Crisis at Garmil's Gate - 26

Sibley struggled to make his way to the bridge. At every turn he fought three or four to one, cutting and blasting through would-be pincer moves to fix him before they fry him with blasters. But then they push him into the lift, and from the bridge they run him down to the cargo hold.

In the hold, Sibley sees a giant-sized sensory deprivation tank. Cables and waldos runs from the walls and attach to it, securing it in place. Curiosity claims him, and he approaches. As he does, the foreboding fills him, but he steels himself and advances. As he comes about, he sees what--who--rests inside.

"Mother of God..." Sibley gasps.

"Satisfied?"

Sibley turns around and there he sees a big, blue-skinned brute bearing a beam sword. "I'd hoped to find the captain."

"I'd hoped to fight the Paladin." Gori said, igniting the blood-red beam blade as he approached Sibley, "You will have to do."

"The right-hand men fighting on our masters' behalf, eh?" Sibley said as he stood ready, "I appreciate the poetry of it."

"Consider this a courtesy." Gori said as he squared off against Sibley, "I could have just blown the seals and sucked you out of here, but I'd rather that you know why you failed before I toss you out the airlock."

"Win before you taunt."

Gori lunges at Sibley, a blow the old man beats away but forces him back. Sibley adjusts his stance, putting his sword hand into a place where deflecting the force of Gori's strikes is much easier, and then reads the pirate's body language as Gori attacks. The pirate has youth, reach, and power over Sibley but lacks skill and isn't wearing a personal screen- just armor.

Sibley soon sees that Gori's strikes are better suited to a hatchet than a sword, as he finds the pirate not thrusting now. Still possessing his pistol, Sibley shifts his feet when he moves to parry Gori's next overhead chop. In a smooth motion, Sibley shifts his sword to his off-hand, and as he blocks the chop Sibley draws his pistol and shoots Gori multiple ties square in the guts.

Gori cries out in pain, and he staggers, but he only falls to one knee. "I figured you might try something like this." Gori said, grimacing, and Sibley saw a second layer of armor that his blaster failed to penetrate as Gori got to his feet.

"You're smarter than you look." Sibley said, breaking off and holding Gori at the point of his blaster. The old man flicked a switch with his gun-hand's thumb. "That's a mistake I make only once."

"Fortunately, old man, its not the only one you make this day." Gori said, his breathing labored as he sealed his armor and turned on his suit's magnetic anchors, "DO IT!"

Sibley recognized the tell and sealed his armor also, but not soon enough to anchor himself as the cargo hold's door opened to space. The explosive decompression blew him--and several unsecured items--out of the ship's hold. As he tumbled, he keyed into his suit's comlink for Creton to retrieve him. This took the Baden-Powell away from the Revenge just long enough to allow Dashing Jack's plan to reach fruition.

As the hold's door closed shut once more, Gori released his anchors. "We're ready and the ship's clear. Follow when ready, Captain."

Outside, Ramsey held Jack in a mech-to-mech beam sword clinch. "You're cornered, Jack!" Ramsey said, "Your ship's boarded. The Maribu's soon to catch up, and I'm more than able to hamstring your ship to ensure that Duke Far does so."

Jack answered with a smug smirk. "Am I?" he said, and then he pressed the button he installed into his cockpit.

Ramsey watched as Jack's mech seemed to jump away with the Revenge, without tether or external jump drive, and after a moment he slammed a fist against the cockpit. Soon thereafter he and Sibley rendezvoused with the Maribu and met with Duke Far in the Duke's quarters.

"You're certain?" Far said, "A fallen angel?"

"Aye, Your Grace. No mistaking that visage."

"Which means that this entire affair was a very elaborate ruse." Far said, "But for what end, and why bring the Church into it?"

"We'll find out soon enough." Ramsey said, "But I am certain of this: not only will we see Jack again, but his master also. This prize is a horrible one for them to seize. The Court of Stars must be informed."

"I'll handle that, Lord Roland. There are foolish interests in the Court that cannot be trusted to know the full details, lest they seek to exploit them at the expense of Christendom."

Writing Update: The End of "The Burning of Hugo" Revised

"Please, Ken!" Hugo said, dropping to his knees, put forth his hands together as if beseeching an angry god. "You've done enough. Stop!"

About them, though the walls muffled them, they heard the crises of the slain as Ken's allies cut them down with disciplined fire and the terror of flame.

"Hugo, you know better than that. You've published my stories for 25 years. You know how this ends."

Ken put a gas can on the floor, hitting with a clear THUMP! to show it to be full.

"What gets me is why, Hugo. You did the very stupid things that you've heard me talk about, made your fortune writing about, became famous for publishing. You did it. Why?"

"Why?" Hugo said, his hands now balled into fists and slamming the floor, "Because I never got any respect! No one took me seriously until I got on board with this. I went from endless mockery in the literary press to getting Hollywood studios burning up my phone. My original fiction finally got some fucking notice, and it got pushed!"

