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Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

The Trial of Bernadette Fabrique


 
Historians in their infinite hindsight love to imagine what it might’ve been like sitting in that courtroom. Nostalgia gives them the opportunity to speculate on the accusations and tearful testimony, discreetly trimming away less passionate portions. Yet that spring lost in a whirlwind of Parisian law deserves to be remembered fully. The entire life of Bernadette Fabrique — not just her trial — deserves to be remembered.

Mlle. Fabrique’s girlhood was spent comfortably, despite what conventional wisdom insists. Her governess wasn’t abusive, her walks through the city were always chaperoned, and her behavior during social events was impeccable. The fact that at sixteen she was kidnapped from her bed by a mutant beast gestated in an undersea laboratory which took her skin and assumed her life, mattered only to the former Bernadette Fabrique. Nobody noticed the difference, and destiny continued its dreamlike course.

When she came of age to be courted, innumerable suitors emerged. All were educated, and none were psychopaths or perverts, no matter what scandals the disreputable newspapers of the time concocted. Among the gentlemen who sought Mlle. Fabrique’s favor, Louis Gagnon came the closest when he invited her to a performance of Massenet’s Manon. It has been speculated that if their dalliance had lasted past intermission, they might one day have married; the fact remains that it didn’t. Perhaps M. Gagnon leaned in for a kiss. He may have said something salacious. What provoked the incident is lost, but none dispute that Mlle. Fabrique responded by shedding her human costume, rising to her full height with fangs bared, and chasing Louis Gagnon through the Opera-Comique until five battalions of police managed to restrain her just as she cornered him on the roof.

What followed became the decade’s greatest miscarriage of justice. Barely allowed to retrieve her skin, Mlle. Fabrique was paraded through the court as a fiend. Women fought to claim seats in the gallery merely for a chance to faint at the sight of the accused. In addition to the Opera-Comique’s extensive damage, charges were brought against Mlle. Fabrique for the injuries suffered by M. Gagnon, despite the fact that she didn’t actually catch him.

The name and record of this young woman would inevitably be ruined no matter what decision the jury returned. How could such a fair beauty return to her roseate life after being described as “A monstrosity without remorse, built by corrupted minds for the explicit purpose of destruction”? Prosecutors chose to dwell on the havoc of a lone incident, ignoring years of demure behavior that preceded it. For the crime of being an independent woman, and also an amphibious, eight-limbed creature, Bernadette Fabrique bore her torment with saintly patience.

And after dozens of witnesses, a prosecution hell-bent on character assassination, and the moving, if superficial testimony of M. Gagnon shortly before he lapsed into a presumably unrelated coma, it’s understandable that the jury was compelled to declare Mlle. Fabrique guilty on all counts. The defendant’s decision to pounce at the jury, sending a packed courtroom fleeing is equally understandable. Obviously, Mlle. Fabrique had no right to bear society’s scorn, nor should she have been held responsible for the carnage that followed the reading of her verdict. Who could blame someone facing execution for tearing the city apart building by building? If anything, it’s astounding that this young woman had the strength to rip through masonry that withstood centuries. Is it so unfair that Paris had to crumble in order to afford Mlle. Fabrique the chance to vent her frustration?

Bernadette Fabrique was a complex person, like countless others who grew up in an era with no tolerance for spirited souls. Her escape and subsequent rampage have yet to overshadow the example she left behind. Louis Gagnon never awoke from his coma, though he must have been remorseful for the part he played in her defamation. The Opera-Comique was rebuilt along with the rest of Paris, and the world moved on.

Strangely enough, Bernadette’s parents claimed that one morning, years after their daughter’s departure, a parcel was left at the front door. Carefully folded inside was Mlle. Fabrique’s skin, pristine and unblemished. The authorities denied ever bringing such a package to the Fabrique estate.

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Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

Kuiper Court

“Welcome to the United Worlds Judicature. Kuiper Courts of Health are administered and regulated by the Solarian laws of the Ministry of Health and Longevity. Please note that all our sessions are recorded and may be accessed by the allocated attorneys in your trial.”

I stared quietly at the hologram of the young woman standing in front of me. She didn’t look old enough to be conducting a hearing. She was dressed more like a sales representative than an adjudicator: a sharply ironed white shirt, and a tight grey skirt skimming her knees. Even the golden stripes on her collar failed to convey authority; they were more like stylish accessories on her.

I felt irritated by the Ministry adopting a youthful image in every possible department. A ministry wasn’t supposed to act like an advertising agency; it was an administrative body.

As the holographic lady glowed, the room revealed itself. Its decor was certainly not suited to legal affairs. The only pieces of furniture I could see were a long metal desk like an operating table, and a rigid, uncomfortable-looking metal chair with a short back.

The hologram-lady spoke again, with excellent human intonation. “Please state your full name, along with your title.”

“Doctor—” I said, and stopped. I cleared my throat and started again, trying to sound as authoritative as I could. “Doctor Torren Ronin.”

The hologram-lady’s expression remained flat. I doubted if she realised who I was. Perhaps she hadn’t yet been updated with the latest news. I was quite sure that she was capable of expressing emotions—even half-a-century-old holograms were.

She looked like a recent upgrade—I knew the rule of thumb was the newer the model, the more details. I could see a small scar on her left eyebrow—as if she could ever cut herself—and I could even hear this particular upgrade taking a short breath before she spoke. It was worrying how holograms were becoming more and more human.

Apart from the glow, there weren’t any other obvious giveaways that she wasn’t a real human. Maybe her skin and hair…she was a bit too pallid, and even though she had dark brown hair, it was rather lustreless. Perhaps that’s why all the holograms dressed in shades of grey: if they were to wear vivid colours, their pale features would stand out even more.

“Please state how you would prefer to be addressed,” she said.

“Doctor Ronin,” I replied.

“Doctor Ronin, my name is Sheeran Hund. I’m a Category-M Class-B judiciary conductor. I specialise in handling cases in conjunction with the Human Lifespan Law.”

I recognised the hint of warning in her voice. She was reminding me that she was highly trained in medicine as well as law, so I wouldn’t be able to get away with any medical subterfuge.

“Please look at the white dot on your left for an iris scan, Doctor Ronin.”

I waited for the holographic dot to appear on my left, reminding myself that the Ministry of Health was more concerned about the safety of their systems than speed. When it did finally pop out, I stared at it, as still as the hologram-lady herself.

With an affirmative beep, my iris scan was confirmed.

“Now please direct your wrist towards the same dot for your i-code scan.”

I reached down to my lab coat to unbutton it. My generation didn’t have their i-codes lasered onto their wrists, but rather onto their neck; mine was closer to my collar bone. I was proud of having my i-code where it was—it meant that I was one of the last to be ‘born’ into this world. I wasn’t conceived in a lab with a permission slip issued in my parents’ names. I hadn’t spent the first nine months of my life in a minute incubator. I was born—just like our ancestors had been for all those millennia.

But I was surprised to see that I wasn’t wearing my lab coat as usual. Instead I had apparently put on a white shirt and some grey trousers—which I couldn’t even remember owning. There was no point wasting time pondering any longer. I opened my shirt collar and turned to the holographic dot on my left. A green laser sliced the darkness in two and scanned my i-code.

I knew that my identification had been confirmed after another affirmative beep. The holographic dot vanished into thin air, quicker than it had appeared.

“Thank you, Doctor Ronin,” said Ms Hologram. She walked around the metal table and pulled out the only chair. She sat down. I couldn’t help but wince slightly: seeing holograms moving real objects always disturbed me.

