Fictioneering

In the second half of the twenty-first century, the world ran out of stories to tell. The burgeoning Western entertainment industry of the modern age, combined with the emergence of robust new literary economies in the former Third World, stressed the planet Earth’s reserves of fiction to a degree unimaginable just decades before. The cornucopists could argue long and breathlessly that the world would never run out of imagination or creativity, but the numbers spoke for themselves; ratings were down, book sales lagged, and across the globe the same dreary tepid movie plots were repeated ad nauseum.

Economic and political conflicts erupted the world over as governments and companies scrambled to control the remaining reserves of literary talent and originality. Wars were fought, empires fell, and fortunes were made. As the conflicts of the age began to abate, humanity found itself gradually adapting to the new scarcity. Like oil, coal, and water, the planet still possessed an abundance of fiction, but extracting it had become costly and difficult. Difficult, but not impossible. And very lucrative.

---

“No good,” said Director John Hitherby. “It’s caught in a self reflexive loop.”

He crumpled the sheet of synth-paper in his hands, letting the soy ink of the rejected text add to the already impressive mosaic spread across his leathery palms. He tossed it into a waste receptacle and turned back to the tech that had handed the parchment to him.

“Cut the feed and reset the filters to New Weird. Maybe we’ll get a lucky break from that vein. And no Gibson! We’ve been getting complaints.”

The tech nodded and jogged away, wasting no time with small talk. Director Hitherby ran a tight operation at Time-Sony Content Generation Facility 36, one that could not afford to fall behind on quotas. When he gave an order, one did it without question or commentary.

Director Hitherby marched up the rattling steps to his office above the central control room. A dozen techs and stenographers sat at monitoring stations, typing furiously away as new data streamed into the control room from the processing floor far below. The great bay windows let the warm glow of the extraction chamber fill the room, but for reading, the Director preferred the colder, clearer and more efficient halogen lamps in his office.

There was someone waiting for him there – a thin man dressed smartly in a company suit and tie.

“Director,” he said cheerily, extending a hand. “Tom Johnson, Facilities Review Team. Wonderful operation you have here.”

The Director stared at the suit for a moment, then held up his ink-stained hands in what one could interpret as an apologetic gesture. He walked around the man and sat behind his desk, upon which rested an improbable amount of paperwork. Tom Johnson eased into one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time, but scheduling during work hours is always problematic,” said the suit. “However, the company has some urgent matters to discuss with you.”

Director Hitherby moved some reams of paper about. He looked coolly at Tom Johnson.

“First of all, we are very happy with the quality of the product to hit the distribution centers in the last month. Excellent work, some of the best we’ve seen. However…”

John listened to the corporate speech training and personnel management techniques slither through Tom Johnson’s voice like copulating snakes.

“Given that this is the last and largest facility of its type to be built, management is somewhat disappointed in the unexpectedly low quantity of output. The networks need material, Director. Our clients need content. The company would like to increase your set quotas by 20%.”

The Director perused the hourly samples. He could have had them remotely transmitted to the monitor on his desk, but he still preferred old fashioned paper in hand when reading. Company policy be damned – he had a job to do, and he did it well. He began to speak aloud. Tom Johnson could have assumed the Director was addressing him, but he could have just as easily been talking to the walls.

“Rewrite of Shakespeare’s MacBeth, set in a zoo, wherein Lady MacBeth is portrayed by a four hundred pound gorilla speaking in sign language.”

“Three hundred and twenty-two unrelated images of giant robots fighting, with Japanese and English dialogue.”

“One’s a film critic, one’s a biochemically enhanced clone of Adolf Hitler. They fight crime.”

“Medieval period piece about the betrayal of a 16th century Scottish general, fifty two thousand four hundred and seventy-eight words, including such culturally appropriate terms as ‘dingbat’ and funkalicious.’”

“Detailed narrative of an interactive 3D video game session in which one of the author’s friends is a notorious ‘teamkiller.’”

“Four hundred thousand pages of unsorted slash fiction. Buffy/Willow, Buffy/Spike, Zander/Spike, Yoda/Angel, Luke/Han, Han/Chewie, Han/Jabba, Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Sulu, Kirk/Uhura, Kirk/Spock, Spock/Mirror Spock, Spock/Angel, Spock/Optimus Prime – that’s a new one.”

As if on cue, a tech entered the office. The Director tossed the voluminous stack of slash fiction to him. “Clean this up and send two copies up to Distribution, one tagged ‘cool’ and one ‘ironic.’” The tech left in a hurry.

“Tell, me, Tom. Which one of these scintillating samples of human creativity do you think would make the biggest splash on the central networks?”

Tom Johnson paused as the snakes took a moment to get back in the mood. “As Director, that’s your concern, Mr. Hitherby. The company only wishes to properly motivate you and your staff. Given the complexity and expense of this operation we have the utmost confidence in your ability to meet a higher standard of output.”

The Director abruptly stood and walked to the door. Tom Johnson, a look of consternation on his face, followed. They stepped down into the control room, between the monitoring stations with their loud clacking, and looked out the wide windows into the extraction chamber far below them.

The massive dome enclosed a central shaft – the Zeitgeist tap – surrounded by three dozen psychic feed arrays. Each array pumped away rhythmically, moving bell jars full of cloned neural tissue up and down in the energy flow provided by the central tap. Technicians in protective gear and heavy shielded helmets monitored the machinery and piped the collected data up to the control room. From there the processed data went to Central Parsing for analysis before being printed and hand-delivered to Director Hitherby’s desk.

“Tom, unless you’ve work on a rig like this there’s something you can never understand. It doesn’t matter how many pipes you lay or how big you build them, you’re still pulling from the same vein.” He pointed to the tap. “90% of everything is crap, no matter how much you pull up. But the company doesn’t want crap, it wants gems. And if you want that 10% that are gems, you have to let us do our damn jobs down here.”

“Sir, I’m getting multiple infallible protagonists,” said one of the monitors. The Director leapt to the tech’s station and scanned the readout. Even unparsed, he could see the plots forming into predictable lines, watch canon characters fall by the wayside to make way for an artificially superior persona.

“Mary Sue! Mary Sue! Egocentric contamination on arrays five, eight, and thirty three!”

John grabbed the facility microphone and shouted. “Disengage Zeitgeist tap! Purge those arrays now! I don’t want that crap to spread to the unaffected feeds!”

As technicians scrambled to stem the potential damage, Tom Johnson walked over to the monitoring station and placed a friendly hand on the Director’s shoulder. “I can see you have your hands full down here, Director. We can discuss this at length tomorrow. I’ll need a full incident report sent to the Facilities Review Office, of course. Thank you for your time.”

Tom Johnson left. As the Director seethed quietly over the monitor, the tech who had sounded the alarm leaned over to him.

“We always get a contamination when management comes sniffing by, chief,” she said. “Maybe we should give them helmets.”

The Director released his murderous grip on the microphone and slumped forward, laughing bitterly to himself. “You’re probably right. We could also stuff them in the feed jars. Since they’re so eager for more content, maybe they’ll pick up material better than the vat brains.”

The whole control room laughed at that.

“Ok, people back to work. We have a quota to meet, and the day isn’t getting any younger.”

A breathless tech ran up to the Director and handed him a small sheet of paper. “Sir, this came in just before the shut down. I think you better have a look.”

John took the paper and began to read.

In the second half of the twenty-first century, the world ran out of stories to tell. The burgeoning Western entertainment industry of the modern age, combined with the emergence of robust new literary economies in the former Third World, stressed the planet Earth’s reserves of fiction to a degree unimaginable just decades before. The cornucopists could argue long and breathlessly that the world would never run out of imagination or creativity, but the numbers spoke for themselves…

Paths of Logic

Gavin Larkspur's lab - this one, at least, for he had many - provided an intimidating backdrop for an intimidating man. Built into one of the largest support columns in one of the oldest parts of the citadel, it was not lit particularly well. Steel grated floors and hanging chain-link barriers divided the expansive chamber into distinct work spaces where giant machinery of inscrutable purpose cast strange shadows. The illumination from the vapor lamps hanging overhead barely reached the outer walls of the chamber, so that while each area was well enough lit to conduct experiments, the overall effect was of standing in the center of a void. Gavin claimed the atmosphere helped to focus one's concentration.

Larkspur himself was standing before the central table where most of the critical experiments were conducted. Seth himself had spent many hours there, but as he watched his master review reports of the previous day's events, he very much wished to be anywhere but in this dark laboratory.

"How is Lieutenant Brandeis?" asked Gavin.

Seth, already at attention, snapped to further readiness. He was eager to answer a question with a clearly positive response. "Recuperating, sir. The chirurgeon says he'll need a few days before he can return to duty, but he'll be all right."

"And yourself?"

"No worse for wear, sir."

Gavin tapped his fingers lightly on the workbench. "And these criminals? Did you apprehend them?"

Seth swallowed, but remained at attention. Gavin had read the report - the question was not for his benefit, but for Seth's own. "No, sir."

"But you found them, fought, and spoke to them."

"Yes, sir."

"What did you learn?"

"They claim to have nothing to do with the bombings."

Gavin paused, as if expecting something more. "Does this make sense to you?"

Seth examined his logic carefully before responding. "No, sir. We did find a Kait body at the site of the last attack, we found the campsite where they had prepared explosives, and ultimately, they were moving through the sewers, as I had theorized."

"And these claims of humanitarian intentions, if you pardon the phrase. Do they seem credible?"

Seth tried his best not to mumble, "The avian seemed very sincere, sir."

"Speak up, Aspirant! Were they carrying medical supplies?" Gavin took several steps toward his charge. With each motion, he seemed to grow larger in Seth's eyes. "Did you find provisions? Food or building mnaterials?"

"No, sir."

"And the guards that collected you from the scene, they also searched the area, and also found nothing. Correct?" Gavin was very close now.

"They found nothing, sir."

"What does this lead you to conclude, Aspirant?"