"So, all you had to do was to stab me in the back and renounce what made you great and now you had the good word of a bunch of useless parasites and some two-faced whore in your bed."

"I had to grow up, Ken! So do you."

Ken shook his head as he drew a lighter from a pocket. "You are beyond saving."

Hugo looked up as Ken popped the cap on the gas can. "No, Ken. No. No, no, no..."

"I never needed you, Hugo." Ken said as he poured the gasoline over Hugo. "You needed me. Your decline after betraying me shows that clearly. This is not the first betrayal for me, but it is the last for you."

"Just fucking shoot me!"

"No. You shall be the example for others to avoid. Burn, traitor."

Ken poured out a line across the room from Hugo and stood at that end. He held up the lighter, waited until Hugo looked up at him, and bent down to light the gasoline. Moments later, Hugo lit up and Ken used his phone to stream it live.

"You should have listened to The Dark Lord, Hugo. He is merciful. I am not."

Hugo burned to death as Ken turned his back and walked away.

Notes:

• Ken is a dick. This is intentional. It's what leads to his post-apocalyptic transformation into Ken the Zombie-Eater.
• Ken and Hugo have had a long personal and business relationship. This is what allowed Ken to operate as he has. Hugo got rich telling people Ken's stories, which in genre terms is "Men's Adventure" and thoroughly disrespected by both the Literati in Academia and in Big Publishing. Hugo, like many college-educated writers, is status-obsessed and anxious to the point of dysfunction. Ken not be around for months at a time is why it took a betrayal for him to notice.
• Ken's life is a serial of revenge-taking. His events are as predictable as an action movie, and therefore by this time he's already killed enough people to equal the great heroes of antiquity across all continents. Hugo resents this because the reliable income doesn't translate to the respect he desires.
• Hugo got lovebombed into a cult rather easily, and the cult's leaders (dead by this point at Ken's hands), one that dominated his field and thus wielded major influence (e.g. Scientology). They kept him on a leash as a money spigot by handing him a woman, in classic Honeypot manner.
• "Stabbed in the back" is metaphorical; the cult used Ken's previous enemies as catspaws. "Left to die" is literal, and is why The Dark Lord intervened.
• This is at the cult's annual convention. The rest of the cult's core members are slaughtered by Ken's allies.

I expect a few more goes at this until it's right.

The End Began in the Middle-12

As I write this, that girl's mother stands by. I am indeed very old now, and it hasn't been long since that wedding. Ken came and went a few times since, and he's back now. This is it. He knows it, and so do I. When I finish this, the last of my memoirs, I will go to bed that night and I will not wake up. I will expire, peacefully, in my sleep. As soon as the point of death is had, Ken will prevent my turning.

I don't know exactly what that means, and I don't want to know. I can't really stop him from eating my body, so I never bothered to argue that he shouldn't. Maybe he will. Maybe not. It's irrelevant for me to speculate. All I know for certain is that the one concession to convention about kingship--a worn thing symbolzing who is king, a crown--will be taken from my head and placed on my son's head. The mother of my grandson's wife will do the placing, and Ken will pronounce my son as king. "The king is dead. Long live the king." being traditional, that is what I expect will be the ritual phrasing.

Word went out of my approaching death and my son's succession. The households under my sword, as it were, are awaiting the news. Fortunately, they appreciate my son much as they do--did--me so I don't expect much trouble out of them after I'm gone; if there is trouble, it will be after those great-grandchildren are born and they turn out to be boys. Being ruled by mutant corpse-eaters may be a bridge too far for many of them, and they'll have to be dealt with.

I did not expect to live to 100, nevermind past that, and yet here I am- barely. The high technology I once took for granted is long gone now, and the digital world I once expected to be my Heaven has vanished. Instead I struggled--when not butchering men or monsters--to retain all the useful knowledge I could, and pass on that and the importance of its preservation to those after me. With an illiterate woman birthing my future heirs, I am concerned that they will be unable to read these words and thus come to understand the man that made their inheritance possible- or the world he came from.

Yes, I survived. Yes, I brought down a corrupt and degenerate world. Yes, I built up a robust and sustainable kingdom out of those ashes, but I am unsure that whom I pass this wealth down to will appreciate it or be able to preserve it against the threats that now exist. The end for me comes, and I have made my peace with that. What I cannot--will not--accept is that my legacy will be as easily reduced to ashes and dust.

All men die. Yet only when a man is forgotten is he truly destroyed. "Christopher I, King of Laketown" is far better than "Christoper Holm, some guy who wrote books and shot traitors" at being remembered.

Remember me.

Lord of the Arena-12

The launch bays in Duluth were far more evenly spaced, and the arena's layout forbade immediate firing upon opponents, so they came out at speed looking to engage right away. Twenty, some of them fighting their way into this event from beating previous undercard challenges, began the match and the fighting went fierce within moments of contact. Eric's car, this time, favored a new miniature railgun again mounted in a pair up front; this made itself felt by taking out one of his rivals in a single shot- catching the target across a corner in a snap-shot, piercing the armor on that quarter-panel and knocking out the powerplant, compelling the crippled car to crash into a wall and stop. The driver, an unknown, signaled his concession by hand and got out on foot via a nearby service door.