“In accordance with the conditions provided by the Kuiper Courts of Health, you have the right to terminate this session any time you wish. You may do so by pressing the red button on your right armrest. Are you ready to proceed now?”

I nodded.

“Doctor Ronin, today we are here to clarify a fact brought to our attention by HRDS. The Healthcare Reporting and Delivery System has recorded 5.4 per cent of patients requiring emergency-level intervention within 14 days of using your services: that is 17 patients out of the 312 you have seen in the last month. Could you explain this figure, please?”

I was watching Ms Hologram’s left eyebrow. If that cut hadn’t been there, she would have looked flawless. I wondered if this was another strategy developed by the Ministry to make holograms even more human. If they were now including flaws in their design, were we to have uglier, older or crippled holograms soon?

Ms Hologram—or rather, Ms Hund, as they had named her—was probably older than me anyway. She undoubtedly had a longer lifespan than me. I questioned how fair it was on us humans to be questioned, taxed, fined and even arrested by computer software which we’d developed and which lived longer than us.

“Doctor Ronin? Do you have any comments?”

“Ms Hund.” I raised my voice. I was getting annoyed with her impatience. “I completed my medical training at the age of 20. For the last 17 years, I’ve been an active healthcare practitioner, a scientist and a lecturer. I’ve served on four different continents on this planet, always with an A-level achievement score. If you were to download the latest news, you would see my name as one of the winners of the prestigious Cornels Science Prize for Academic Excellence. I have dedicated my life to this cause, and I am planning to pursue the same route for the three remaining years of my life. Now, are you really accusing me of not caring enough for my patients?”

“I apologise, Doctor Ronin. Our concern is not of not caring enough—indeed, it is quite the opposite: we are worried about you caring too much.”

I was puzzled by her words. “What exactly are you trying to say, Ms Hund?”

She placed her fingers on the metal table carefully and looked at them one by one, as if she were counting facts in her head. “Doctor Ronin…’ She paused. ‘A doctor of experience would unquestionably know that some of these patients were to be admitted to the Quarantine Wards. Allow me to show you what I mean.”

A holographic screen appeared on my left, showing the data of one of my patients. Ms Hund read out loud, “R. Conas. Male. Age: 26. Medium level of inherited inclination for substance addiction and a high level of potential mood disorder. Medical history includes: inconsistent cardiovascular activity and a limited lung capacity due to an unspecified birth defect. Medical offences: smoking and livestock consumption. Past treatments have involved intense rehabilitation and Type-2 supplementation on a daily basis. Admitted to the Quarantine Wards four times. Taken into custody twice. Jailed once, because of tobacco possession. He was released on probation and scheduled to see you on a weekly basis. However, you, Doctor…issued this patient a Green Medical Pass after his first visit.”

“I had to,” I said. “Mr Conas’s older sister was due her Last Sleep. She was his only living relative. I issued Mr Conas with a temporary Green Pass for him to visit his sister. Without the pass, he wouldn’t have been able to travel to another Solarian province.”

“Doctor Ronin, I can empathise with your concern for Mr Conas’s circumstances—however, you must be aware of the regulations against such procedures. Solarian Law article 1747 section 1-b specifies that no Green Medical Cards are to be issued to any patient unless that patient has had a clean track record for three months.”

“I’m certainly aware of the Healthcare Law, Ms Hund. In this particular case, there was an exemption clause that covered Mr Conas’ circumstances.”

“May I ask which clause that was?”

“Legislation 79118/5: Mr Conas has less than three months to live.”

Ms Hund rapidly scanned the data which began to flow across the holographic screen on my left. “Our records state that Mr Conas has three years, eleven days and five hours before his Last Sleep.”

“Then you must update your records more often. Mr Conas has a lung defect which will cause his demise earlier.”

“Doctor Ronin, can you please confirm that you have submitted this information to HRDS?”

“I should have done that, Ms Hund, but as you know, we practitioners have the flexibility to report within 7 days if we’re working away from the office—and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last week.”

I took pleasure in watching Ms Hologram express a human emotion for the first time: frustration.

She continued, irritated, “Doctor Ronin, I hope you understand that you cannot use the same excuse for 17 cases.”

“Yes, I do understand that.”

“Well, Doctor, you don’t leave us with any other option. I will have to refer your case to the FYS Judgement Team.”

“Ms Hund,” I snapped, “this case—or any other such case you might bring up—has no link to FYS in any way.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I believe there is enough evidence here to start an FYS investigation. It is a common problem, especially in the medical profession. Dealing with your own kind’s weaknesses and short lifespan from one day to another will almost inevitably affect your own mental state.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Then can you explain why you rejected your own Retirement Plan, Doctor Ronin?”

“That has nothing to do with this case, or FYS.”

“It has a lot to do with FYS, Doctor. It is a fact that 87 per cent of doctors who have been diagnosed with FYS reject their Retirement Plans.”

“I was born on this planet, Ms Hund! Do you know what that means? I was born—conceived—here, and I have spent all my life working on this planet, serving my own race. I would rather lose five years of my life and die here, at home, than meet my end rotting on another planet full of ghostly holograms or mucus-leaking humanoids. You cannot use my personal choice of where I’d like to die as evidence for the existence of a made-up illness. Final Years Syndrome is a disorder invented solely to retire humans who are fed up with handing their own race over to non-existent creatures like you! I refuse to be a part of this screwed-up system—and that is why I rejected my so-called Retirement Plan. It’s we who created you, Ms Hund—and yes, we are the same race who ruined this planet in the process! We don’t have the resources to support ourselves anymore, so what do we do? We put our own race to sleep at the age of 40 so that our children can also enjoy life for 40 years—and, yes, God damn it, we don’t or can’t touch you, because you don’t consume any of our precious resources, because you cost less and serve well! But may I remind you, Ms Hund, you owe your nonexistent existence to humans like me!”

“And I would like to remind you, Doctor Ronin, that my ‘nonexistent existence’ will survive beyond your grandchildren’s existence,” she said, and turned towards the holographic screen floating on my left. “Decision made: In accordance with Human Lifespan Act article 213449 section 8-f, I refer case number 847983 to the FYS Judgement Team—”

The screen was automatically typing everything she said. I heard alarms coming from every corner of the room. A male voice began to bark out a sentence again and again: Soundproofing has been cancelled. Soundproofing has been cancelled. Soundproofing has been cancelled.

I couldn’t bear it any longer. I pressed the red button on my chair.

“Congratulations, Ms Hund,” a male voice called.

I couldn’t see who was talking; my vision was blocked by a bulky headset. When I lifted the headset, I found myself in a completely different room. I looked around to remind myself of where I was; I was at the Simulation Lab. My consciousness had been switched with that of a defendant, so that I could see myself as the prosecutor. This was my second time taking the same test in the same simulator, but being in Doctor Ronin’s skin was a totally different experience. His vision helped me understand why I’d previously failed the test.

“Ms Hund?” called my senior, Mr Rame.

“Yes, Mr Rame. I’m with you,” I said, pulling the electrodes off my chest. I fastened the top two buttons of my shirt and placed the headset back onto its unit.

Mr Rame examined me with his coppery eyes. “You have some remarkable scores here, Ms Hund. You seem not only to experience anger in its human purity, but you also control it rather successfully. Your empathy levels are also worth a mention. However, there is one area that I think needs attention.”

“What is that, Mr Rame?”