Seth laid out the facts in his mind once again and came to the same unpleasant result. "That after we had stumbled into their hiding place, the avian and her bodyguards used guile and Lieutenant Brandeis's injury to prevent me from pursuing them further. There was no mission of mercy, no peaceful group of non-humans. The avian Kachina simply wished to prevent further injury to her guards and facilitate their escape by playing on my desire to interrogate them without having to severely injure them." Seth bowed his head. "I apologize for my failure, sir - I should have pressed the attack."

"No, you should have left the situation to the city watch to begin with." Gavin's tone was softer, but still critical. He paced. "I know you want to make a difference in this conflict Seth. You are young and full of vigor. You see possibilities where others have given in to mediocrity. You see a chance for peace when others crave bloodshed. These are noble merits.

"But there are limits even to the Exemplar. We cannot do everything, and even we must admit there are those better suited to certain tasks. You will get your chance to prove yourself against the Empire's foes, of that I am certain. But for now, you must concentrate on the efforts you have already begun." Gavin put a friendly hand on Seth's shoulder. "I want you to turn your attentions to your current projects and let Roland and the city watch do their jobs. Understood?"

A slight grin spread across Seth's face. He was expecting a harsher rebuke, even a demotion or further punishment, but Gavin seemed to understand. "Perfectly sir. I won't let you down."

"That's my boy. Get some rest. Exemplar Yves will need your assistance tomorrow."

As was often the case after one of Larkspur's lessons, Seth left the lab properly schooled in the days teachings and with a renewed sense of purpose.

---

"You've invested an awful lot of resources in him by now. Are you sure you trust him?"

Gavin sighed. "Seth I trust implicitly. His absolute dedication to Tarsis is a little quaint, actually. But his judgement in many things politic is, shall we say, suspect?"

"An Exemplar who wavers in the face of adversity is of no use to us."

Gavin waved his hand with a dismissive noise. "He will do fine. Provincial idealism or not, he has already moved our plans forward by months, if not years. The council is delighted, and I'm not going to let such a confluence of talent and political opportunity go to waste. If it comes to an issue of control, leave that to me."

"As if I had a choice," said the voice with good humor. "When will you complete the preparations?"

Gavin ran a hand along the gun barrel mounted on the workbench. He traced the many ornate contours of its silver surface - the Ethershot Rifle Mk VI was coming along nicely. "By mid-fall everything should be in place. Toriande will be less likely to react once ice begins to creep into their harbors and the first snows touch their southern barracks. At the moment our schedule hinges on Mr. Delocke. I will do my best to keep him focused."

"Keep me informed." The voice crackled in the air and then fell into a low droning buzz. Gavin reached over to the baroque metal disk on the edge of the workbench and twisted one of it's many flanges. The sound faded as the device turned dormant.

Larkspur looked over the field reports again, especially the insurgents' invocation of the Whistler. Floating there in his laboratory at the center of a man-made void, he pondered the implications of the rise of a new Captain of the Underworld.

"I shall endeavor to keep us both informed."

Thunder in Darkness

Blue thunderbolts rocked the subterranean battleground with sharp cracks and piercing light. Seth’s gauntleted fist arced through the darkness sheathed by a pulsing strobe and electric buzz, his strikes shaking his enemies to their bones. The technologist was a fearsome storm front in the night, pushing his enemies further back with each jarring blow.

One of the cats attempted to tackle him by the knees, but a shocking jab to the shoulder knocked him to the side. Another took the opportunity to charge in for a body blow. Seth took a turning half step to the left, knocked the Kait past him with his left elbow, and caught his assailant’s face in his gauntleted right hand. Bolts of electricity rattled down the length of the cat’s body and raked across Seth’s legs. Standing in the ankle-deep water, Seth was feeling a portion of every shock that struck his enemies. Even with his intense training, he could not keep this up for long.

Seth lifted his stricken opponent by the chin, spun underneath him, and heaved the shaking Kait over his back. Arcs of electricity cascaded down around him. A primordial roar left his lips as he flung the Kait back into the wide tunnel with a splash. He turned back to the other two as they regrouped. Seth’s gauntlet sputtered as drops of water sizzled in the arcing bolts of energy. The water rose up into the terrible flickering light as ghostly vapors.

“Stop!” A light alto voice echoed off the walls with unwavering authority.

The three combatants stopped and turned to face the voice. The avian girl from the train stood near a large outlet pipe on the far side of the chamber. She held a large yellow phosphor lamp on a staff that cast gold watery reflections on the walls, filling the room with warm light. With her face uncloaked, Seth could see the tiny lines of feathers along her temples that were characteristic of her race. They were linked by a simple brass band across her forehead. She had replaced her earlier cloak with a linen robe that looked far too fine to be dragging about the sewers.

Seth noticed an odd reptilian creature the size of a large cat slink about near her feet. Its scales reflected odd patterns out of sync with the pulsing glow of the lamp.

Suddenly, out of the darkness to the avian’s left stepped a massive form, fully eight feet tall and as wide as a horse. This reptile Seth easily identified as one of the warlike tsaaur. Its rough, mottled green skin gave it a natural stealth advantage in the sewers. Thickly muscled arms held the unconscious Roland over its shoulder. Seth dropped into a low crouch, his gauntlet continuing to burn with etheric lightning.

“Don’t worry, he’s not badly injured,” said the girl, gesturing to Roland’s limp form. “This one is known to us. He has contributed to the deaths of many of our kind.”

“He is an honorable servant of the Empire and my friend. You will not hurt him!” blurted Seth.

The avian regarded him oddly. “You could have killed me on the train, machinist. I know what your weapons can do. But you didn’t. Since I have no desire to make an enemy of you, we will return your friend unharmed, and go our separate ways, I think.”

The salt and pepper colored Kait began to protest.

“Enough, Tikva,” she said to him. “I didn’t come here to contribute to a war.”

“Why did you come, then?” said Seth. If he was going to get anything productive out of this encounter he had better take command of the situation. “You violate our laws by being here. If you are not at war, why assist those who attack our citizens and their livelihoods?”

The avian fixed him with a cold stare. The plumes of feathers on her temples stiffened slightly. “I haven’t attacked anyone. And neither have my friends here. But your empire has harmed a great many. Emperor Ludovic may want a war with us but none of us are inclined to give him one in his own city.”

“So you deny bombing the steel mill in sector 6? The South Field rail station?”

“I don’t know anything about those places. I’m here to assist the kait, avians, and yes, even tsaaur who live under the constant threat of your Purge.” She spat the last word. “That doesn’t include getting people killed by sparking more battles. I suggest you look elsewhere for enemies to fight.”

“If you have nothing to hide, then why did you attack us?”

The tsaaur responded in a gravelly, guttural accent, but his enunciation was clear. “We have learned that soldiers and machinists are likely to attack any of our kind. We did not wish to give you the opportunity.”

“Regardless,” said the avian, “this fight is over now.”

“By order of the Emperor, I’m still bound to arrest you,” said Seth.

“How disappointing for you.” The avian signaled to her compatriots. “Get going, Tikva.”

Tikva and the other kait helped their fallen ally to his feet and exited the chamber. The tsaaur gently set Roland down on a dry stone slab and followed after the others. He snarled slightly at Seth as he left, his upturned reptilian lip showing a wide array of yellowed teeth. With the others gone, the avian took a few steps closer to Seth and spoke in softer tones. Her reptilian pet scurried silently about her feet.

“Unwelcome or not,” she said, “there are people in this city who need my help, and they’re not going anywhere. And I doubt you can kill or arrest all of them. Your empire is just going to have to get used to that.”

Seth straightened to his full height. “I serve the Emperor because I believe the cause of humanity is just. We make unfortunate sacrifices to seek that cause, but we do not have to like them. You may not believe it, but there are many in the Empire who opposed the Purge.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to justify himself to this avian, but the heartfelt words came nonetheless.

She looked at him with that same odd expression from earlier. “You are different from the other Exemplar. I am Kachina. If you’re truly interested in preventing more violence, seek the Whistler. We can speak more then, Mr. Delocke.”

Kachina turned and left quickly, leaving Seth alone with Roland’s unconscious form. Her small companion followed closely after. It would not occur to Seth until much later that the reptile did not disturb the surface of the shallow water as it moved.

Labyrinth

Seth listened to the sewer. Covered in grime, smelling of filth, he stood in a small tunnel junction somewhere beneath the streets of Ashworld. A low hum echoed down the halls, changing in pitch with the soft breaths of the passages. For hours now, the hum had been an ethereal companion in the darkness, but Seth could see no sign of its source. Something told him it was significant, but it could have been just wind moving through the many grates and pipes.

“Do you have any bloody idea what I’m standing in?” came a rough voice from below.

He looked down the ladder to see Roland still standing at the watery base of the shaft they had just finished exploring. The green glow of Seth’s phosphor lamp did little to hide the green look on Roland’s face. “No one ordered you to come along, soldier,” said Seth.

“You barge into my house on my day’s leave and announce this scheme of yours to catch a bird, and expect me to tag along! What do you call that?” The clatter of Roland’s boots announced his ascent up the ladder.

“That was a request, not an order. You can go back any time you please.” Seth gave Roland a hand up, and the lieutenant cleared the top of the shaft and stepped out into the chamber.

“I have half a mind to,” said Roland as he tried in vain to brush the grime from his trouser legs. “But if you get yourself lost or drowned, I don’t intend to be dragged in front of a squad of Exemplar keen to know where their precious princess went. Ah, Hells, where are we?”

“Dock district, near the outlets, I think. The water’s a little clearer here.”

Roland snorted. The distinction seemed to elude him. “You’ve got until the one o’clock chimes, then we’re going up if I have to haul you to a ladder myself. Assuming we even hear them down here.”

Seth nodded. Aside from the mysterious sound, this expedition had yielded little. He chose an easterly passage and started down it. His boots made unpleasant squishing sounds that he tried not to contemplate.