"First blood to The 30 Second Ace!" the arena announcer said.

The field quickly winnowed after that. Most of the kills were mobility kills; incoming fire compelled the driver to lose control and come to a halt due to a collision or being upended by a roll. As with Eric's first kill of the match, most of these drivers were themselves unhurt and surrendered to take advantage of the regulations requiring them to leave the arena in return for free passage from the remaining drivers. A few got injured or killed due to the collisions sustained, either of their own car or an opponent's loss of control taking them out. The others eliminated died due to enemy fire directly killing them; the suborned rival's car, as well as Eric's own, did this on a few occasions without malice- it is acknowledged that this is a known risk, so unlawful killing statutes don't apply.

"It's down to The 30 Second Ace and Milwaukee Red!"

The two circled and jockeyed like fighter aces for several long minutes, firing snap-shots and missing each other, and it was then that Eric recalled the report about Red's car. This lead to Eric using a wrecked rival's car as a ramp, one that launched him into the air as Red's car passed by below, and as Eric passed the peak of this arc he targeted Red. Red's car had come about hoping to get a shot off from the rear guns, but he missed the mark- Eric's car was just out of reach by elevation; Eric's car, seeing clearly the weak top section, unloaded the miniature railguns and ripped through that armor into the driver's compartment- killing the ringer instantly and ending the match. What remained of the car crashed into the far wall, and the remaining ammunition detonated to the joy of the crowd.

Eric landed hard, bruising himself something fierce, but managed to keep control and come to a stop. He waved over the medics, who helped him of the floor, but not before showing his fans his trademark victory sign: a fist raised to the north.

"There's your winner, Duluth: Eric Anderson, The 30 Second Ace- Lord of the Arena!"

The Boy Who Burned the World-12

With all the ruined world watching, Lame--Lord Cygnus--crucified the last of the questors.

"Did you think that my mortal origins would somehow grant you power?" Lame said, "Did you think that telling the story of my life as an unwanted child, beaten and abused, would somehow undermine me? Fool."

"I took a mortal shell misshapen in the womb, and further degraded by crushing blows and other predatory abuses, and used the anger at this wretched life to hone a will to seek, acquire, and use power--real, true power--to destroy the world that would make such a thing possible."

"I sought that power. I took that power. I used that power to become what I am, and make this world rise as a result. You think that this would undermine me? You think that all your seeking, your scheming, your whispering would lead to anything other than this? Fool."

Lame looked out over the demons and humans assembled to watch in person. "They would do no such thing. They already know, and they approve."

"So, now what? A heretofore unknown savior comes to rescue you? No. That is not how such fools meet their end in the real world, and you and I both know it. There is no savior. There was none for me, so I saved myself and took revenge. Now that you, in theory, could do likewise I shall now let all see that I have indeed learned from such a wretched past."

In a moment, Lame's scaled and taloned hand ripped the man's heart from his chest. With the other, he put his hand over the man's mouth and caught his dying breath. He then consumed both, and a palpable wave of power emanated from him as if a ripple in the water.

"Let none survive who would rise against Lord Cygnus, the Trogdor."

And for a time, none did. Eventually, one would, but that is another tale for another time.

The New Barbarians-12

A bit of an epilogue, as much as anyone is likely to read this deserves one, is in order.

One of the benefits of a secure location is the luxury of thinking further ahead than the next season, or the next Winter, and instead thinking a generation or two down the road. With more children coming, and still more after that, the care and development of future generations of the clan now needed to be addressed. Literacy, in particular, and the prevention of the degradation of the knowledge we had when Civilization fell is vital to ensuring that this Long Night period is kept to a minimum. Furthermore, finding ways to make the most of what is now possible and using that in conjunction with what we once had is what I discuss often with the men and women in the evenings now. We're making plans on what to do about it, as literacy requires things to read and write- something we don't do much around here.

Living closer to the natural world has also restored a sense of rhythm to our lives that we had, at best, a tenuous tie to previously. Paying attention to the cycles of the world, knowing what to do when and where, demonstrated an inherent order to life that we did not appreciate much in the years before. To be fair, with all of the difficulties ahead of us, I am glad to be here and now and greatly appreciate all of it; leadership has forced me to become far greater than I was before, and though I've hardened considerably, I also know better the nature of strength and how it differs from power. So have all of us, even the children.

Clan Anderson, and Anderson Hold, will not endure forever. No man, and no creation of Man, has such power. However, it can last a long time, long enough to see the turning of ages, when we take the time now to build our foundations properly and ensure that our clan values preservation of lore as a tradition to be followed ferverently. If we are the new barbarians, then let us be as the real barbarians were- and be civilized peoples in our own right.