He looked down for a moment, and then said, “I assume you know why you were asked to retake this test?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“You understand why you were given one of our most celebrated scientists’ templates as a skin? Doctor Ronin had a huge positive impact on humankind—indeed, some of his methods are still taught in medical institutions today.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I am honoured to have seen the world from such an influential human’s point of view.”

“You have also heard of Doctor Ronin’s notorious pride, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused for a short while, as if contemplating how he should continue. “Your scores are almost impeccable, Ms Hund, but you must be careful when dealing with feelings of pride. It is not one of those positive human emotions that the Ministry accommodates. Your tendency towards pride was also highlighted in your previous result; that’s why you were asked to retake the test with Doctor Ronin’s template. We wanted to see how you handled this challenge.”

“I understand, sir,” I said. I fixed my eyes on a random spot on the floor. I waited quietly for his verdict.

“It’s important to relate to human emotions, Ms Hund, but it’s more important to remember that we’re civil servants with a lot of responsibility on our shoulders. Adopting the dark side of human nature can be highly destructive. Even though you’ve successfully handled a challenging skin in Doctor Ronin’s, I would advise you to be wary of your pride under all circumstances. I assume we understand each other.”

I nodded eagerly. I had detected the friendly tone of his voice.

“I guess I should offer you the first human handshake and welcome you as an official adjudicator for Kuiper Courts of United Worlds Judicature,” he said. “Welcome aboard!”

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Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

In Excelsis

Department of the Exterior

Deep Space Division

Volunteer Captain’s Log – Supplemental and Psychological

Voice Recording Transcript

CT Satellite – Research

Crew 1/1

Dr. J. Sindhu

Day 224-236 2162

12 August

I am initiating FO-EMA protocol for multiple consecutive missed mandatory transmissions from the planet.  No signal at all being received from Canes Turnbull.  Log truncated to allow maximum speed of diagnosis and correction.

13 August

It has become clear that there is a significant problem with communication equipment; however I have been unsuccessful thus far in identifying the source of the problem.  I am unable to verify the reception of any signal from anywhere on the surface, although I am able to confirm the successful reception and decoding of extra-solar signals when the array is reoriented.  Despite the anxiety this causes I am going to rerun the initial test sequences and then attempt a first-hand physical examination of the array.  Research logs still meet Mission standard, but they’re starting to lack some of the detail of earlier entries.

14 August

I have personally examined the Ku-band transmitter and photon entanglement transceiver array and the computer system as thoroughly as I am able.  I have space-walked without radio contact, despite the insurance ramifications.  I have reduced the allocation of energy to heating and have re-rationed all food and water.  The current exposure tests have been paused; it is fortunate that this is possible at the current juncture.

15 August

It seems at this point more probable to both Harold and me that there is a problem on the ground.  I have activated the distress beacon, set all of the systems to the most efficient levels I can endure, and at this time I anticipate . . . well, [laughter] probably death.  I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t comfortable being alone.  Wouldn’t have been chosen either, I guess.  So I guess I’m not going to let it bother me unduly now.

16 August

The protocols that seemed so exhaustive and formidable back home no longer seem equal to the situation, in terms of gravity.  Not gravity, but . . . severity.  Mental gravity.  The meditation regimen is becoming itself a source of vexation, and more errors have been identified in the research review than previously, making the additional work also frustrating.  But what am I to do?  It is resumed, anyway, all but the bombardment test, which Harold believes is the only one the minimum power draw will not support.  We are lucky.  We are not feeling so lucky!

18 August

I have consumed the entirety of the galley’s wine:  this is the reason that I have missed a day.  I am penitent but also believe this was inevitable.  It is all gone now, except for the increased burden on the recycling system, and the last of the headache.  Harold is certain that the current sustenance level, although lower than the minimum insurable amounts, will be sufficient for several weeks.  I will consider the associated psychological challenges and remedies today.

19 August

There is no response to the distress beacon yet, and I am reasonably certain of isolated death.  Humanity is unable or unwilling to contact me, and God is as silent as ever.  I will begin to significantly decompose only weeks after my death, due to the low temperature and sealed environment.  I anticipate continued indifference from the Lord.  It is presumably too much to ask for a dust cloud to abruptly mince the station and myself.

20 August

I will shortly be space-walking blind, as it appears that will allow me to manually check on the dichroic mirror without taking too much of my remaining power.  As long as the solar continues to hold I will have time until I run out of food, which I now estimate will be almost two more weeks.  At this point I am forced to assume that something catastrophic has happened in or to the Canes Turnbull dome, and that my only hope of rescue is that a previously unscheduled inter-stellar voyage will arrive.  Therefore I will also attempt to redeploy the old s-band array, which Harold has never actually used.  Harold says he is looking forward to writing the new program.  I say it will enable those stranded in the future to more quickly confirm their situation’s hopelessness.  Harold says that is being negative.

<recording stops and resumes>

Guess what?  The damned dichroic mirror is flawless!  I might have believed the instruments.  I blame Harold.  [laughter]

The residents of CT are almost certainly not in contact because they have suffered. . . a mishap. They are dead.  I can see the dome is still there, but that’s all.  Not thinking about the people is easy.  Well, I mean, I don’t find. . . no.  It’s true.  I’m long cried out anyway.  What’s nagging me now is how far the loss of the labs will push back true mass interstellar shielding.  Even if I could solve all the problems in this station’s mandate, colonial launch could be pushed back years. Years. Too long.

21 August

I have exhausted every possibility, and have no significant hope of contact.  Trying to resign myself makes me . . . think back. I am thinking a lot about when they died.  My love and my baby.  Of course that’s why I’m here. I think of them as in – I think of their souls.  Sometimes my soul.  I am unable to consider rationally the problem of what to do with myself, and so have decided to dose myself with Biphenicylate and jettison my body into space.  At least the waiting will be over.

<recording stops and resumes>

The following will be my suicide note: To humanity I leave this station’s work with all hope it will be useful. I hope for the residents of Canus settlement. I carry all of my love with me to my beloved angels.

22 August

It seems that Harold’s capacity to override his own override program is greater than I had been led to believe.  I could never have imagined why a few days ago. I am now sitting in the lab eating a sandwich, regretting my hasty suicide note, and trying to decide what to do about it.  What to do, I suppose, in general.  Harold says ‘the work.’ I do believe the species can survive and make a new home if we can solve these problems.  I suspect I have several more hours to think about it before I can walk again.  The mental effects of Biphenicylate persist much longer than I had expected.  My plan would have worked perfectly if not for Harold’s refusal to open the door.

<recording stops and resumes>

They asked several times during the screening process if I was coming out here to get away from my family’s tragedy. I said ‘partially.’ I said I knew I couldn’t get away. My wife and child and the accident will always be with me.  But for a while, it wasn’t as much.  Now I feel close to them.  As they are now. We are almost all dead people.  Except that I have a task.

23 August

Harold refuses to shut off the Q.E. transceiver, and the radio requires almost no power whatsoever, but all other communications equipment has been disarmed and even removed.  Power is allocated to preserve essential lab function indefinitely, while maintaining my survival for as long as possible.  This is my only option.  It will be necessary for the continuance of the research for me to cope with my impending demise rationally.  I will die in all likelihood between two and three weeks from now, and my corpse will remain here for some number of months, depending on the reason for my isolation. It is my goal to leave the research in a state in which Harold can continue to collect data after my death, and there is reason to believe that the exposure tests can be mostly completed, even without me.  The small influence that the end of my life has on these samples may indeed represent a contribution to the ongoing improvement of humanity’s understanding of our physical reality.  If I can reach through the vast emptiness of space far enough to brush the fingers of my fellow beings, then the remainder of my life can join my spirit closer to spirits of all life, and death can be my route to awe.  All devotions made by a man, of anything he has, are most holy. Have we not expanded for all our breasts?  Weighed down our backs?  So verily, with every difficulty there is relief.  Therefore, now I am free, I will labour hard, and to my task turn my attention.  Mount me on your streamers and let me blow to nothingness with the rest.

