifting fox spirit. To his surprise, the son befriends the hulijing‘s daughter. As this was the time of the Opium War, the two are caught up by the tumultuous events of history and end up in Hong Kong, where they learn another kind of magic, the magic of chrome and steam.

In writing this story, I wanted to do two things. One, to turn the misogynistic hulijing legends upside down. In these legends, usually composed by male scholars, the hulijing is a dangerous feminine creature who uses her sexuality to deprive men of their vitality and essence. My hulijing questions that narrative.

Two, I think there’s a paucity of good steampunk that addresses the dark stain of colonialism in a satisfactory way. Like many of my stories, this tale has an anti-colonial theme. One of the characters says, at one point, “A terrible thing had been done to me, but I could also be terrible.” It is about as succinct a summary of the experience of being a member of a colonized population as I can give.

Ken Liu—http://kenliu.name—is an author and translator of speculative fiction, as well as a lawyer and programmer. A winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards, he has been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov's, Analog, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Strange Horizons, among other places.

Ken's debut novel was The Grace of Kings, the first in a silkpunk epic fantasy series. He also released a collection of short fiction, The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories. He lives with his family near Boston, Massachusetts.

In addition to his original fiction, Ken is also the translator of numerous literary and genre works from Chinese to English. His translation of The Three-Body Problem, by Liu Cixin, won the Hugo Award for Best Novel in 2015, the first translated novel to ever receive that honor.

A Note to Readers

Thank you so much for reading The Shapeshifter Chronicles.

Through the work of a number of talented authors, editors, artists and other contributors—and the amazing support of readers like you—the Future Chronicles series has become one of the most acclaimed short story anthology series of the digital era, hitting the top ranks of not just the science fiction, fantasy and horror anthology lists, but the overall Amazon Top 10 Bestsellers list itself.

The Future Chronicles has also inspired several other quality anthology series in speculative fiction and in other genres, and inspired scores of spin-off stories, novels, and series. It’s been amazing.

If you enjoyed the stories in this book, please keep an eye out for other titles in the Future Chronicles collection. A full listing of titles, which can be read in any order, can be found at

www.futurechronicles.net

Finally, before you go, we’d like to ask you a very small favor, if you please: Would you write a short review at the site where you downloaded this book?

Reviews are make-or-break for authors. A book with no reviews is, simply put, a book with no future sales. This is because a review is more than just a message to other potential buyers: it’s also a key factor driving the book’s visibility in the first place.

More reviews (and more positive reviews) make a book more likely to be featured in bookseller lists and more likely to be featured in bookseller promotions. Reviews don’t need to be long or eloquent; a single sentence is all it takes. In today’s publishing world, the success (or failure) of a book is truly in the reader’s hands.

So please, write a review.

Then tell a friend. Share a link to us on Facebook, or maybe even a Tweet—link to our books at the site above. You’d be doing us a great service.

Thank you.

Samuel Peralta

www.amazon.com/author/samuelperalta

__________

Subscribe to our newsletter to get a free ebook copy of The Future Chronicles – Special Edition, a compendium of fifteen new and selected stories, and be eligible for draws for paperbacks, ebooks and more – http://smarturl.it/get-free-book

Foreword

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Waterborne

Of Bats and Atomic Bombs

Breakdown

Not Quite Her

She’s Such a Nasty Morsel

Baba Yaga and the Quantum Universe Theory of Shapeshifting

The Night of the Hunted

Jeb & Aces: The Mechanical Plagues

With Hair of Teeth and Claw

Good Hunting

A Note to Readers