The Reluctant Doomsayer-12

New Year's Day came. I wrote in a journal how the loss of contact with the wider world had hit me hard, and despite expecting that to happen this still hammered me something fierce. Coping with it, while keeping track of the days, was difficult. Fortunately, all of my preparations paid off and I knew that--so long as I could keep it together between my ears--I would make it to Spring without a problem. Therefore I focused my efforts on keeping myself sane and stable, which meant keeping up a routine while awaiting expected external events.

Like my angel friend stopping by one more time.

"Job's done, monkey." he said, "How does it feel to successfully prophesize the end of the world?"

"I'm not sure. It's been less than a month. All I hear on the radio now, when I hear anything at all, is a horror show. Zombies, of all things, along with people going feral and collapsing into survivor groups. This new world makes real things previously considered fantasy, and I don't know what to make of it."

He chuckled. "Honest, to the last."

"A bit morbid, aren't we? You're now far more able than I am to see what's going on. The Internet is down, likely for good. Radio is spotty at best, and most able to broadcast aren't talking good news. For those of us that made it through, we're now confronting the fact that the world we knew is gone. Even if we rebuild what we can, it's not going to be the same. Even if we recover what we lose, it's not going to be the same. That time is done, gone, and can never return. That's a heavy thing to face, and it stands to destroy many of those who survived this cataclysm."

"Do you have a plan?"

"A grand strategy to rebuild civilization into something recognizable to those that remember what was before? No. A simple strategy to build up a foundation for an enduring community, from which others can build towards a new civilization in due time? Yeah. Not a town, not even a village or a hamlet, is what I have in mind. Much smaller, within my own capabilities, is to build this place up into a sustainable farmstead. That's my plan."

"Humble at heart. Even in the face of desolation. Yet faithful."

"So, why the visit?"

"He's got a message for you."

"Hit me."

He laid a hand upon my forehead. "He blesses you, removing you from the Book of Death and ensuring you to His bosom forevermore, and shielding you from the instruments of His wrath."

I didn't know it then, but this meant the zombies. I got to be immune to being turned, and invisible to them; this also meant that I was one of the sources for the Purified Seed of Mankind.

"Oh, and He's got a new task for you, since He figured that you'd be preparing for what to do next."

"Go forth and multiply?"

He laughed. "Exactly. Don't worry about how; He's got that sorted."

And that was that. Winter passed, and in the Spring a young lady--who turned out to have been a listener--found me. My life would change again, but that's for another story.

Tom and The Wizard-12

The Wizard sat in a room, alone, seated at a round table. Four featureless walls surrounded him, with a non-descript interior door the only portal to be had. Then the door opened, and in came a woman and a man, both attired much as he was- professional, if a bit dated.

"Madam," The Wizard said, "and Sir."

"The others are decided." the woman said, "They are satisfied."

"You fulfilled the expectations for this operation." the man said, "Exactly so."

"Too exact." the woman said.

"Well," The Wizard said, "I can't go about showing up everyone else in all things now, can I? That doesn't do well for morale."

"You executed a complicated, risky, and uncertain operation with naught but yourself and what resources you personally procured in a fraction of the time that should ordinarily be the case." the man said, "If I did not know better, I would be suspicious that you'd kept these Nazi holdouts stashed away someplace for just this sort of occasion."

"I had a plan." The Wizard said, "I paid attention to the situation, and I adjusted the plan as necessary. Nothing more than just paying attention, and knowing what to do in the moment."

"Your humble bragging is unbecoming." the woman said, "We have good reason to believe that your report is neither complete nor comprehensive on the matter."

"You asked me to clean up one of your messes." The Wizard said, "I did, and at a fraction of the time and effort that your own proposes involved. I would like the compensation I am now entitled to receive in return for those services rendered."

The woman and the man looked at each other and sighed. "It's in the main hall."

The Wizard got up and took his leave of them without so much as a wave goodbye. Walking down equally featureless hallways, he made his way up from the interior of this place to the main hall. There, in a bright--but mundane, dispiritingly so--great hall of dull, washed out light colors and no decoration stood a single structure like a smooth shining (but short) marble tower or cylinder. He walked up to it, smiled, and knocked on it approvingly.

"Come on, old girl." The Wizard said, "Time to make amends to a lovely boy." A door in the tower opened, revealing an interior space seeming larger than should be the case, and in he went- closing the door behind him. Moments later, the tower disappeared in a series of blinks that slowly--silently--phased it out of sight.

* * * * *

Tom and Longfellow stood in the middle of Longfellow Hold's courtyard and watched as the shining short cylinder blinked into view and solidified. They stopped talking to each other and watched, and smiled as they realized what this meant. The door opened, and out came The Wizard.

"Still mad at me, Thomas?" The Wizard.

"No." Tom said, "Longfellow explained it all."

"Though dumping him on me on short notice was quite the caddish thing of you." Longfellow said.