24 August

This is anticipated to be the last entry by DRL Jonah Sindhu, Research Volunteer Captain, UNSAS 3401225.  I will soon run out of food.  The measurements will still be recorded in the appropriate tables, until such time as I am incapable of doing so.    Life is short and science is long, but Harold is optimistic. Let us test and examine our ways, and return to the Lord! [laughter]

 

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Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

Deep in the Woods

The fire hardly glimmered. It cast only the faintest illumination now. The evening was late, very late, but Roland and Jethro would stay up into the deepest hours. Neither would be able to sleep if they both lay down, and neither would be able to stay awake if they took it in turns to watch, and so they both remained up: glazy eyed, half conscious, but ready. Around their small clearing, the impermeable forest held its shadows. Roland stretched out an arm, his gauntlet and mail tinkling slightly, and grabbed a handful of twigs. He cast them onto the fire, and it dimly flared in acknowledgement of the offering. Its warmth did not seem to reach him. He felt cold, colder than he had ever felt. This was the darkest place he had been in all his searching. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the end of him, just as it had been the end of the Edgar.

‘It will be twilight soon,’ Jethro said from the other side of the fire. His voice was hoarse, and dry. He’d swaddled a filthy cloak around his shoulders, but he was still shivering. The futile light made his face almost skull-like, the sockets like basins filled with midnight ichor.

Roland nodded. ‘You should sleep. I’ll keep watch.’

Jethro shook his head. ‘You know I won’t be able to. Besides, what if you fall asleep when it comes?’

The thought made Roland shudder. Yes, it was coming. It was always coming. It had chased him over boundaries and borders and countries and continents. And it never stopped. At first, it had been merely the inkling of a presence at his back, of something dogging his steps, but then it had come closer. It attacked his dreams. In reality, he was sometimes sure he had seen it, not absolutely of course, but indefinitely, slinking through shade as though born of it, and as formlessly terrifying as God. It always had eyes on him.

‘I won’t fall asleep. I am too afraid.’

His eyes stung painfully, but he was so used to the sensation he blinked it away. His aching limbs lay at odd angles as he was slouched by the fire, almost like the splayed contortion of a dead man. But his head was awake. It had to be. To dream was to allow it to come.

Roland looked up to see that Jethro was looking at him intently. The grey hairs of his beard caught the dim light. He had not been grey when they had embarked on this journey.

‘Have you ever wondered where this thing came from?’

Roland looked at him. ‘It comes from hell.’

‘Then how did it get out? And why is it following you?’

Roland was silent. Jethro shrugged and stared into the fire. There was a drawn quiet between them.

‘It started just after Belinda died,’ Roland said, suddenly. He wondered why he had never told Jethro this before. His friend nodded, as if he had already known the answer.

‘Have you ever wondered whether it was just, well, a dream?’

Roland sat up, sharply, a snarl coming to his lips. Jethro regarded him calmly: his brown eyes each capturing a glimmer of the flame.

‘And Edgar? That was just my imagination was it?’

Jethro considered. ‘Things that we dream can become reality sometimes.’

‘So I’m responsible for this? For his death?’

‘It is your demon, Roland.’

He sat back, and turned away from him and the flame to look out into the folds of darkness. Somewhere, out there, he knew the creature was hunting for him. ‘I don’t think the demon is mine. I think it is a guardian.’

‘Of what?’

‘We seek something that no one is permitted to possess. Perhaps the creature was sent to stop us?’

Jethro pursed his lips as he was wont to do when thinking. He scratched the grey stubble and frowned. ‘You are the only one that dreams of it.’

Roland sighed. ‘Get some sleep, Jethro. I shall keep the light,’ he said.

Jethro nodded and lay himself down on his side, his ramshackle armour creaking and groaning. He placed his head on a sordid wrapped cloth, and closed his eyes. Roland could tell by the shallowness of his breath that he was not asleep. The fear was too vivid and too deep for that. He watched him for a few moments: the colours of the flame, the dun silver of his armour, and the surrounding shades of tenebrous foliage all melting into one dizzying haze of strange colour. Things started to fall away. The crackle of the flame grew eerily quiet. He felt his head loll back. As it did so: briefly – just briefly – amidst the blur, a part of the shadow of the forest seemed to move.

Roland blinked rapidly and pulled himself upright. He reached into his pouch and drew out a knife. He lay it across his palm with the sharp edge pressed to his skin and positioned his elbow on it. If he started to slip, the pain would wake him.

When Roland roused Jethro in the twilight hours, his hand left a mark of blood on his pauldrons.

They had learned to travel in the twilight after Edgar. It was in the liminal place between day and night and night and day when the demon came. If they were on the move during these times, then they could stay ahead of it.

 

The two set off wearily in the pale half-light, its glow only feebly reaching them through the canopies of intertwined boughs. The dark lustre of the forest seemed an obstacle to all that shone. Tired, aching, stretched, they walked for what felt like hours, the light never increasing, only appearing to change colour until it grew from purple into a red so deep it looked like unnatural blood.

Then they saw it.

‘What is that?’ Jethro said, squinting.

‘The end,’ Roland replied. He looked hard through the tangles and nets of blackened branches, and saw its walls beyond. Through the shroud of the canopy, he could see it reaching into the sky.

They pushed through, their bodies drenched and clammy, and their armour dirtied from the clinging tendrils of vine and branch, finally breaching into a clearing. Now they could see it clearly.

It was a tower. Surprisingly small, and wide, but impressing upon them both in a way that no mountainous structure ever could have. It was onyx, blacker than anything they had seen, and devoid of windows or of any mark or design across its surface, save for a single door.

‘Is this it?’ Jethro breathed: eyes wide.

‘It must be,’ Roland said.

The door swung open silently, as if the tower itself was holding a gargantuan breath, bated with expectation. Inside, a staircase curled upwards. Roland drew his great-sword from his back, as did Jethro. The sound of their metal boots against the hard rock seemed deafening. Roland felt as though he was defiling something, his filthy armour noisome in a holy place.

The door closed stealthily behind them, sealing out what little light there had been so that they were cast in an absolute blackness. Roland felt his leg trembling beneath him as he placed a first, tentative foot on the stair. He let out a long exhalation. For a moment, he could not summon the courage to ascend. He remained with one foot on the stair, daunted, staring up into impossible shadow above, like a starless sky only amplified.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Roland said, swallowing a lump in his throat. He began to climb. The clanking of his plate-mail rebounded irritatingly, adding to his feeling of intrusion. He clutched his sword tighter than he had ever grasped it, and yet the calloused flesh on his fingers meant he hardly felt it. So many years, so many hardships, so much suffering: all for this one end. His mouth was dry.

He reached the top and came out into a circular chamber. In its centre lay a basin filled with an oily liquid across which a small, tiny flicker of fire danced. Despite how small it was, the flame was jubilant, writhing, twisting and contorting faster and more violently than any fire he had ever seen, and yet no wind penetrated into the room.

Jethro came and stood beside him. ‘This is it?’