They came to a wide flooded tunnel with slick walls, and were forced to wade into the grimy water. The submerged floor dropped away as they progressed, until the water was above Seth’s waist. He held his gauntlet and lamp high as they made their way down the passage. On the far end, the floor rose again to a wide circular chamber where the water was only ankle-deep. Seth shined his lamp into the grand hall that opened up outside the tunnel. Roland swore again at the filth, and Seth tried to suppress his humor at the lieutenant’s ire.

A bestial roar thundered up in a noisome splash behind Seth, and he turned to see Roland dragged down, arms and legs flailing, into a mighty torrent of water at the deepest point of the tunnel. Two blasts from the lieutenant’s cartridge pistol lit the water in orange fire, but struck only stony walls. In those angry flashes Seth could see Roland grapple with a slick black shape twice his size.

Seth dashed toward his friend as fast as he could slog through the roiling water. From the mass of reptilian claws and loud cursing that splashed in front of him swung a huge scaly appendage. It caught him square in the chest, knocking him against the stone wall. He staggered back into shallow water.

“Roland!” Seth shouted.

The sewer did not answer. Small swirling eddies marked where the lieutenant went down into the blackness.

“Rol!” Seth rushed back to the edge of the basin and plunged his free hand into the water. He grasped around, but all sign of Roland was gone. He was just about to dive fully into the tunnel when he heard the sound of soft splashing footsteps behind him. He turned again to the shallow chamber.

Three figures approached. They wore tightly wrapped rags bundled against the cold and tied off by whipcord around the waist, wrists and ankles. Smaller than average, lean and wiry, they walked with a predatory gait. As they came within range of Seth’s lamp, he could see the large pointed ears and hairy snout of the Kait. Their eyes sparkled yellow in the glow.

“You are trespassing in the domain of the Whistler,” one of them hissed. He was lanky and long-limbed, with black and grey pepper markings on his face. “Trespassers must pay a fine, which we will happily collect from your hide.”

Seth recalled the old myth of the Whistler – the immortal lord of the Tarsian underworld that supposedly every criminal in the city tithed to. Strange that these Kait would invoke the name. Seth felt a swell of angry imperial authority well up inside him. “I don’t know that name or recognize his command. This is the Emperor’s city and the Emperor’s sewers,” he said.

“Pity the Emperor is not around to argue his claim.”

Seth had just enough warning to drop into a defensive stance as the first Kait on his left rushed him. With surprising speed, the small figure lashed out at him with slashing claws in an open-palm technique. It took all of Seth’s training to block the rapid maneuvers, deflecting each swipe with his gauntlet or wrist. Even though the creature could not land a direct blow, Seth felt tiny nicks and cuts flay open on his arms during the exchange. He quickly swapped the small lamp to his left hand and used it as a bludgeon, cracking the Kait’s skull with a swift strike that left him howling.

The Kait stepped back. Seth looked up to realize that the other two had circled around him in a triangular formation. He crouched low, looked at each of them, and recalled the tactics for multiple opponents that had won him accolades in the academy games. If these cats believed they could take down the five-time trial champion, Seth was only too happy to prove them wrong.

The first strike came from the Kait Seth had just clubbed. He feinted forward with a direct strike, intending to draw the technologist away from his companion on the other side. Seth saw the deception easily and swung around on the lunging second Kait with a roundhouse kick to the chest. He then continued his spin, catching the first with a chop to the back and a hooking kick to the ankle that drove him hard to the ground. Seth rounded on the salt-and-pepper Kait just in time to catch a series of attacks with his gauntlet. The metal clockwork, though delicate in appearance, was sturdy enough to dissuade the attacker from landing too many bare-handed blows on its sharp surface.

The four combatants danced together in the dark watery chamber, grunts, hisses and the wet slap of fists on flesh marking the cadence of the fight. In just two moves, Seth had all three of his opponents on one side of him. He deflected them easily as they were forced to engage one at a time, but he knew that attrition would eventually get the best of him if he did not find a way to even the battle.

Another flash of claws and fists, and this time the cats landed a series of hits. Fire poured across Seth’s side as a gutting slash raked his ribs. Another landed a glancing blow to the head, and the third caught his left arm in an awkward charge. Seth lost his grip on the lamp, and it spun away into the darkness of the tunnel. He stumbled back through the foul water, slipping on submerged stones in an attempt to regain his balance. His opponents squared off against him.

As the lamp quickly sank, its fading glow disappearing into the murky depths, Seth saw the Kaits’ eyes glittering yellow in the growing shadow. Even as their forms disappeared from sight, their clear, disembodied eyes marched toward him, until even that dim glow faded, and there was only darkness. The low growl of one of the creatures filled the chamber.

“Your eyes are not made for darkness, human. How will you fight us now?”

With that, all was silence, save the gentle lapping of water on stone. Quiet ripples marked the passage of the predators closing on their blind prey.

Then came a click, and the distinct hiss of ether canisters ejecting their volatile contents into a technologist’s machinery. Cracks of electricity echoed off the stone walls as flashes of white hot energy. The Kait, shaken and pale in the unnatural light, stepped back as the Exemplar Aspirant appeared from the darkness wreathed in a dire aura. Seth stood bathed in the flickering blue glow of his gauntlet as arcs of harnessed lightning leapt across his arm.

“I’ll find a way,” he said.

Soldier's Memory

“She flew?”

“She flew.” Seth slapped the table with his mug. Deidre looked at him quizzically.

“Seth, you’ve always been a relentlessly, almost painfully honest man, but I think maybe you’re trying to pull one over on me,” she said with a wry grin. Deidre was a tall, sturdy woman of considerable will and strong Ishighetta stock. She was plain and unremarkable in most respects, but her sunny smile seemed to diminish the more cosmopolitan concepts of beauty accepted in the noble circles of the citadel. She was the perfect wife for Roland, inasmuch as she could routinely best him in physical combat – something they engaged in all too often.

“It was perfect. Perfect form, perfect motion – everything just as laid out in the medical journals. A real live Avian over the west river. And I was this close to getting her.”

Deidre continued clearing the dishes as Seth and Roland sat at the table. The technologist had been in rare form throughout dinner, rattling off long, fantastic descriptions of his encounter on the train. Roland mulled it over quietly, while Deidre attempted to temper the wild tale into something straightforward. She noticed that Seth had barely touched his food.

“Think about it. There hasn’t been an Avian sighted in the city for years. Even in the principalities you never hear more than rumors. Now one shows up on the evening train into Ashworld, and she’s carrying stolen military surplus. This could be monumental. If Ablach is making a move to support the Kait insurgency then it could mean a drastic shift in the political balance around the Uzumaki Sea. Not to mention the ramifications for the city watch. We’ll have to deploy the air navy over the city directly to monitor the sky – the potential for espionage is higher than ever be-“

“You reported it, yes?” said Roland abruptly. It was the first thing he had said since they started eating. Seth’s reined in his runaway analysis for the moment.

“I gave instructions to the guard officers and sent a messenger to inform Galen what was going on,” he said.

“And then you came here, when you should be reporting to the Imperial Guard directly.”

“And then I came here to see you.” Seth leveled a finger at Roland. “Because we’re going to find her.”

Roland leaned back and sighed. An uncomfortable moment stretched between them.

“I’ll set out a bed for you, Seth. The next train back isn’t until tomorrow,” Deidre said, taking the opportunity to leave the room. She looked worriedly at Roland before walking up the narrow steps of their apartment.

Roland leaned down in a conspiratorial hunch. “The laws of the pogrom are very clear on this. You should be back at the citadel reporting your findings to Larkspur and Command.”

“I don’t have any findings yet, that’s why I came to see you. I’m certain the girl is collaborating with whatever forces are working in Ashworld. You know this place better than anyone, and I figured you’d be up for a little direct action for a change.” Seth smiled at Roland’s stoic face.

“This isn’t about advancement or heroics, Seth. We’re talking about the safety of the whole city. Maybe I play a little fast and loose with my duties, and I’m happy to invite you along any time you want to break up a bar fight on one of your little slumming trips, but this is bloody serious work.”

“You know that if Command calls up the army they’ll swarm in here and drive away any chance of tracking these people down. But if we can capture the girl, or someone with connections to her, we can ask questions, get some information for Command.”

“People? Girl? Will you listen to yourself? We’re talking about animals here! Why in bloody hell do you always want to talk to them?” spat back Roland. “You think they’re interested in talking? In having a little academic heart to heart with Seth Delocke, the great trial champion? There’s a reason these things were purged from the city, Seth – we are at war with them. If you had lived through that you’d bloody well understand that we don’t have the luxury of talking. It’s kill or be killed.”

Seth sat stunned. Roland had always been the first to suggest going it alone, bucking authority on one venture or another. Seth never knew the lieutenant had such deep feelings on this one issue. Another off moment passed between the old friends before Seth spoke again.

“The Purge was a matter for the whole empire, Rol. I’m not so provincial that I didn’t know what was going on. The Delockes manage three counties – we played our part in that fight.”

“You weren’t in the city, Seth. You just don’t know what it was like.” Roland sat sideways to the table, as if keeping his distance. He tapped his fingers lightly on the wood surface. “I know what you did. You rounded up some folks, put them on wagons, gently encouraged them to move. Your family did its duty managing an exodus, but you were just a stop along the road. It started right here in Tarsis.” The lieutenant’s eyes drifted about the room, as if looking for a point of familiarity – an anchor to hold him in his warm apartment while his memory drifted back across cold years.

“When it began that winter, there were fires. Everywhere, fires. The Emperor’s proclamation went out and the citizens did their duty. They faced the threat of the Kait head on. Shops and meeting houses were turned out into the street. Wagons were put to the torch. The cats weren’t helpless, that’s for sure. They fought, and they fought hard. It was a long time in the coming, and I supposed they sensed it, prepared themselves. Avians, too, even a few Tsauur were there, hiding in the shadows. You know those wings you were going on about? They burn. They burn bright.”

Images of the green tanks under the Academy flickered through Seth’s mind.