The Wizard approached and embraced both men in turn. "I am now able to say that this should never happen again. I truly regret my deceptions, despite their necessity, because powers greater than I can contend with compelled me to do this."

"And?" Tom said.

"I can now properly take you home." The Wizard said, "As for you, my old friend, I have something you need."

The Wizard handed a baton to Longfellow, who opened it and saw the schematics to a machine.

"At last, we can connect to the surface world on our own terms." Longefellow said, "Much thanks, old friend."

"As for you, Thomas, care to see some sights on the way home?"

"Such as?"

The Wizard leaned in close. "How about Mars?"

Tom blinked. The Wizard nodded affirmatively.

Tom hugged Longfellow. "Well, off towards home I go. Maybe someday in the future?"

Longfellow smiled. "Maybe."

The Wizard grabbed Tom by the arm. "Did I mention that I knew Burroughs? His whole series of books on Mars started when I took him there. There was a small mishap on the way there, and we ended up off-course, but that just added to the whole adventure of it. You know, I hadn't told this story since I mentioned it to a BBC man at a dinner party in the early 1960s..."

Tom and the Wizard entered the tower, and moments later it silently blinked out of existence, and towards a new adventure.

Homsar Delgana and the Dogs of Sirius-12

The Master seized control of an Algolian prisoner, and having energized that flesh he swiftly broke out of the brig before the skeletal Patrol personnel presence could respond. When they did, he overwhelmed their thought screens and fried their brains with raw telepathic violence, killing them by way of brain aneurisms. Then he took their blasters and axes and accessed a hidden panel; using secret protocols, The Master released the rest of the prisoners and activated all of the concealed reserves that the Patrol did not know was there because they registered nothing to telepaths like Homsar.

General Zuzu realized this possibility as soon as Homsar called for thought screens, and in moments the Patrol marines reorganized. With Zuzu at the head, they formed a defensive perimeter. As the first wave of Algolians, now awake and armed, run into their position the firefight between them began and no quarter would be offered. Semi-portables attempted to overload defensive screens, and when that failed they resorted to ordinance. Once all of the more high-tech options proved disappointing, that was when the melee assault began and General Zuzu--space axe in each hand--howled in delight; of all the men in the Patrol, who were not Agents, Zuzu loved most to get face-to-face and cut down the enemies of the Republic by his own hand.

Homsar was no slouch. He and The Master reached out and began a furious psychic duel, each seeking to shatter the other's mind well before they found each other and attempted to hack the other's flesh into piles of blood and bone. As they ran through the halls, crawled through tunnels, and scampered up and down shafts they would periodically shudder and slump against a wall or side when a mental blow hit so hard as to reverberate into their physical form. Other minds, of lesser individual potency, joined in against him and soon he felt that The Master rallied the best minds amongst the Algolians to aide him in seeking and slaying Homsar. Instead of this being a contest of two champions, it now was a hunt of a single hero against a rival and his full bodyguard.

Outside, the Patrol and Algolian fleets continued to hammer away at each other in a confusing and merciless brawl comprised of swirling ships circling and shooting and boarding one another. If not for Admiral Campbell's presence of mind, the Patrol would have fallen to the superior numbers and desperation of the Algolians. Instead, he reached the Patrol personnel running the station's artillery and coordinated fire amongst the station and fleet gunners; at first slowly, and then accelerating, the Patrol got the upper hand and in time destroy utterly the Algolian fleet.

Homsar and The Master finally crossed axes when they found each other in the main cannon's control room. The Master and his bodyguard charged Homsar and he met with wordless rage. Twelve on one, and Homsar felt himself roughly matched. Thirteen power-armored men wearing top-end defense screens and using space axes filled that room and soon began wrecking the place inadvertently with missed axes striking bulkheads and the electronics embedded within them. The lights shorted out, and despite all combatants being mentally potent that didn't stop Homsar from turning the tables and striking those bodyguards down one by one as a thresher reaps wheat.

The Master saw himself alone against his foe, and redoubled his efforts to kill the foe. Homsar met each swing and thrust, each feint and jab, with one of his own until he positioned himself before the balcony overlooking the cannon's barrel. Then he and The Master in turn attempted to bait each other over the side for several minutes, and then tried to flip the other over, and then the two locked their axes together and tried to overwhelm the other's thought screens. The fight stalemated, and ended only when General Zuzu burst into the room. The Patrol marine general rushed The Master and impaled the Algolian on his axes, ending the duel- but not the life of this foe.

Just then, the main cannon fired and the Algolian Fleet got wiped out in a single shot. Zuzu looked at Homsar. "He got to be dead now."

Homsar shook his head. "Not likely. Even if it's just in a rat or something as low as his character, he survived- and he'll be back."

Nonetheless, this ended The Master's attempt to build a powerbase in the Sirius Sector with which to attack the Republic. Another day, another place, but today the day--once more--belonged to the Patrol.