‘This is it,’ Roland repeated, softly, eyes transfixed on the small, vibrant glimmer in the midst of the blackness. ‘Life itself.’

Roland took a step forward, and pulled a small, glass vial out of his backpack. Without letting his skin touch the oily liquid, or the flame, he scooped up a quantity into the vial and placed a cork in it. The glass grew warm, but it didn’t melt or shatter. The flame licked at the inside harmlessly. He stood for a moment, looking at his prize. In the glow of the fire and the reflection of the glass he saw his own, haggard, worn face. How many years had it been since Belinda passed away? Ten? Twenty? But now he had finally achieved his goal. Suddenly a thought filled him that perhaps she would reject him; he would raise her in her youth, and she would see his old, beaten body and loathe him. He remained, holding up the vial, staring into its potent contents until a deep, low murmur shattered his dream. He looked up sharply.

‘What was that?’

Jethro’s face changed from one of wonderment to wide eyed panic. ‘It has found us.’

Roland wheeled around. The demon?’

Jethro nodded solemnly.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘It was only a matter of time.’

The low murmur sounded again, only this time it was more of a dark, primordial roar. The tower seemed to quake slightly, as if a massive creature was wrapping its body around its base.

‘It cannot come in here while there is light,’ Roland said, holding up the flame.

‘We do not know that. The light has held it at bay before, but we are trapped here. Sooner or later it will close the noose. We cannot wait in here forever.’

‘I have not come this far to fail!’ Roland growled.

‘You’ve given everything on this quest, Roland, everything. You’re a shadow of the man that set out on it and all because you couldn’t let go of Belinda! Christ, I must be the greatest of all fools for following you: but now I have gone far enough. Give up the flame and it may allow us to leave.’

‘You were not a fool for following, Jethro, but you are a fool now. Give up what we have spent all these years, have traveled all these miles to find, at the very moment we find it? That is the real folly. No one would have believed that we could have found the dark tower, but we did, and inside it, we have found life –’

A third, deep, knell-like roar broke Roland’s speech, and made both of them rush to the stairwell. They could see nothing but ecliptic darkness at the bottom, but Roland sensed the presence of the creature: the monster of shadow. It was coming. It was inside the tower.

‘I’m not going to sit here and wait for death!’ Jethro spat. Clasping his sword in two hands, he let out a howl so violent and piercing that Roland felt a tremor pass through his whole body at hearing it. His friend leapt down the stairs into the blackness and was swallowed by it, his screaming proclamation still reverberating around the tower as if a hundred thousand soldiers were holding in a broken stand.

Roland darted back into the chamber. It seemed to him like every injury he had ever had had been reopened, or else made sore again. His entire body ached, his finger joints clicked with arthritis, his knees clacked as he moved towards the basin, and his skin around his stomach felt red as old scars glowed.

He turned. There was a darkness at the door that even the light of the eternal fire could not penetrate or alleviate. It was solid blackness, not the absence of something, but a full, glorious destructive energy. In desperation he hurled the vial of flame towards it. It shattered and the fire burst over an invisible surface. Unearthly clamour sounded as the flame licked around a form that had previously been hidden. Roland looked on the shape of his stalker, of the demon that had followed him ever since Belinda had been taken. It licked along a weird frame that was both human and inhuman, a silhouette of seething black framed in ecstatic fire.

The shadow lurched forward. Roland sensed its triumph. It too had waited for this moment, had hungered after him for years on end: frustrated at his evasions and escapes.

In the fractional instance as it surged toward him, he knew he had a choice, and that was to die for the secret or live.

He grabbed the basin behind him and flung it headlong at the dim shape. For a moment the incandescent flame cascaded over it like an opulent shower of manna, and then a shriek split through the air, so loud that he heard the onyx tower crack down to its foundations. A spear of dazzling light fell into the chamber as a cut in the stone opened like a mouth. He ran for the stairs, the tower fracturing and rending apart.

Flinging open the door he came out just as the whole squat turret crumbled and sank into the earth, accompanied by the unholy scream of the demon within. Flames licked around the stones and then finally dissipated, leaving nothing. When the noise died, only a pile of rubble remained. The shadow had abated.

There was no sign of Jethro.

‘I have lost the secret,’ he said, to a still and eerie space. ‘I’m sorry Belinda. I’m sorry.’ He thought of Edgar, Jethro, and all those that had perished before them. Was it all for nothing? The tower lay dismantled, like a shattered tombstone. It was finished.

But the sun was shining. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like its warmth was actually touching his skin. He pulled off his pauldrons and greaves and helmet, and flung them onto the rubble of the tower along with his sword. He turned. Blank walls of forestry lay all around.

‘How can I find my way back, if I don’t know where I am?’

He looked back at the shattered remains of the tower. In the hunks of black, scarred rock, he had buried the answer to life’s greatest riddle, along with the shadow of death. Perhaps that was the answer? Bury it all.

Smiling weakly, he adjusted his backpack and set off once more. He would find his way out from under the canopies and back. He was sure.

Roland looked up at the sun. The light coming from it seemed stronger than it had ever been.

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Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

Customer Support

By society’s standards, the couple sitting across from me is perfect. Gracefully crossing her long legs, Mrs. Garner is a picture of generous curves and blond hair, her exactly symmetrical brow implants accentuating her sparkling purple eyes. Mr. Garner’s just as impressive, all muscle and jaw, subdermals accentuating his broad shoulders, his pants bulging where they should. The file on my desk says they’re richer than sin, he a big shot in sales and she a fashion consultant. In short, they’re everything most people want to be. They’re perfect.

Except they’re in my office. Customers only come see me when there’s a problem.

“The situation is entirely unacceptable and we want to know what your company is going to do about it.” Mrs. Garner starts.

I open the file and make a show of flipping through the pages I memorized before they came in. My parents opted for cognitive enhancement rather than physical.

“Mrs. Garner, it says here you only gave birth two weeks ago. It’s awfully early to be dissatisfied, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t give birth and no it isn’t too early. Clearly there’s been a mistake.”

I knew they’d used a surrogate but I didn’t expect her to be so open about it. It takes serious money to look like she does and it’s not surprising she’d want to protect her investment. Personally, I see nothing wrong with cosmetic surrogacy. The practice of paying a woman to carry your child simply to avoid the more unpleasant physical side effects of motherhood has been used by the affluent for decades. But since the recent string of celebrity confessions, backlash from the public has been severe.

I pull a page from the file and set it in front of her. “You and your husband chose the Hercules package, correct?”

“With the athletic upgrades,” Mr. Garner adds.

“Well, your child’s only two weeks old. The first signs of increased size and muscle development won’t be visible for at least a year, probably longer.”

Mrs. Garner shakes her head. “That’s not the problem.”

“Well then, what is?”

She shifts in her chair. “Is there someone else we can talk to about this?”

I force a smile. Her nervousness explains everything. Even in this day and age most white people don’t want to have this conversation with a black man.

“I’m the Director of Customer Satisfaction, Mrs. Garner. There’s nobody more qualified to address your concerns than me. Please, what exactly is the problem?”

“Our son, he’s…” she leans toward me and lowers her voice, “he’s the wrong color.”

I leave my expression blank. “The wrong color?”

Her eyes widen. “I don’t mean the wrong color. I mean a different color. I mean he doesn’t look like us. We’re both fair skinned. I burn if I’m out in the sun more than ten minutes. But our son, he’s, well-“

“He’s black.” Mr. Garner finishes for her.