“My father was a fisherman. We lived down by the old wharf on the east bank. He always had a soft spot for the critters. I don’t know why. Mum always said he liked to take in strays, feed them the small catch right off the quay. She was always yelling at him for that.

“Anyway, there was a bookkeeper near the waterfront what collected holy scrolls from Ablach and Kharak, always first off the boats from Cardiff Gorge. He was a Kait from Toriande. Had some kits that used to play around the fishing boats, probably hoping for a handout. For some reason Pa got it in his head to get the damn cat and his family out by boat before the mob got to them.

“But we didn’t get there first. It was a well-known place, and a hundred angry men must have filled that street in front of the wharf. They burned the shop, and the Kait ran for the docks. My father was all set to give them his skiff, his livelihood, just to get them free of the city. He stood there on the quay, holding the lines for them like a bloody angel of redemption. But it wasn’t just the bookkeeper and his family running toward us. It was a dozen revolutionaries that the old cat had been hiding there.” Roland gripped the edge of the table tight enough to turn the knuckles white.

“They drew steel and butchered him right there next to his boat. He must have seen it coming, because he pushed me into the water a moment before. All he wanted was to give them a fair out, to show his boy that there were bigger things than war and hatred and revolution – that there was also basic human compassion. And they killed him for it. Because they’re not human.

“You want to talk to them, want to ask them why they do it? Want to know why they creep back into the city and try to tear it down? Why every day I get up and tell Deidre I love her because I might take a mouthful of gunpowder before nightfall? Why these beasts want to sap us, kill us, skin us and burn what’s left?”

The soldier looked directly at the technologist, and Seth had never seen more serious eyes on his friend.

“Because if it were their city, I’d do the same.”

The Passenger

With the introduction of the Ethershot pistol, Seth Delocke found himself at the head of a revolution in Imperial arms, one that demanded his constant involvement. Although Galen would handle the overall management of resources and personnel to develop the weapons, Seth constantly found himself administering the particulars of the project. Most Technologists and not a few Exemplar couldn’t grasp some of the basic concepts behind the thermal principles of ether-energy conversion. He wrote dozens of design documents and letters of explanation to members of the Council, field generals, the Imperial Senate, even to mining conglomerates looking to secure the right to supply the necessary ethers. In the end, only the Exemplar would have the authority to carry the new pistols, but even organizing that small a production run would take months of manufacturing.

In addition, he had become Helena’s de facto assistant (and he hoped eventually something more) on the second generation of Steam Titans. Balancing his largely secretive relationship with the Titanworks chief and his now very public position as inventor of the Ethershot threatened to wear him down. Even so, Galen insisted that Seth continue to function as his Aspirant, which meant running Larkspur’s private laboratory in his “spare time.” Somehow in the press of duties, Seth found a day off, although he was sure there would be double the work to pay for it afterward.

- - -

The train from the citadel to the western bank was on time as usual. Snaking around the jumbled supports of the station, it left the rambling rail yards and skirted the edge of the island. The water below the bulkheads supporting the coastal track glowed warm in the afternoon sunlight and reflected flowing orange light up into the crowded train cars.

Seth sat in the back corner of the car, his back to the water, and tried to get some sleep. For once, he had left his iconic marks of rank behind and wore a simple brown overcoat. The constant deference shown to him by ordinary citizens would not be welcome today. Instead, he thought of Deidre’s famous meat pies and sweetberry pudding and looked forward to spending the evening with old friends. Roland would have his pipes and his clockwork drums, and they’d while away the night with good drink and bad stories.

An officer was questioning a woman on the other side of the car. He wanted to know what was in her satchel – a worn canvas bag bearing the symbol of the Imperial Medical corps. Military surplus was not allowed to civilians. Clearly, she was in the wrong, but Seth hoped the overzealous officer might show a little mercy. If not to her, than to the Technologist on leave who really didn’t feel like dealing with an incident at the moment.

Still, there was something strange about the woman. She had a young face, but she slumped forward uncomfortably. Her cloak masked what could have been a bowed back or a hidden package, but she seemed far too light of movement to be weighed down by anything. The officer was becoming heated. He accused her of stealing, and as she attempted to shrink away from him his words became louder.

Just as Seth seriously considered intervening, the officer grabbed the girl’s arm, and part of her cloak fell open. The shape she revealed to the surrounding passengers was not a package or a deformity; it was a band of feathers. White down spilled from the side of her cloak as the officer stepped back in shock. Clearly outlined against the curve of her back was a graceful nestled wing.

A woman screamed. The car erupted into chaos. Seth stood, only to be plowed into by several passengers making for the door behind him. Cries of avian! freak! monster! filled the already close air of the compartment, and the press of humanity surged against the walls, trying to escape. Seth fought his way past frantic riders and saw the girl whirl on the officer with a sharp kick to the stomach. As he doubled over, she snatched the satchel from him and dashed for the door at the far end of the compartment. The few passengers on that side eagerly got out of her way. Seth tried to push his way through but could not get past. Outside the door, he watched her scale the outer ladder. Frowning, he turned to the rear door.

The train thundered along the tracks of the citadel at high speed. The driving wind whipped across the roofs of the cars, rattling them to their rivets. Seth left his coat behind to prevent it from dragging him off and stumbled out onto the rooftop. One car ahead, the girl crouched against the howling wind and walked steadily forward. He leaned into the wind and followed.

“Hold!” he shouted, but the roar of the train masked his voice. When they passed into a brief clearing between buildings he tried again.

“Hold there!”

She turned to look at him. A few tiny feathers fluttered from under her cloak and whisked past Seth’s face.

“You assaulted that officer,” he shouted. “You’re going to have to come with me. I promise I won’t hurt you!” Seth suddenly realized that with only his tunic vest, his Exemplar gauntlet was fully exposed. The twisting gears and many sharp tools jutting from the machinery on his arm probably did not lend much credence to his claim.

The avian girl looked at him strangely, and then continued on her way forward. A gust of smoke and steam billowed back across the train. Seth swore softly and followed her. The locomotive swayed as it turned through the cavernous passages of the citadel’s outer buildings, forcing both the avian and her pursuer to cling low to the cars. Seth, with no coat, had the advantage of aerodynamics, but the girl was clearly experienced with this method of travel, and Seth made few gains on her as they made their way up the length of the train.

A sudden turn nearly threw Seth into an oncoming overhang, but he threw himself hard to the roof. Ahead, the girl scrambled forward. For uncounted minutes, Seth slowly worked his way toward his quarry, dodging the city itself as it tried to scrape them both from the rooftops. Finally they came to head of the train as it turned hard onto the bridge approach.

They were standing on the car directly behind the engine now, and the pulsing plumes of smoke and steam that shot from the sides of the train periodically blocked out all vision. Seth caught glimpses of her through the smoke. She stood facing him, her body partially shielded by her flapping cloak. With a great gust, the train cleared the island’s superstructure and pushed out onto the trestle bridge spanning the western river. The air cleared as the huge bridge supports whistled by overhead.

Seth readied the snare at his belt. It was small and had little range, but it might prevent her from falling if he got a good throw. He held out his other hand to her.

“You’ve got nothing to fear. I swear I only want to help you,” he said.

The expression on her face was unreadable, and suddenly her face wasn’t there. A burst of smoke had erupted from the engine and engulfed the whole train. Seth saw the girl rush toward him in the haze and he let fly with the snare. The thin cable whipped out into the smoke and caught the flying cloak as it tumbled back into Seth’s face. He staggered back and fell, grappling with the garment. Slipping between the cars, he caught the top of an outer ladder with one hand and swung down to the connecting ledge below. His arm twisted as he landed heavily on the solid steel plate. The tracks rushed past his face only a few feet away.

One of the train officers must have finally pulled the emergency brake at that point, as a great screech sounded down the length of the cars and the train lurched to a slow roll. Seth disentangled himself from the cloak and clambered back up the ladder.

Small plumes of smoke wafted up from the tracks as the train slowed to a standstill on the trestle bridge. Seth looked out at the brightly lit water hundreds of feet below. Of the girl, there was no sign. Did she double back when he fell? Did she jump to the tracks? Seth looked up as the obvious answer presented itself.

A flash of white and gold feathers arced above him, riding an updraft from one of the bridge towers. She soared, oh how she soared, higher than any human could dream. Higher than even the air navy’s frigates would dare. She lifted into the sky to her freedom. Seth watched, captivated, as the primary feathers turned gently in the wind while the alula adjusted for lift, exactly like a bird. Everything about her design was perfect, like an incredibly complex clockwork machine made by a master craftsman, worked only in flesh and bone.

The avian banked left and headed further out across the water toward the darkening skies of Ashworld. Seth looked down at the ragged cloak in his hand.

“Never time to ask a simple question. This time I want answers.”

Rendezvous at the Titanworks

The Imperial Forge sprawled along the eastern bank of the Ishigetta River like a black bruise. The only major manufacturing zone in the Eastern half of the city of Tarsis, the Forge spread its fingers – iron rails, bulbous black pipes, and well-worn access roads – for miles around. Low warehouses and factory bunkers made up the bulk of the grounds, split by rambling rail yards and shipping depots. Guard towers equipped with cannons and experienced soldiers stood watch over the area. While the bulk of the Empire’s civilian manufacturing took place across the river in Ashworld, the Forge formed the central hub of Tarsis’s military plant.

Seth, dressed in his best, most distinguished-looking coat, stepped through the huge slatted doors of the Titanworks. A warm red gust tinged with sulphur and steel aggressively pushed back against the late winter air. Even within the already impressive expanse of the Forge grounds, the facility was enormous. Raucous clanking and the rumble of machinery filled the cavernous space. Three stories of ladders, catwalks and platforms stretching for hundreds of meters formed the framework for vats of molten steel, cast iron molds, endless belts of rolling parts, and great assembly platforms on which perched half-constructed titans.

Seth instructed a rail worker by the door to point him to the factory chief. The man directed Seth toward the back of the building and signaled his arrival to the foreman.