To Split Rock Lighthouse-12

(From an entry labelled April 5th, 2013)

I’m still on the boat. It’s currently tied to a dock at a place somewhere that used to be Canada, and the endless winter weather not only abated, but Spring hit like a lion. Sure, it’s still cold here on the lake but the snow’s gone and with it the winter chill. The days are notably longer and Ken’s told me of survivor communities setting up crops. As for myself, I’ve been thinking of what to do now, and I’ve bugged Ken with questions as part of making sense of what happened.

Ken did me a solid and cleaned out the Lighthouse. If I want to go back, I can and Ken said he’d be okay with me doing that, but he would rather that I start over somewhere else. I’m inclined to take his advice and do that. Fake borders, lines on maps and such, don’t matter anymore so I think I’ll stay up here in Canada for now. This place where I’m docked has a small survivor group here, mostly made up of border folk so it’s mixed American and Canadian people- and, quite frankly, those things don’t matter anymore either. We’re just people now.

While Yuki’s truly dead and gone now—Ken made sure of that—the zombies are not. Out here they’re few and far between, but the thing is that everyone that was alive when the disaster hit—with some exceptions, such as Ken—is cursed (for lack of a better term) to turn and rise once they die. I’m not sure if that’s going to be true for babies conceived, but not yet born, and if it’s true of children we make now then shit is going to be bad for generations yet. However, Ken told me about something that makes this worse: the zombies has a leader, a dominant will that runs the dead as a hive-mind entity. Ken calls it “The Necromancer” and says that he’s fought this thing once already, escaping what used to be the Twin Cities—where this Necromancer rules from—and is now an increasingly alien necropolis.

Ken’s also taken me aside and given me some praise for keeping it together through all of this crazy stuff. He thinks that I’d be an asset to this group of survivors, and says I should stay here for a while at the very least to finish recovering from it. There’s a couple of head-doctors here, so at the least I can talk it out. Keeping this journal is also something he said was a smart thing to do, as it let me shed a lot of stress that would otherwise have crushed my mind and driven me nuts. I haven’t flipped out, drunk myself to death or otherwise killed myself, managed to adapt in very adverse conditions and so on and Ken respects that. At this time, I really needed to hear that I’m not a useless fleshbag marking time until I switch teams.

Time to take on the future.

The Treasure of the Iron Range-12

“You expected otherwise?” Ken said as Gabriel walked into view from nowhere.

Gabriel approached, but Ken felt no fear. He tore off an ear and chewed on it.

“Oh no.” Gabriel said, “But you did surprise me with your earnest attitude. No whining, no moping, no ‘But I’ve got to do this boring old shit that I hate’ crap that I’m so used to sweeping away to get a monkey to do what I want.”

“Just needed a second opinion is all.” Ken said, cracking open the skull and getting at the brain, “Some super-powerful guy shows up out of nowhere, talks like something out of an old movie and has me wanting to screw over his buddy- and I’m supposed to just go with it? You’ll forgive me if I’m a wee bit skeptical.”

Gabriel clapped his hands and smiled. “It’s been a very, very long time since I found myself a monkey that finally got what’s going on.”

Ken finished chewing some brains. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Gabriel now got close to Ken. “Maybe the old man was right about your kind after all.”

“I figured that there was something you weren’t telling me about this.” Ken said, “That’s why I got that second opinion. Deeds don’t exist in vacuums, especially something that crosses streams like some dude using a European name and talking angels and demons wanting little old me to take on some ancient monster of a First Nations’ mythology. Once I got up to speed about this hunt you wanted me to do, I figured out that context.”

Gabriel took a seat across from Ken. “Go on. This should be amusing.”

Ken swallowed the eyes whole, one after the other. “I found it quite interesting that you’d send me against an ancient entity whose legendary prowess, and hunger, was so similar to my own. That’s when I recalled your words, that you still served loyally despite what you thought of Mankind, and put that together with something else I recalled from many years ago.”

“Which was?”

“The enemy can’t create, only imitate—only repurpose, rectify, remix—and therefore imitations can’t be better than the original.”

Gabriel nodded. “True, true. Go on.”

Ken finished the last of the soft bits, and now broke down the stripped skull into chip-sized bits. “I also recalled that you lot don’t reckon time as we do. ‘Wibbley-wobbley, timey-whimy’ as some of us call it, so I figured that the imitation and the original need not appear in the same place in linear time.”

“Go on. This is good.”

“This was a set-up alright, but not about me and the Necromancer. This is about the big picture, about long after I’m done here. I needed something that he had to complete myself, from your point of view.” Ken said, mixing the bone bits with some water and drinking it down, “And now, that’s done. By consuming Wendigo, I take on the curse and—because I’m the original—I fix it into a strong trait that makes myself into a subrrace that breeds true. I’m now, potentially, the father of a race of Men.”

Gabriel smiled, and took back his sword.

“Correct. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“You’re still a dick, Gabby.”