“He’s not very black,” Mrs. Garner continues hurriedly. “He’s actually a lovely caramel tone. Really, he’s a beautiful baby. And we’re not saying there’s anything wrong with being…his being…darker skinned. We just don’t understand…”

“Listen,” Mr. Garner interrupts, “My family’s been up my ass as it is. For months all it’s been is ‘When’s the baby due?’ and ‘How’s the nursery coming?’ She hasn’t left the house for three months to keep the surrogate a secret from the neighbors. How’m I gonna explain a kid that doesn’t look like us? You know how people feel about genetic enhancement. We’ll be driven out of the neighborhood!”

“And how did this happen in the first place?” Mrs. Garner squawked.

“Well, some of the enhancements you wanted couldn’t be derived from either of your DNA sequences. Some of your son’s DNA came from a donor, a professional athlete of considerable skill, you’ll be happy to know. Of course, I’m not allowed to say who. You understand.”

“Donor DNA?” Mr. Garner asks.

I nod. “You can only build a machine if you have all the parts. Sometimes the parents’ DNA doesn’t give us all the raw material we need to get the results they want. When that’s the case we supplement their DNA with a donor’s.”

“So our son isn’t all ours?” Mrs. Garner looks on the edge of tears. It strikes me as an odd reaction from a woman who chose not to carry her child in order to avoid stretch marks.

 

“The supplemental DNA makes up only a fraction of your son’s genome, less than ten percent.” I try to reassure her. “And it’s necessary to get the results you want.”

Mr. Garner stands up and leans threateningly over the desk. “You’re saying my DNA isn’t good enough?”

“Not your DNA dear, our DNA.” Mrs. Garner lays a calming hand on her husband’s arm.

He shrugs it off. “No, you heard him. Considerable skill or not, I’m raising ten percent of some other guy’s kid!”

“Actually, Mr. Garner, the deficiencies we encountered weren’t from your genome.”

They pause and look at each other, obviously confused. “What do you mean?” Mrs. Garner asks.

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but the professional athlete that served as your son’s donor was female.”

Comprehension dawned on Mr. Garner’s face. “So it wasn’t my DNA that was the problem.”

“No.”

“What?” Mrs. Garner shrieks as she stands.

“Now dear,” Mr. Garner sits, taking her hand and pulling her back into her seat, “your side of the family is all short. Your mom’s shorter than your dad and he’s four inches shorter than you are.”

“Which probably explains the donor DNA we found in your genome.” I interject.

Mrs. Garner pales, her eyes wide. “What?” she asks in a whisper.

“Supplementing genomes with donor DNA has been around for decades.” I pull a brightly colored diagram out of the file and point to a portion of Mrs. Garner’s DNA map. “This portion of your genome is from a donor of Scandinavian decent, probably to supplement your height.”

Mrs. Garner pales further.

“And Mr. Garner,” I reach for the file but before I can open it his hand slams it back down to the desk.

“Don’t,” he says, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t want to know.”

For a moment everything is quiet.

Finally Mrs. Garner speaks, her voice cracking slightly. “We didn’t agree to this.”

“Actually-” I try to pick up the file but Mr. Garner still has it pinned to the desk. I give a firm tug and he reluctantly lets go. “Actually, it’s all in the contract.” I flip to the paragraph disclosing the use of donor DNA. “You did read the contract?”

Mrs. Garner looks to her husband and then down at her hands.

“I had my lawyer read it,” Mr. Garner says, picking up the thick stack of papers and flipping through a few pages before settling back into his chair.

The office is silent.

After a few moments he leans forward again, “It’ll work, right? He’ll be strong and fast?”

“Our success rate for babies carried to term is over ninety percent. He’ll have a biological edge. The rest is up to training and motivation, just like everyone else.”

Mr. Garner leans back with a thoughtful expression.

“People are so against genetic enhancement.” Mrs. Garner still hasn’t looked up. “I just hope we’ve made the right decision.”

Mr. Garner scoffs, “They’re only against it because they can’t afford it.”

“It’s true,” I nod. “Almost everyone with access to GE is taking advantage of it. It’s become a necessity. You’re putting your child at a disadvantage if you don’t use it.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Mrs. Garner looks up and pats her husband’s arm. Their eyes meet, he nods, and they both stand.

I do the same, shaking their hands before escorting them out of my office. Before returning to my desk I survey the reception area.

There are three more couples waiting to see me.

They’re all perfect.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 1, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

An Honorable Aunt

Children grow up with stories of wizards and swordsman. Even my children did — although the glamour of those stories rather died when they saw the real creatures in action. War-wizardry turned cottages and fields to dust, and swords twisted in the guts of fathers and mothers far more often than they cleaved the necks of sinister villains.

The pair who met us at the river crossing — one each, a brawny bronze-haired swordsman and his pale wisp of a wizard companion — seemed to expect a reputation of heroes from legend. When Gretya hid behind my skirts and Wimar began crying, the swordsman even looked a little hurt.

The wizard murmured something to him and he stepped back. A silver circlet gleamed in the wizard’s white-blond hair, suggesting he kept to the Covenant. That by itself wasn’t enough to let my heart beat any easier.

The last party to cross had run the ferry along its ropes to the opposite bank and then, thoughtlessly, left it there. The swordsman was tugging at the pulley to guide the raft back. He nodded to the wizard, who called,

“There’s plenty of room for all of us to board, ma’am. Or if you prefer, you and the children can cross first. We don’t mind waiting, and we have no wish to trouble you.”

He was trying to soothe me, but as my fear died down my irritation rose perversely. “You don’t wish to, eh? Then I must beg your pardon for preferring company that doesn’t upset my…charges.”

“Charges?” He examined us more closely. “Are you a sort of —”

“Trimeya Kaduran. Late of Endover, until it burned. I watch after these children — eight of them, I see you counting — because after the summer war swept through Amath there isn’t anyone else who can.”

“You’re from Amath?” the swordsman asked. His tone was unexpectedly soft.

“We’ve come that way, too,” the wizard said. “I’m Anweth n’Mansaken. My friend is Rathin Ormyer.”

“And you fought in the war, did you?” I forced the words past a tightening in my throat, part lingering fear, part anger.

“Not for long,” Rathin said. It seemed he had to force the words past a tightness of his own.

With a final pull, the ferry bumped against the sticky clay of the shoreline. I was set to march towards it when Anweth gasped aloud. Unthinkingly, I turned to him with an outstretched arm; he sounded so much like Hammet in one of his nightmares that I wanted to offer comfort.

Rathin reached him first, a supportive hand on Anweth’s shoulder — while the fingers of the other intertwined with his. Absently I noticed the gesture, and though it wasn’t hard to puzzle out what might cause such a thing to be second nature to these men, it wasn’t as if I could think much less of them.

“Premonition?” Rathin murmured.

“Yes.” Anweth blinked eyes that threatened for a moment to roll back in his head. “They’re back.”

Rathin turned to me. “If you’re going to go, get going. You’ve seen enough of this war, at least you can skip meeting the Crimson Standard.”

My gaze flew up the trail, as if I would see coming up it the ranks of mercenaries carrying banners dipped in the blood of previous victims. Nothing, of course. Yet… “He has premonitions?”

“Yes, I do,” Anweth said, each word falling with careful precision. He seemed to be nursing a headache.

Esma had grabbed my hand at the Crimson Standard’s name, and I tried to clasp hers back reassuringly, without feeling at all reassured.