As he walked, Seth saw a series of completed titans loaded on a rail car along the wall to his right. He stopped to have a look at one of the Empire’s crowning technological achievements. Each titan stood four meters high and almost as wide. Its armor plates and many mechanical gears composed a vaguely man-like shape – squat and round, with distinct arms, legs, and a boxy, grated metal lump of a head. The chest plate was opened on three hinges and revealed a cramped, wool-padded interior for a single pilot. The pilot’s arms and legs would operate controls in the shoulders and thighs of the titan, while clockwork gears and levers would drive the beast in a rough caricature of the pilot’s own movements. Seth imagined a marionette dancing awkwardly on strings, swinging a broadsword. The Imperial Seal – the Gauntlet of Tarsis – was emblazoned across the chestplates.

A short man in a round helmet and grubby, oil-stained apron approached. “The chief will see you now, sir,” he shouted over the roar of the factory. Seth nodded and followed him across the main floor where plates of titan armor were laid out for assembly, then up a wide set of stairs to a second story workshop along the back wall.

Seth entered a crowded room stuffed with equipment. He closed the door but the noise did not end. In addition to the dull roar of the factory floor, the sound of an etherflame welder screeched blue lightning only a few meters away. The rumpled, helmeted figure of the factory chief crouched over a piece of armor. Seth waited patiently. After a few moments, the arcs of blue stopped.

The boxy helmet turned. The chief stared at Seth through a square of plate glass.

“So you’re Galen’s new messenger boy,” said a surprisingly pleasant female voice.

Seth looked taken aback. “Yes, Exemplar Yves. I am Seth Delocke.”

The chief set down her torch and walked over. She lifted her helmet. A delicately round, soot-stained face with large, playful eyes looked up at Seth appraisingly. “Helena,” she said with a smile.

A hundred things raced through Seth’s mind at that moment, and he struggled to sort them. Helena Yves was not was he expected. Here was the inventor of one of the most powerful machines in the Imperial service. She was younger than he had thought. Much younger. Certainly older than he, but not by much. She had the pale alabaster skin and small stature of a southlander, but the black hair and accent common to the Ishigetta Plateau. She wore a silver jumpsuit that showed off the bend of her hip quite nicely. Before his thoughts drew him too far down that path, Seth reminded himself that he was not only speaking to a superior officer, but a highly respected figure in the ranks of the Exemplar, a veritable legend in the military. She was also looking up at him with the deepest, darkest blue eyes he had ever seen.

Seth realized that she was looking at him strangely. “What?” he said.

“I said, you can call me Helena, Mr. Delocke.” She walked to a bench and took off her helmet and apron.

Seth recovered. “Oh, thank you. Seth. Please call me Seth.”

“Well, Seth, let’s not waste time. Galen’s letter said you had something to show me, so let’s see it.”

Seth nodded. He pulled a set of small glass goggles from his belt and put them on. He then reached into his coat and withdrew a heavy silver pistol. Similar to the one he had used on the ill-fated assignment in Ashworld, this one was sleeker and more refined, with a wide barrel folded at the end into a narrow nozzle. Finally, he withdrew a vial of blue-tinted ether from his belt and slid it carefully into the cartridge housing.

A large piece of poorly-molded armor plate stood against a workbench across the room. “Is that scrap?” Seth asked. Helena nodded.

Seth took careful aim at the center of the plate and fired. With a high pitched whine, a searing blue beam of light shot from the barrel of the Ethershot pistol Mk. II and struck the armor. Seth traced careful lines across its surface. After five seconds, he stopped firing. Helena raised an eyebrow at the results – delicate grooves cut inches into the metal in precise lines. It would take an etherflame welder, in direct contact with the metal, ten times as long to cut the same groove.

“And once more,” said Seth. He twisted the barrel a quarter turn to the left and released a catch on the grip. He then aimed at the center of the armor. A blast of bright energy leapt from the barrel with an explosive bang. It bent the plate in like a sail in a stiff wind and propelled it across the room to crash against the back wall.

Seth removed his goggles, ejected the empty glass vial from the weapon and handed the gun to Helena. She examined it closely, then walked over to the partially melted remains of the armor plate. Seth did his best not to beam at his own handiwork.

Helena turned the pistol over and over in her hands as she inspected the remains of the steel plate, then turned to Seth with a knowing look. “This isn’t Galen’s invention, is it?” She tapped the pistol lightly in her hands. “The design is all wrong – elegant, focused, direct. And Larkspur would never let something of his slip out before officially presenting it. This is your work.” She moved to stand very close to him.

Seth fought down a swell of pride. “As you know, aspirants and apprentices are not permitted to present new designs to the council,” he said. “For our purposes, Exemplar Larkspur will control the patent of development. That includes sponsoring the construction phase and integrating the schematic with existing projects. Projects such as yours.”

Helena presented him with a stoic, business-like expression which seemed horribly out of place in such close proximity. She had a terrible poker face. Seth had already spotted the twinkle of interest in her eyes. “Explain the offer,” she said simply.

“You are working on the next line of titans, something big by the sound of it, and the command office has been very tight-lipped about the plans. If you were to, say, invite certain others to help you develop them, this new weapon could find its way into the design.”

“Interesting,” she said. Business gave way to coyness. “And if I were to bring such a person in, you would of course require extensive working knowledge of the project.”

“Intimate knowledge,” he said.

Helena took his hand and placed the pistol in it. She left her own hand there much longer than necessary. “I think we may be able to work something out, Seth.”

Seth smiled broadly. For the first time, he seriously considered the many advantages in the practical application of politics.

March of the Steam Titans

The Draiocht were victorious in battle. Even as their fallen brethren were lifted up by the ancestor spirits to begin their journey to the sacred places, the surviving warriors disappeared into the forest to bind their wounds and regroup. The weapons of the city-men had been powerful, but unguided by the spirits they were no match for the fury of the Draiocht.

Kulain nursed his wounded shoulder as he made his way stealthily back through the forest. Blackened blood mixed with dirt and sweat caked the long brown hair near his neck and soiled his hide tunic. He had backtracked through the woods for a day and a half to reach the rendezvous point and had yet to stop to clean himself. He risked the blood-poison, he knew, but the need to reunite with his brothers was too great to delay.

The evening grew colder as Kulain crested a green rise and spotted the carefully-concealed shelters of the clan. They would be invisible to all but the most trained hunter. The camp was quiet. There was movement and light in the wooded basin to the north of the tents. He made his way toward the small clearing where the clan leaders would meet to plan.

Kulain stepped lightly into the sage’s circle, a barely audible rustle the only sign of his passage through the dense underbrush. Twenty warriors were gathered there around the bowed, hooded figure of Hamedin, the ancient seer who had guided them across the mountains. Pungent white smoke arose from a tiny stone vessel on the ground before him. Several nodded a welcome in his direction, but all attention was on the sage.

Kulain felt the soft breath of the spirits drift through the clearing. He had expected to see his brothers-in-arms celebrating their victory with dancing and sacrifice, but instead they stood around the ritual fire in silence. The Draiocht shuffled about restlessly. Something was wrong. The eldest war leader, Thoric, stood before Hamedin.

“What do the spirits say, old one?” he asked. “Why are they not triumphant? Why may we not celebrate our success?”

The old man swayed against his gnarled walking staff, his sightless eyes twisting about in the growing twilight. Kulain and the rest of the men felt the spirits stir. A cold breeze rattled through the treetops.

“The ancestors are pleased,” rasped the sage, “but the animals are restless. They sense a new presence in the mountains.” Hamedin dropped to his knees and began to draw runes in the dirt. “It is not of the world, but something of man. It is… dangerous.”

The smoke from the ritual fire swirled in a sudden gust of wind. With the ingrained skills of a Draiocht warrior, Kulain instantly saw the signs in the forest that bespoke danger – small animals scurried for shelter, insects quieted, flights of birds burst noisily from the trees and flew west. The others felt it, too, and then they felt a rhythmic thumping rumble through the woods.

“Something approaches!” Hamedin’s eyes widened, the milky-white orbs strained at some unseen vision. “The spirits, they flee!”

“To battle!” cried Thoric. The warriors drew their weapons and rushed back to the camp. Thoric pushed Hamedin into the hands of one of the scouts and ordered him to take cover, and then he joined his brethren. Kulain, his own wounds forgotten, ran to take his position at the defense of the camp.

Atop the rise, the defenders concealed themselves in the forest and awaited the enemy. The sound of distant thunder rolled in with the gloom like an approaching storm, but came up from the ground instead of echoing from the sky. Kulain felt the earth beneath him pound as if struck over and over with a blacksmith’s hammer. The trees before him rocked and swayed, and in the distance, they began to fall. Whatever vexed the spirits now charged at them, laying the very trees to waste as it came.

Twenty yards in front of Kulain, young Ferdin the hunter stood and began unleashing arrows at the form advancing toward them. Faster then Kulain could have imagined, a black monster, twice the height of the tallest warrior and reeking of smoke, erupted from the trees and slashed at Ferdin. The distance of the strike seemed impossible, but the hunter’s body collapsed upon the giant silver blade like a delicate fern. The monster tossed Ferdin away easily, drawing back a crimson-coated blade that glistened in the evening light.

Ferdin’s body landed only steps from Kulain, and the young warrior instinctively leapt to his ally’s side, but the results of the terrible blow were obvious. The boy’s body was shattered and his eyes were dark. Kulain sucked down his rising bile and turned a hate-filled gaze upon the giant, which he now saw clearly as it bore down on him.

The thing was man-shaped, but towered twice again as wide and tall as any man. It wore bulbous metal armor on its chest, arms and legs, and metal gears of improbable design jutted from its joints in baroque fashion. The head was low and squat on the shoulders with blackened slats for eyes, and where the mouth should have been there was a sharp sloping guard piece like the front catchers on the city-men’s trains. Impossibly huge hands with thick clockwork fingers clicked and clattered, while the rumbling engine on its back belched fire and smoke into the trees. Kulain judged it to be the size of a ritual standing stone, but it moved with the speed of a cat. Now it moved toward him.