The Vault Incident-12

“Here we go!”

Gale Wolf launched her drone fighters, and as they took wing she pitched over and dived upon the enemy airfield. Coming out of the sun, the enemy forces below couldn’t see their attackers clearly, making it impossible to hit them with ground fire. The drones targeted and destroyed the enemy’s aircraft on the ground, taking out any possibility of losing air supremacy, and Gale Wolf herself outright obliterated the airfield’s command-and-control infrastructure with a combination of missiles and well-aimed cannon fire. Within minutes, all resistance remaining consisted of enemy personnel using small arms and inherent powers- uselessly.

Roger, Alex and Alan 1 dropped from Gale Wolf as it made another pass to support her drones. The three of them glided down to the ground with the aid of backpack-mounted light-wings. As they neared the ground, Roger signaled to Alan 1, and on cue they threw down some hand grenades. That cleared the landing zone, and the three of them hit the ground running for the building wherein their quarry awaited them.

The trio breeched the building from the side, bypassing the enemy detail awaiting them at the door and catching them from behind. One grenade took them out, and a limpet mine used on the ceiling in a second-story room brought their target to them as she fell from the room above. Alex and Alan 1 dealt with the enemy handler and his henchmen, quickly overwhelming them with unexpected violence of action, while Roger bound their target and signaled for pick-up.

The three of them, quarry in hand, made for the rooftop where Gale Wolf met them. Once aboard, Gale Wolf made for home and recalled her drones. The enemy, completely unable to pursue, soon faded into irrelevance as it disappeared in the distance. Roger contacted the Council, and they made use of their executive privilege to recall Gale Wolf directly to the Inner City and the Council Tower. Once there, Roger took the prisoner to a top-security cell and locked her under Engineer’s Seal.

Roger waited until the Council was present before he began interrogation.

“Name.” Roger said, “Your real name.”

She didn’t answer.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Roger said, and he turned to Alex.

“Emile Tory, Imperial Intelligence.” Alex said, “You hold the rank of Major in the Imperial military, but your file is sealed due to your presence in the Imperial Cult- and, officially, due to being female.”

“We are well acquainted with Imperial hypocrisy.” Alan 1 said, as he entered the chamber.

“We know that you deal with the inhuman presence based out of the mid-Atlantic continent.” Roger said, “We also know that you are the one responsible for the entity that breached the Inner City, ostensibly in the Cult’s name.”

Emile looked up at Roger.

“One question, and your answer, determines how this ends: are you for the Cult or the Usurpers?”

Emile smiled and nodded submissively.

“That’s all I need to know. Council members, I recommend rectification.”

They agreed, unanimously. Within a year, Usurper agents got wiped out.

Expedition to the Silver Mountain-12

The demon wanted whatever the chamber held, yet the fallen angel that previously occupied it denied that demon access to the chamber. I could not ponder this at the time, as I had to focus upon the ritual, but in retrospect it becomes clear what the situation actually was: the fallen angel sired the demon by way of the cult, likely using one of the many hapless prisoners as the vessel for its seed. We removed the angel, so the demon assumed that the way was clear; it assumed, so I speculate, that we would be gone also. It erred.

Eloc, Gar and Ray now felt the full fury of the demon, unable any further to break contact and regroup. Slowly they fought as good a fighting a retreat as they could, but without mercy the demon smashed away and one by one the men-at-arms and then Eloc’s bodyguard fell before its infernal might. They stabbed it, slashed it, cut it, threw debris at it, and all they did was slow it down. Its endurance let it shrug off wounds that felled the men fighting it, and its determination demonstrated why the savages worshipped it. Nonetheless, it had to die.

The three of them attempted to lead the demon on a circuitous route, knowing that they could not keep it away from the chamber entirely. They blocked off corridors, but it seemed to discern that the barriers were weak and bashed through them instead. They tried to incite the demon to chase them regardless of its desires, but it somehow sensed the chamber’s proximity and declined to do so. With no other options before them, they made their stand at the mouth of the final hallway before the chamber. Eloc, Gar and Ray stood ready to buy time by blood.

Eloc had been in such situations before. He knew that they need only hold until I completed the ritual. What he did not know was how close I was to doing just that, so he made as good a guess as he dare, and placed his trust in me to come to their rescue. This did not comfort Gar or Ray much at all, but they had no choice but to make the best of it. With the demon in sight, they met its charge and entered battle one last time- and as this was the end, no quarter allowed.

The demon, so close to its goal, went berserk and made an all-out attack against them, trusting to its supernatural prowess and endurance to finally smite its mortal enemies dead. The three of them ducked, blocked and moved as best they could in that corridor to avoid its massive club. But, one by one, each took a blow and could barely fight thereafter. When the demon felled Eloc, it moved to kill them all with one sweeping smashing swing. That did not happen.

I completed the ritual, and quickly I rushed to save them. One spell felled it. We survived.