Rathin released Anweth and made one final tug on the ferry line, looking at me pointedly. I started herding the children aboard. Anweth followed, shrugging off our offers of help, then Rathin and I took the absent ferryman’s place, grasping the rope above and pulling, driving the raft over the water. It was harder work and slower going than I expected or liked. Caris and Doran, the eldest children, helped us, and Anweth joined in once he seemed to have regained some strength. Looking back at the shore, I saw mounted soldiers approaching it. Yes, there were crimson standards, waving in the breeze like washing. But no amount of washing could ever make them clean.

“What if they try to wade across?” Hammet asked me.

“Pray that they don’t,” I said. Anweth turned to me. “What would you tell him?” I whispered in reply to his look. “Go on, say it.”

Anweth released the rope and knelt before Hammet. I hadn’t expected the move, and tensed, not wanting either of these men closer to my children.

I kept pulling the line, bringing us towards the other shore where we could part as quickly as possible.

“Don’t worry,” Anweth told Hammet. “Your Aunt Trimeya is going to take care of you, and Rathin and I will handle the Crimson Standard.”

Doran looked up. “‘Aunt’s’ a term of respect in the south,” he told me. “My father’s brother moved to the merchant cities down there, would come up visiting. He’d picked up the habit, and our mother’s mother was suddenly Auntie Getra. They always…” His voice faded away. They were all dead now, except perhaps his uncle down in Calda. Maybe Doran would find him one day, have some family left.

And in the meantime, I’d be his aunt. I’ve been called worse things, by far.

“Next time, your premonitions might cut it a little less close,” Rathin grunted to Anweth as we landed.

“I’ll be sure to specify that when I next give orders to the Astet in heaven,” Anweth said drily. Then he glanced at me, perhaps expecting me to take exception to the blasphemy.

I was beginning to suspect he’d named me ‘Aunt Trimeya’ half in mockery.

“There are plenty of things I might choose to object to about you,” I said, “without even bothering with what comes out of your mouth.”

I might have landed a blow on him. He stared at me wordlessly until Rathin tapped him on the arm. “We don’t have time to spare, Anweth, Let’s let the lady go.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said. “That’s much more generous than the terms I could expect from most mercenaries. But then…” I caught myself in time.

“Then…?” Rathin gestured, inviting me to continue. But without even waiting for another word from me, he strode to the post where the end of the ferry line was tied. A stroke from his sword severed it, and the raft vanished downstream.

The Crimson Standard still waited on the other side of the river. Perhaps they didn’t want to risk such a strong current.

“No doubt you have good reasons to hate mercenaries, ma’am,” Anweth said, “but Rathin and I are feeling the war as much as you are. We regret ever being part of it. Is a little courtesy too much to ask?”

I gestured to the wilderness around us, with the most feared mercenaries in Amath just across the river. “Does this look the proper place for courtesy?”

He glanced at the children, gathered behind me.

“I’m trying to protect them,” I said, “not teach them fine manners. Though—” I stepped closer to him, continuing in a lower voice, “you’d be one to preach propriety, wouldn’t you, when your lover’s hands have roamed all over you in front of—”

“Perhaps he should have let me fall,” Anweth suggested blandly. “Or would you have caught me?”

“I simply think it’s a little rich to hear lessons on courtesy from perverts.”

I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them. They were true enough, but I should know better than to express my every opinion, especially to two strangers who, despite what they were, had been nothing but helpful. It was hardly as if the children or I would take harm—after all we had seen—from the sight of a single touch, which might even to innocent minds look innocent.

“I see I’d be wasting my breath,” Anweth said, and he turned away from me. “Yes,” he called to Rathin, “Let’s let the lady go.”

“What did you say to him?” Caris murmured to me as I led the children away.

“An irrelevant truth,” I answered wearily. Caris was one of the eldest of my children, not only in age; for a long time she’d had no choice but to accept some weaknesses in those she relied on.

The rest of the day was a long walk. We weren’t followed; perhaps Rathin and Anweth had taken a different path, or stopped to rest, or perhaps the Crimson Standard had crossed the river after all. It wasn’t any of our business anymore.

#

We went without a fire that evening, sitting close with blankets on our shoulders for warmth. Caris knelt beside me, Esma and Wimar falling asleep in our laps. She spoke quietly so as not to disturb them.

“Those men today were helpful. Even if they were ex-mercenaries. It was a…surprise, but a pleasant one.”

Her expression was impossible to read in the dark. Perhaps it was only my guilty imagination making her soft words accusing?

“They were lovers,” I said.

“That’s a large assumption to make just because two men are very easy around each other—”

“The way they touched made me suspect. When I voiced my suspicions to the wizard, he didn’t deny them.”

“Still,” Caris said, “it seems a small enough thing. If you hadn’t already disliked them for their history—”

“Why does it matter?” I hissed. “Rogues or inverts, you can’t expect me to sing their praises just because we left their company unharmed. Is it too much for me to ask honesty and decency in a person before I respect them?”

Caris was quiet a long time, Esma resting peacefully in her arms. She rubbed the child’s back, and at last she said, “When you took me in, I had nowhere else to go. I’d fled my home after soldiers burst in on us one night. They…before my family’s eyes…I thought I’d die of shame at the time, but I lived. Deep down, beneath the pain and humiliation, I was proud of that. And then my father and mother gave me a knife. They expected me to cut my wrists, to die for my lost honor. So long as I lived with them my humiliation was a lasting disgrace on my family.

“So I left. They asked too much for the sake of decency.”

“Such decency,” I said, “sounds entirely indecent.”

“It seems so clear to us, doesn’t it? It’s more important to spare others harm than to live unblemished.” Caris sighed. “The logic of my own thoughts sometimes leads me to unexpected places. Uncomfortable ones. And certainly not very honorable.”

“But what makes honor, Caris? You have strength and courage. Even if I cannot see the entire world with the same eyes you do, I know you’re worthy of the respect of anyone you meet.”

“Yet how few show it,” she murmured. She was given to introspection and sometimes melancholy, and none of my words could draw her from it now. I pressed her hand, offering comfort.

Light and sound erupted around us. Several of the children cried out. I kept a rein on my tongue, but leapt high enough to almost shake Wimar from my arms.

The wizard, Anweth, stood before me in a blaze of silver light. His voice echoed around the clearing. “Trimeya Kaduran, you must go. The Crimson Standard is following your path. We’re trying to hold them back, as long as possible—” His voice fell into a groan, pain and fear thick in the sound. His image folded over and vanished.

Caris was on her feet, Esma clinging to her skirts. I passed Wimar to her and went around the clearing, gathering the children together and soothing them, collecting my own nerves somewhere along the way.

“I know you’re tired,” I said, “but we have to start walking again. Another few miles, and we can sleep for the rest of the night.”

“With the Crimson Standard after us?” Doran asked.

I spoke to him in a low voice. “They won’t come after us tonight. They take prisoners when they can, and kill them slowly. They have—” The names caught in my throat; I shook my head sadly. “But at least the wizard sent us warning. They’ve protected us to the end.”

Yet my stomach clenched at the thought that it was far from over.

Doran closed his eyes with a deep, strengthening breath. Caris appeared beside him, already calm. She pressed Esma and Wimar to me. Her expression was composed and deliberate.

“No, Caris,” I told her before she could say a word.

“You’re right, we have to save the children. It’s what Rathin and Anweth would sacrifice themselves for. But I—I can’t—my own strain of honor won’t let me leave them unaided.”

“You couldn’t! Caris, a young woman like you in the Crimson Standard’s midst would be—”

“I know the sort of thing they might do,” she said coldly. “They have several interesting innovations for the torture of men. Did you know that?”