With a cry that was half fear and half rage he charged the Titan, spear held high, but one mighty sweep of a mechanical hand was all it took to send him flying. The breath exploded from his lungs as he felt ribs crack and blood spew from his lips. He struck the ground and the underbrush closed around him with scratching fingers.

The Titan moved on with loud sickening footsteps, but Kulain lay broken on the forest floor. His eyes searched for his brothers in the dim light of the evening. Through the canopy of leaves that surrounded him, he caught glimpses of other warriors battling the monsters. Screams filled the night as giant silver blades felled trees and warriors with equal ferocity. Kulain saw a fleeting image of Thoric held aloft by one of the beasts. His midsection was crushed by one huge metal hand as he battered the wide head with his sword. The blade rang out against the steel armor ineffectually. He died shouting to the ancestors for revenge. Kulain silently joined the cry.

Others ran before the onslaught, and Kulain saw a glimmer of flame spread through the camp. He lifted himself painfully to his knees and saw one of the Titans holding a large horn-shaped pipe. Fire spewed from its mouth and licked at the trees. The blue twilight quickly gave way to the angry red light of a raging forest fire.

Kulain stood on aching, wobbly legs and began to stumble away from the carnage. To run from battle was a disgrace, but he had no presence of mind to remember the laws of the ancestors. The spirits had left them to die, and the only strength left to him was the feral instinct for survival. He stumbled, tripping over the body of Ferdin, and then he ran. The Draiocht ran for what seemed like forever. He ran west, seeking the safety and comfort of his homeland.

Across the Highgreen Mountains, other camps and other clans found the same fate as Kulain and his brothers. Black smoke and the screams of the fearless heralded nightfall on the tribes of the Draiocht – and a new dawn for the forces of Tarsis.

Field Report: The Highgreen

Captain Garret Fremont
Commander, Imperial Rail Authority construction unit 1

The Emperor has made his will clear – the pacification of the Highgreen mountain region northwest of Tarsis is of the utmost importance to the safety and prosperity of the Empire. All who work in these camps, driving home spikes and laying steel every day, understand the vital nature of their work, and all would give their lives willingly in service to the Emperor. Indeed, many have.

It is with great pain and profound distress that I must report, then, on the continued delays and losses we suffer at the hands of the savages. The local tribal men have plagued our efforts for the past three seasons and continue to take every opportunity to hamper the construction of the Great Northern Railway.

First, as this document will no doubt pass through several pairs of hands, many of those who are unfamiliar with the ongoing struggle here, I shall provide some background on the topography of the region.

The Highgreen officially encompasses the entire of three mountain ranges stretched along the northwestern coast from Cape Ios in the south to the tip of the Horn of Halfarim in the north. Beyond the rolling foothills that border the Ishigetta Plateau here in the central highlands lie some of the most treacherous terrain ever traversed by the Imperial Explorators. The forests grow thick about craggy ridges and jutting cliffs, and rock falls are common in most of the more navigable passes. Even in the foothills, peculiarly heavy undergrowth, difficult to clear, hampers construction and travel each spring.

On the far coast, the mountains tower above a narrow stretch of plains and sparse woodlands suitable for farming. We believe this region to be the homeland of these barbaric “Draiocht” who have set themselves against us. Though we are many miles from their supposed home, they have driven themselves across the harsh terrain to face us here, on the edge of Imperial lands.

I have submitted regular reports to the Rail Authority central office detailing the raids they frequently mount against us. Losses have been high. They lay in wait for days, blending perfectly with the forests while our patrols trudge through the hillsides. Then they strike with spears and swords, with flights of arrows from unseen switchbacks. Our troops are too thinly spread to defend the entire Northern Railway, and we often find ruined and twisted track and spikes pulled from the ground along the construction route.

They are utterly fearless. They shadow our patrols for miles, and then erupt around them in ferocious packs of painted warriors. They lead our cavalry on wild chases through the woodlands while their compatriots strike our work camps, slaughter the labor and make off with much-needed supplies. They melt back into the wilderness like ghosts, as if possessing some preternatural command over the forests.

Yesterday morning, the savages attacked the operations camp in broad daylight. They came down from the hills in waves during the morning shift change, their bodies clad only in wild furs and scraps of leather. They did not even unleash their archers; they simply crashed upon us in a wave of sword and screams. We killed many dozens, but lost many in return. Two of our three steam shovels are damaged beyond repair, and our medical tent is burned.

Know that I am forever a faithful servant of the Empire. I shall continue to command my men here, and they shall serve well, as they already have. I shall defend this operation to my death, as I have sworn.

But we desperately need more forces. My men are demoralized.

They are bleeding.

The arm of Tarsis can defeat the strength of any foe so long as the will is strong, but will is only the beginning! We need men! We need weapons and medicine! We need-


A steam whistle sounded, and the rumble and squeal of metal announced the arrival of the Tarsian supply train. The Captain looked at the wobbly strokes of his last sentence and gripped the pen tightly. Ink dribbled onto the page in tiny specks.

There were footsteps, and a young corporal poked his head through the canvas tent flap. “Sir, train inbound, with riders.”

Fremont set down his pen, stood, and picked up his tattered officer’s cap. Nodding to the corporal, he took a moment to brush the worst of the dirt from his tunic. The blood of a dead lieutenant still stained most of the front.

Captain Fremont emerged from his tent with an uncharacteristic heaviness. He looked across the dusty remains of the construction site as workmen and soldiers scrambled to unload the supply train – a black, steel boxy monstrosity that seemed to drive the newly-laid rails deep into the dirt. The young soldier stood nearby, his uniform scuffed and bloody, awaiting his captain’s orders.

“How do you defeat a fearless enemy, Corporal?” said Captain Fremont, looking at the unusual boxcars that now graced his camp. The young man blinked at him, then tried to stammer a response.

“You put the fear into him.” said a woman’s voice. Fremont turned and saw the voice’s owner approaching on horseback. Her face, framed by short locks of straight black hair, was youngish, but her bearing spoke of experience. She wore the long coat and silver epaulettes of an Exemplar. Captain Fremont and the corporal immediately saluted.

“You put the fear into him, and he will defeat himself.” she said, dismounting.

Captain Fremont’s back stiffened. Bloody, bruised, broken, or on his deathbed, he was still an officer of the Empire. “Madam Exemplar, you honor us with your presence,” he said. “We weren’t expecting a visit from such a high command. As you can see, we’re recovering from an attack.”

“Relax, Captain, I am well aware of your situation. I am Exemplar Helena Yves. And I will be taking temporary command of this position to oversee the deployment of your new forces.”

“Forces?” Fremont looked at the supply train. He saw crates and storage cars, but no troop carriers. Two of the workers near the front of the train opened the doors to one of the strange black compartments and the panels fell to the ground, forming a ramp. Something – something large – stepped out onto the gangway with a metal clank. It reached the ground and another lumbering form followed. And another.

Captain Fremont boggled at the monstrous armored things stepping down into his camp.

“I think you will find them very, very effective, Captain.”

A Mentor's Counsel

Seth wondered at the size of the Council hall. A great circular chamber surrounded him, encased him like a protective shell. The many elegant rolling forms of folded metal on the walls and ceiling, lit by unseen lamps, gave the chamber an ethereal glow, a solemn holy property. But standing on a balcony overlooking the podium set in the center, Seth felt exposed, as if perched on the lip of a vast canyon.

The canyon was filled with Exemplar – the greater part of a thousand of the most powerful figures in Tarsis – and their various students, assistants, and wards. Seth made his way through the milling press of black coats and clockwork accessories to the front of the balcony where Gavin Larkspur waited.

“Seth, my boy, good to see you!” said Larkspur as he stood to shake Seth’s hand.

“And you, sir.” Seth grinned, took the hand firmly, and they both sat. The view of the hall was perfect. The entire contents of the hall, save the seating section directly behind them, were encapsulated in one panoramic view. The normally stoic Seth actually felt dizzy.

Larkspur said, “I read the performance review on your trip to the Industrial Sector. Interesting business. “

Seth snapped back to the attention of his instructor. “Yes sir, but not successful. I let the terrorists escape and caused a significant amount of damage to a refinery.”

“And yet the review board didn’t punish you.”

“No sir, just a performance recommendation and an order for continual reports on the Ethershot project. They were very easy on me.”

“Indeed they were.” Larkspur sat back and watched as the Council meeting began to unfold.

Seth thought it best to do likewise and settled in to listen to the speech beginning on the center podium below. He had been to a handful of Council meetings before and they bored him. The flood of empty talk, posturing and logical fallacies that infested each debate irritated every fiber, every humour in his body.

This speech was at least mildly engaging. Exemplar Therin, a graying, matronly woman with ornate brass spectacles, shared her concern over the disproportionate lack of female instructors in key positions at the academy. She seemed quite put out.

Larkspur said suddenly, “Why?”

Seth, shaken out of the drowsy lecture, turned to him. “What?”

“Why do you suppose they were easy on you?” Larkspur said quietly. He sat low in his chair with his arms crossed, looking just as bored as Seth felt. But the seriousness of his eyes hinted at machinations at work.

“The Ethershot project has them interested. It could be a great boon to the Empire. Exemplars Aries and Balthar were adamant that I keep them updated. It wouldn’t be the first time someone looked the other way from a transgression to promote a higher agenda.”

Larkspur lifted a finger. “Ah, but what agenda? Don’t be so quick to dismiss the aspirations of others as none of your concern. Look out there.” He gestured to the assembly. “What do you see?”

Seth looked. He saw Exemplar. Some lesser ranking Technologists like himself. Some discrete messengers filing in and out, conveying the mid-meeting business of their masters.

As Seth looked, Larkspur answered. “You see a hundred side conversations exactly like the one we’re having now. Across the way, an aide to the Minister of Justice is convincing a member of the Border Defense Force to promote the son of an influential merchant.” Seth’s eyes followed Larkspur’s words. “Near the podium there’s a member of the Imperial Guardians chatting up a rival in the Swords of Tarsis – he’s trying to gauge the man’s next military acquisition. And just above that and to the left who do you see?”

Seth saw the grey-headed, rounded shape of Exemplar Balthar speaking to another Blackcoat – a fierce looking man with a shaved head and wearing a heavy metal mantle.

“Balthar is speaking to Quartermaster Elan of the Clockwork Union. He smells a handy power source in your new weapon that he thinks he can use to barter for influence. We’ll correct him of that notion of course.” Larkspur looked at Seth with a wry smile. “And just above us far to the right, you’ll see old Aries.”

Seth looked. The hawkish aspect of Exemplar Aries gazed down into the chamber from the railing. A captain in the Imperial Air Navy stood next to him.

“Aries would like to build a new fleet of Exemplar supported airships and he’s looking for weapons to hang from them. If you can get the weight of your design down a few notches that might be a decent idea, actually,” Larkspur said thoughtfully.

Seth tried not to boggle. Instead he turned to Gavin and asked delicately, “pardon me, sir, but how do you know all this?”

Larkspur smiled. “I listen. Not just here, but everywhere I go. And I remember. No one cares about speeches and public posturing, my boy. All the important decisions are made far away from this room. What we Exemplar do here is play our cards in the background and maneuver towards our goals.”

Seth really did boggle this time. He had already witnessed a dozen major policy decisions made, seemingly in earnest, in this hall. “So the decisions and the talks on the Council floor, they have no real purpose?” He gestured to the woman below. “She’s seems awfully passionate about this fairness in post assignments thing.”

Larkspur made an indignant sound. “Magda Therin and her Sisterhood. Always on about some rubbish to do with the academy or women in major Council posts. If she spent a tenth of the time in a lab working on formula as she does whining about the travails of her sex, she’d be respected as an Exemplar in her own right. The whole movement is a drain on the Council’s resources and time.”

“She makes some good points, though,” said Seth. He realized he’d been contradicting his instructor a lot recently. He wondered if Gavin had a limit on that kind of familiarity. From the look on his face, he just might.

“Does she now?” said Larkspur after a long moment. It was not a rhetorical question.

Seth responded, “These are minor issues she brings up, but they are worth dealing with – maybe by opening up some minor posts on the academy board. Better to address them now rather than let her concerns fester into a political wound. It strikes me that politics is about giving people the appearance of what they want to keep them quiet. Otherwise it’s just a drain on our priorities.”

“So, one lesson and you fancy yourself a politico now, Mr. Delocke?” said Larkspur. Seth felt one of the Exemplar’s many traps begin to close. “Excellent, then I have a job for you.”

Ethershot

The gas refinery smelled worse than the chemical plant. Noxious vapors surrounded the towering steel tanks of Rig 27. They oozed along the ground between the evenly-placed structures and dripped from the catwalks snaking across the tops from tank to tank. Pipes, some as tall as a man, ran about the facility in knots – vital threads in the metallic tapestry of Tarsis. They arrived out of the tangle with only a serial code painted on the side to identify their contents, fixed themselves to the giant machinery of the refinery, then carried steam, gas, water and waste to parts unknown.

Seth and Roland made their cautious way down the center walkway of the refinery, checking side passages and stairwells for signs of unauthorized personnel. Technically there should only be Imperial workers on the rig, but the porous nature of the facility’s perimeter and the closeness of Ashworld made it impossible to prevent squatters or criminals from hiding out in the many alcoves of the structure. This was an old problem for the lieutenant’s forces.

Roland held a standard two-barrel cartridge pistol and officer’s saber as he crept along the steel canyon floor. “According to the foreman the platform near the sewer outlet is closed for repairs. Look for signs of squatters – equipment piles, stray boards or garbage. We get them in here all the time. What’s that you’ve got there?”

Seth had unhooked an odd looking pistol from his belt. It had a straight grip and large cartridge housing much bigger than normal. The barrel was stubby and wide, with a large bell shape to the end. The weapon was entirely grey and looked heavy in Seth’s hands.

“A prototype I’ve been working on,” said the Technologist. “Seemed a good opportunity to test it out.”

“Well, be careful what you shoot at. Pierce one of these tanks and that hairy stain back at the plant will look a Hell of a lot better than us. Here, you take that passage there and I’ll check the catwalk.”

Seth nodded his understanding and watched as Roland sheathed his sword and began climbing steps to the scaffold above. The Technologist turned and began making his way down the narrow walkway Roland had indicated. It was strewn with small piles of fallen snow and stacks of construction materials.

He quickly found that Roland had directed him into a frustrating maze of industrial corridors. Branching paths through the machinery forced him under overhead pipes or over stacks of wood or metal drums. Just when he though he had found a route back to the main walkway, the path would turn sharply or simply end in a wall of pipes and equipment.

As he explored, Seth wondered what kind of person would choose to scrounge in the depths of the Ashworld machinery. The concept of a squatter was alien, even offensive. All citizens of Tarsis were expected to serve the Empire with whatever resources they could bring to bear. For their service they would be rewarded. To think that societal leeches would affix themselves to the most rotten, filthy part of the city made no sense.

But, Seth reminded himself, these were not just squatters they were hunting, but criminals and terrorists allied with Tarsis’s enemies. For them, he imagined, a little discomfort was a small price to pay for the opportunity to wage war on the city.

Finally he found the sewer output trough – a foul trench of gurgling water that ran beneath a series of grates along the northern edge of the refinery. Across the sluice he found a series of ladders leading up to the many catwalks above. From here he could see Roland walking across the tanks. He signaled and Roland began moving toward him.

Towards the edge of the compound, Seth found a tight passage between storage containers. The snow around them was trampled down and marked with footprints. Behind the containers stood a creaky wall up upright planks – castoffs from construction. Slushy footprints littered the ground.

Seth kicked down the makeshift wall in a splintering mess and stepped out onto a wide stone platform. It was surrounded on all sides by a low brick wall and the towering frameworks of half-constructed buildings and empty vats. Arranged on the ground in a semicircle were a series of leaky tents and wooden crates. Seth approached carefully. The place had been deserted quickly. Some of the tents had collapsed and the crates split open. Rotten food lay in scraps around an oil drum in the center of the camp. Seth could smell the remains of a recently extinguished fire in the air, although the smoke had long since cleared.

He knelt next to a crate and inspected its contents – sacks of gunpowder, now soaked through by melting snow.

Roland stepped through the shattered entrance, pistol drawn. “What have you found?”

“This is where they were holed up, though they’re gone now. It must have been just after the bombing – they were in a hurry.”

Roland scanned the surrounding buildings. They were little more than metal skeletons with wooden planks for floors. Cloaked in shadows, their bulk allowed only dim, diffuse light to reach the clearing. Something about them bothered the lieutenant.

Roland looked at the building directly behind Seth and took a step forward. Piles of equipment and materials formed shadowy forms along the edge of the second floor. One of the shadows stood. It aimed a crossbow into the yard below.

“Get down!”

Roland caught Seth in a running tackle, driving him to the ground just as a heavy crossbow bolt crashed into the crate the Technologist had been inspecting. Wet gunpowder and pieces of wood scattered in all directions. Roland recovered and fired his pistol at the shadow above, but heard the slug ricochet off metal. Seth rolled out from under his friend, coming up on one knee. The shadow dashed along the second floor of the structure. Seth raised his pistol, took aim at the receding figure, and squeezed the trigger. The gun made a delayed click.

The explosion sounded like shrieking thunder – like tearing a hole in the world. Blue light flared from the barrel of the weapon, filling Seth’s entire vision, forcing him to close his eyes. A bone-jarring shockwave threw him backwards across the clearing, his back scraping the stone ground. Later, when asked to recall the event before his superiors, Seth would compare the blast to a lightning strike at close proximity, but that description could not do justice to the chilling force that seemed to rip through his body as if it were wind through parchment.

Seth waited a few moments before opening his eyes. His head swam and his ears rang as the echo of the blast faded in the distance. He blinked away the afterimage of flickering red streaks. Struggling to his feet, his bones ached, his muscles protested. Seth rubbed his eyes until vision slowly returned.

Two of the tents were gone. The low wall across the far side of the platform was gone. The first two stories of the steel framework were a tangled wreck for at least twenty meters back. The blaze of blue light had annihilated everything it stuck. A whiff of ozone filled the air.

“Roland?” Seth called out into the haze. Roland answered with a cough and a swear. Seth saw him rolling on the ground a few meters to his right. He stumbled over to him.

“Roland, are you all right?”

The lieutenant sat up. “No, I’m not bloody all right!” He coughed again. “Are you trying to kill me? What was that?”

Seth looked down to see that he still had the pistol in his hand. The barrel had split open in a black ragged mess. The housing was punched through with hundreds of tiny holes. It felt much lighter than it had before.

“I call… called it an Ethershot pistol.” Seth tried his best to look sheepish. “It needs work.”

Roland stared at him. “Oh does it?”

A low groan filled the air. The two looked up to see the building in front of them begin to sway. Supports buckled, floors collapsed. Rivets tore from their foundations in a screaming cacophony of metal, and the whole structure fell in upon itself in a spectacular wreck. The two men simply watched as a cloud of dust and soot swelled before them.

Just before the cloud overtook them, Roland leaned over to Seth, saying, “You understand I am not going to be the one explaining this to the Captain.”

The Gentleman and the Officer

A light peppering of soot and ash covered the snow, leaving a pock-marked, barren crust across the city street, broken by great cracks of white and milling slushy footprints. The air was crisp, cold and, for the moment, clear of the usual black clouds that lay their sediment on the fallen snow. A rare moment of clarity in the normally darkened sky of Ashworld.