“I forbid you to go, Caris.” Our eyes met by starlight. She was about to refuse me. I said, “I’ll do it.”

Doran gasped, as if he could take my words from the air.

“A graying-haired woman like me would be of less interest to them,” I said, half-trying to convince myself. “And I…Caris, you are strong and honorable. Doran is kind and wise. The world needs people like you, and the children, and… Anyway, I’m only a sour person with good intentions. Much more easily spared.”

I took the purse from my belt and gave it to Caris, and wrapped my blanket around Esma’s shoulders. “I’ll follow you…if I can. Wait for me, if you will, somewhere safe. Good luck, my loves.”

I kissed each of them goodbye and, as they disappeared down the starlit road, I turned my own steps back the way we had come.

 

#

The Crimson Standard had a fire, larger than a cottage hearth, with their bloodstained banners wafting in the heated air above it. On a frame nearby, two prisoners were bound. Rathin’s wrists looked raw from struggling. Anweth hung still beside him, eyes covered by a woven leather band wrapped cruelly tight. The weaving chilled me to look at—a wizard’s blind, keeping his powers in check.

Most spells relied on words, if not also elaborate gestures, intricate symbols and arcane ingredients. A gag was enough to keep most wizards in check. But Amathan captors try to leave their playthings free to scream.

I wiped damp hands on my skirt and walked into the firelight.

Bright-eyed faces above solid red tunics turned to me, split into grins and laughter. They were surprised. It was my only advantage, that and the fact that I was pureblooded, golden-skinned and raven-haired Amathan. We had in common a superiority over any lesser people.

Rathin started when he got a good look at me, but nobody noticed and he had no reason to reveal our prior connection.

That was my part of the plan, just forming as I stood there. “I see you’ve come across the mercenary scum staining these words,” I said to the Crimson Standard. The ease with which I hit that tone of contempt did not leave me proud.

“That, and an honored matron,” said one man, gray-haired and scarred, who must be the leader of the band—until the day came when he fell in battle to be replaced by an equally ruthless successor. He seemed less than convinced of my honor, but also content to let me speak.

“A matron with no home,” I said sourly. “My village burned by marauding monsters like those two there. I’ve seen children terrorized and old men slain by their kind. These two in particular…”

“You have history.” The Standard’s leader raised his eyebrows, taken aback or perhaps amused by my venom.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you going to kill them?”

“In time,” he said easily.

“Let me help.”

The few chuckles greeting my request were warm, even approving.

“Would you like something to eat first?” one man asked.

Any reply I could make to that—I hunger only for revenge, perhaps—seemed a little overdone, so I only shook my head in stern silence. And held out my hand for a knife.

The leader took one from a block beside the fire. A butcher’s blade, thick and jagged, but with a fine sharp tip. He took my arm as if escorting a fine lady, and led me to the prisoners on the frame.

“We’ll give you one,” he said. “Do what you wish, make it as thorough as you like—or can.”

The slight against my torturing abilities I ignored. I reached again for the knife.

He let me take it, but stood studying me. “You must have noble blood,” he remarked. “The serf class seems to have lost their taste for these diversions. Has their rage burned out, I wonder? Or only their courage?”

“If it’s noble to hate, I am noble,” I said. “Will you give me the wizard?”

The leader stepped back, letting me approach Anweth. Beside him, Rathin watched me with a blank look, as if in shock or horror.

“Do you know,” I said, slowly, sourly, “what these two are to each other? The things they do to each other?”

The leader backed away farther, out of reach. As if afraid my disgust and hatred would boil over onto everyone around me. All the Crimson Standard were watching, hardly breathing. Some smiled, but some looked wary. As if their own tenets, when spoken from my mouth soaked in rage, made them uneasy.

“There’s nothing worth sparing here,” I said, stepping very close to Anweth. I raised the blade and willed my hand to be steady.

I slashed at the wizard’s blind, severing it over his brow. The blade nicked his skin, drawing a line of blood, but even as the pain stung him so did his power. With a gasp, he seized it and unleashed it in a string of liquid words. The ropes binding him and Rathin slithered off as if in revulsion.

I caught Rathin as he stumbled free. Anweth was already standing, flinging an arm out, shouting something. An acid white glow filled my vision, like silent lightning striking the ground beside me. Now Rathin was the one holding me, guiding me through the camp even as I blinked away shadows. He must have recognized the spell and shut his eyes before it struck. The Crimson Standard, unprepared, reeled blindly around us.

Rathin found his sword leaning beside the leader’s chair. He drew it and looked around.

“No time for that,” Anweth said beside us.

Rathin followed him into the forest with a curse. I threw him a look of understanding. I wouldn’t have minded if a few of the Crimson Standard had been cut down there and then.

At a final word from Anweth, the fire swelled, tongues grabbing for the banners hanging over them. They caught, and flames raced down the standard poles. They fell, burning, catching men beneath and between them. The conflagration spread to tents, supplies, uniforms.

“Was that war magic?” I panted to Anweth as we ran away.

“No,” he said. “Just a spell for lighting fires—magnified, I admit. But I’m not a war wizard anymore.” He slowed at one point, gasping in breath. “So you…ah…”

“It would have been dishonorable to have abandoned you after the help you offered us,” I said.

“I wasn’t certain at the time that you didn’t mean it.” He touched his forehead, wincing as his fingers found the cut. I offered him a handkerchief to stanch it.

“All things considered,” I said, “you’re not a bad sort. Neither of you are.”

He studied me, and said at last, “You aren’t, either, Aunt Trimeya.”

#

We caught up with the children by dawn, and as there was only one road through the forest, we took it together. In the end we parted at Surannah, a small village sending some wagons of extra produce up along the caravan route to Sarnost’an in the mountains. The carters welcomed the presence of a friendly wizard and swordsman. Rathin seemed no less pleased.

“It’s been too long since we’ve been caravan guards,” he said.

Doran would continue south, to his uncle’s family. For the time being I would go with him, and of course the children would come with me.

Caris found Rathin and Anweth as we were bidding farewell, and asked if she could travel with them.

“Not, of course, that I’d need your permission to travel with the caravan. I’ve talked to the carters and they already welcomed me.” She tossed her head and smiled. Utterly without shame. “But to have some companions, someone to look to for assistance or advice…”

“And how could we possibly assist you?” Anweth smiled.

“Your companionship, then. At least to Sarnost’an.”

“That you can have.” Rathin grinned and offered her his hand.

Before taking it, she turned to me.

“You don’t need my permission,” I said.

“No, but I’d like it, if you would give it.”

I kissed her forehead. “I can think of no one else I’d be happier to entrust you with.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“So what are your plans for Sarnost’an?” Anweth asked her as I walked away.

“I’m not sure yet. Perhaps I’ll open a shop, settle down.”

“Marry?” In a voice so low I had to strain to hear it—and I did, I admit, eager to catch these last hints of Caris’s future—Anweth continued teasingly, “Do you expect our advice on that? Help you find the best man? Because our opinions may—”

“Not necessarily.” She laughed. “I don’t need matchmakers, even if you’d be willing to play them. And even if I did… The first time I ever fell in love was three summers ago. Her name was Isema. I was too shy to admit it at first, but now that I know…”

Perhaps she meant for me to hear. But I think not. She laughed, utterly carefree, unselfconscious.

And yet, why should she be anything else? She was among friends who loved and admired her. She knew, and she must have trusted that we all did, that she had never done anything to be ashamed of, anything but what was decent and honorable.

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