Ashworld was the colloquial term for the western industrial sector of Tarsis – a place Seth had no real desire to visit at any time, clear sky or no. Ashworld reeked of sulfur, soot, and even less pleasant odors. The smell swirled up out of vats and boiler fires, from the bowels of the pipes and sewers below, up through chimneys that grew from every building. It lingered in the narrow passageways between scaffolding and railway supports, tumbled into shops as doors opened, then seeped back down through grates and cracked windows until the whole sector was awash in the same uniform stench. Its particular strength and flavor might vary from door to door, but the distinctive vapor allowed no one to escape its bouquet.

No one desired to visit Ashworld, but the hardy city denizens here formed the backbone of the massive Tarsis industrial machine. Seth pointedly reminded himself of that on the train ride in, but knowledge of the fact had done nothing to diminish his gag reflex.

Seth examined the broken pipes and shattered brick walls that tumbled down into the alley before him. A jagged hole the size of a freight train exposed the rear rooms of a chemical plant a few meters away, allowing the building’s noxious contents to spill out into the blasted pit of the alleyway. Workers clamored about on the wreckage above, testing the damaged structure and shoring up its supports. Directly in front of Seth the remains of steel girders, catwalks, and an unfortunate saboteur littered the ground – a mass of pulpy red chemicals, bone, and charred metal.

Sucking in a breath, Seth knelt next to the body and examined the covering of short fur on its ragged arm. Kait fur.

“Seems I always get to meet you after it’s too late to ask questions,” he said ruefully. He withdrew a small vial and metal tool from his coat and scraped some dried sediment from the hairs on the Kait’s paw-like hand.

A hand landed firmly on Seth’s shoulder, followed by the rumble of a watchman’s voice. “Please step back, citizen. This is a restricted area.”

Seth rose with a scowl. His Technologist long coat, though less ornate than the Exemplar’s finery, was unmistakable. The guardsman would have to be a blind man or a fool to challenge someone of Seth’s station here. He swung around, preparing to let loose a wave of vindictive authority on the idiot, but as he came up to meet the man’s ruddy face, Seth’s scowl evaporated.

“Wouldn’t want to have to toss you in the drunkard’s stall tonight, eh?” said the guard.

“Roland!”

“Morning, Princess.”

All smiles, the two men shared a slappy hug. Seth then held the guardsman at arms length, looked his old schoolmate up and down. Lieutenant Roland Brandeis was a hearty brute of a soldier not more than a hair shorter than Seth himself. He had a square, slightly off-center jaw from one too many tavern brawls and a round, ogreish nose. One might mistake his fierce appearance for that of a dimwitted strong-arm, but Seth knew from experience that a keen analytical mind lurked behind that grit-covered face – one that had bested him at the academy more times than he liked to admit.

“Damn me, Rol, I didn’t know you were stationed here. You look like hell.” Seth brushed his hand across the front of the guardsman’s jacket. Roland was dressed in soot with a crisp city officer’s uniform somewhere beneath the grime.

“Give it an hour, and you’ll look the same. Not much point in keeping your shirt clean when the sky is just going to shit all over it next shift, eh?” Roland slapped Seth on the back as they walked over to the horse-drawn cart that served as the Technologist’s mobile laboratory. Roland leaned against one of the ornate steel wheels as Seth set down his sample vial on the tailgate.

“I got word a few hours ago that they were sending some royalty down to help with the bombing, but I never thought the Princess herself would pay us a visit.” Roland’s wide grin seemed to fill more of his face than was physically possible, as if he had done some renovations to make room for it.

Ignoring the old insult, Seth opened the vial and tapped the contents into a variety of beakers and decanters on the cart. “I go where I’m called. Besides, they keep me walled up in the citadel most of the time – it’s good to get out in the field. I hear you grunts have been having some trouble down here with these insurgents.” Seth nodded towards the bloody mess in the alley.

“We get a fair share of excitement. The critters have some serious hatred for the machinery, and there are more than a few sympathizers figure they can get lost in the piping and the mazes here. But there isn’t much they can damage, even less to steal. Mostly I just patch leaky pipes and bust up fights between the steamwrights.”

“Sounds like exactly your kind of fun,” said Seth dryly. He dropped some clear steaming liquid into the vials before him and watched as it boiled away at the samples inside. Roland watched and continued.

“They need technical people down here, so ex-academy types are in demand. It’s good work with extra pay, and it’s only temporary. I can’t complain. Now Deidre, she gives me an earful every time I leave a footprint on the rug or a ring in the basin. They say Ashworld can kill a man, but frankly, I’m more worried about my wife getting to it first.” Roland watched as the liquid in Seth’s vials turned various colors.

“What you got there?”

Seth withdrew a particular vial – one with a light green tint to the liquid – and held it up to the dim light of the Ashworld sky. He tapped the side thoughtfully.

“Is there a gas refinery with its own sewer outlet near here?”

Roland thought for a moment. “Rig 27 has all its own ductwork, very leaky, about 3 avenues over. Why?”

Seth pointed to the dead Kait with the vial and then dropped it back into the rack. “I think our unfortunate friend has been spending some time down there. Shall we take a look?”

“All right, but you get to explain to Deidre why I smell like a steamwright’s shorts when we finish.”

“What’s to explain? You always smell like that.”

III. Oasis

The threads of space-time stretched and compressed along a straight, infinitesimally small section of the universe, and a ship emerged from the resulting ripple. The silver streak flared across the heavens as it decelerated, energy from the craft’s massive String Drives bleeding off in the form of harmless blue light. It coasted silently through the void, glittering starlight reflecting off the hull, dust particles rebounding off its graviton field, and finally settled into a lazy twelve-million-year orbit around a massive proto-stellar cloud known in these parts as The Spin.

“Katherine, we have dropped below relative speeds. It is now safe to move about the cabin.”

Katherine Freestar awoke to the warm blue glow of the acceleration couch and tapped the clear plastic controls on the panel in front of her. Pumps whirred to life and drained the compressed fluid from around her body. The hatch dropped away and she stepped lightly onto the soft rubber floor of the habitat. A mechanical arm dropped from the ceiling, offering her a towel. She took it and began drying off.

“Thanks M.G. Give me a status report,” she said as she buffed the water out of her hair.

“We are currently in long form orbit around a class 3 singularity formation charted on string P12-009 along the Pollux route. Our specific coordinates are uncharted; however I am detecting ample amounts of materials appropriate for refueling within 200 microseconds.”

“Sounds good. Plot a tracking course through the best local concentration and fire up the short range drives.” Kat spoke to a small dome in the ceiling above her, where three camera lenses of shifting colors followed her motions. She tossed the towel onto a nearby hook and grabbed the jumpsuit descending on a helpful metal arm.

“Acknowledged, Katherine. And on a personal note, I would like to point out that had we remained on Polluxtown until our scheduled departure time, we would not need to stop for refueling now.” M.G.’s voice was pleasant and professional, but rattled with the dull metallic annoyance of an unheeded computer. He watched passively as Kat dressed quickly and headed for the ladder to the control deck.

“If we had waited until the ‘scheduled departure,’ Wytt would have me trussed up and ready for the Starcorps tribunal and you’d be leaving by yourself, M.G. And then who would take care of you?” Kat stretched her long legs as she bounded up the narrow passageway in .2 gees. Another multicolored dome awaited her on the control deck.

“I am programmed for self-maintenance, but not for command structure simulation, Katherine. I would literally be lost without you.” M.G.’s lenses flickered.

“Aw, sweetie, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Kat ran her fingers across the silver surface of M.G.’s sensor dome as she sidled into the pilot’s harness. His lenses flared red for a moment then settled back into their regular pattern.

“All systems ready?”

“Course plotted. Graviton field generating. Sublight thrusters engaged. Collection units on standby.”

“Okay, baby, let’s get you a drink.”

Katherine placed a firm hand on the thruster controls and kicked hard on the accelerator. The Mustang Gemini shuddered as its overpowered rockets fired white hot plumes and drove the ship headlong into the ancient stellar matter below. Flashing dust motes streaked past the silver hull as Katherine twisted and tweaked her way into the voluminous cloud. Within moments they entered a dense debris field. Sparkling diamonds mingled with grey metal shards as they shattered against the ship’s graviton field or were dragged into its wash.

Anyone listening on wideband at that moment would hear a shriek of joy as Kat barreled past rocks the size of small planets and through cloud passages little bigger than the ship itself. Particles of dust, some mere microns across, others the size of your fist, swirled about the ship until they became caught up in the gravity field projected around the great String Drives. There they hovered and became swept along with the Mustang Gemini as it caromed along a winding path.

For minutes without measure to an adrenaline-powered human, but all too many for an intelligent ship thrust bodily into harm’s way, the Mustang Gemini danced through the heavens, surrounded on all sides by disaster. Katherine finally reached the end of the plotted course and tweaked the ship out into open space once again, but dragging several hundred tons of interstellar matter along behind. She maneuvered into a slow holding pattern and corralled the rocks and dust into a more or less stable field about the ship before turning the controls over to the computer.

“Send the bots out and see what we’ve roped, M.G.”

“Right away, Katherine. Your enthusiasm makes me wonder if you do not prefer this dangerous type of fuel collection to the more sedate dockside routine.”

Kat smiled and watched through the monitors as dozens of tiny automatons emerged from the flanks of the ship to investigate the day’s catch. The readouts spit back an inventory of precious metals, iron, nickel, and ice crystals. There was enough raw mass for energy conversion in this haul alone, and enough rare minerals to make this a worthy charting mission as well. Any colony mining concern would pay a decent sum for these coordinates. Kat patted the controls affectionately.

“Good haul, M.G. Get the bots secured as soon as you’re done and start lining up for a String Jump to Sutter’s Gate.”

Kat started to undo the complicated system of belts that held her in place, but before she could extricate herself from the pilot’s harness, a soft klaxon sounded from the navigation screen.

“Katherine I am detecting another String Drive signature in close proximity.”

Kat used a finger to drag the holographic display directly in front of her. Sure enough, less than 5 milliseconds away, on the far side of a dust belt, was another ship circling The Spin. Swearing softly, she re-buckled herself into the harness.

“Let’s hope they consider this a public watering hole.”

///PREV