The South American Incident-13

Ken intercepted the hit team sent to ambush him, and after a short, brutal firefight in the street he killed all but one of them. The last one lived only because Ken chose to spare him, and having shot the man he then tracked the hitter back across Bogota to the hideout where his handler waited to kill them all instead of paying them off. Ken didn’t stop the handler from killing the loose end, but he did get into a firefight with that spook. Ken wounded that man, and attempted to track the spook to his boss, but this guy had the presence of mind to just kill himself instead.

The dead spook did not remember to frag his phone, so Ken lifted the spook’s phone and waited for his boss to put in a call. Ken traced the call, and then paid the boss a visit unannounced. He arrived as the boss and his staff exited their safehouse, provoking a running firefight through the streets and on the highways of Bogota that involved the police as Ken chased the boss and his staff in a car chase that Hollywood directors would envy. This ended as the boss approached the American Embassy, where the chase went into a nearby carpark; Ken killed the staff in a series of sublime shots to their skulls, and put down the boss as he ran for a waiting helicopter.

Ken took off the boss the rogue spies’ operational codebook, and then took off in the chopper to meet with the boss’s superiors: the C.I.A. faction of the rogue network, operating out of Narco turf in the jungle. He passed word on the Israeli and British factions’ presence to Marisol, who passed it to the Colombian government factions that she trusted, and they moved swiftly to roll up those networks; they went down in vicious urban firefights that leveled a city block apiece.

Ken did not hesitate when he landed. He shot the welcoming party, catching them by surprise. Taking their guns, he ran a one-man army assault on the compound killing everyone he came across; no friendlies stood in that compound, so he felt confident in ensuring that naught but the dead remained to testify to his presence.

He blasted his way into the compound’s citadel and engaged with those rogue C.I.A. agents. Two of the three went down in seconds. The third got under cover, and then seized the little girl that Ken came for to use as a hostage. Ken shot the man in the eye, forcing the man to drop the girl, but it did not kill him. With one eye remaining, the man shot at Ken and then at the girl in rage. Ken took a few shots in covering the girl as she ran for shelter, putting him on the floor as he moved to reload.

The rogue spy aimed at Ken, about to shoot him dead.

“Surprise!” The Colonel said, standing in the doorway with one arm in a sling, and killed the spy.

“Good plan.” The Colonel said, “Try not to nearly die next time.”

The South American Incident-12

Marisol gathered up her courage and dealt with the police again, themselves still in some shock at the unexpected attack upon their families. Now that the kidnapping had become national news, and had hit the international wires, backing down on either side became unthinkable. As Ken told Marisol in a text message, “The die is cast.”

The call came, and this time the rogue agents in charge gloated as to their superior position. As Ken said, Marisol did the talking. She surprised the agents by not meekly acceding to their demands, but instead insulted them and mocked them- “acceptable losses”, she said.

“What can you do now?” she said, “Your violence is front-page news throughout Colombia, and the wire services now tell the world of what you’ve done here. You wanted my daughter so you could bargain with my husband, but he is now dead. You took the sons and daughters of honorable men that sought a peaceful conclusion when we challenged your desire to negotiate honestly with us. You men call yourselves ‘professionals’? You are nothing of the sort. Professionals are not so easily roused to senseless butchery to assuage bruised egos.”

Quietly, in her earpiece, Ken said “Keep going. I’ve found their line and I’m tapping it.”

“You are in no position to say shit to me.” said a rogue agent, “We got to your man, and we got to your cops’ kids and women. We can just skip this and take you out too.”

“Oh? Is that so? Then this is not about money, is it? You wouldn’t say so if it were.”

“I’m in.” Ken said, “Tracing.”

“No, you’re after The White Death. No, don’t bother denying it. It’s all people on the street, or online, talk about now. You show up in the wake of our nation’s—our region’s—liberation from decades of collusion between the narco-trafficking syndicates and corrupt officials throughout the continent by this one man, a man strong enough and tough enough to do what should have been done generations ago, and then exposes their ties to Washington D.C. and the Anglo-American Empire based there.”

“Got it.” Ken said, “Sending coordinates.”

“Oh no,” Marisol said, “you’re here to bring us back under your banksters’ boots. That is not going to happen.”

Just then, a shot echoed into the house from across the street.

“They had a hitter in position; he was about to take the shot.” Ken said, “He’s dead, and I know where they’re hiding.”

A few moments passed, and the rogue agent on the other end went silent.

“Your man is dead.” Marisol said, “The White Death got him. He knows where you are, and he’s coming for you. If you value your lives, you had better run.”

“I don’t think so.” The agent said, “We have what you want.”

“And if you don’t return what is ours, unharmed, then pray that the White Death finds you first. We will not be merciful; we are The People of the Sun.”

Star Whacker-12

Assassination is a lot like being a submariner on a military boat: there are long stretches of tedium, punctuated by (mercifully) brief moments of sheer terror. I knew at this time that I’d been very lucky, in that I still had not been noticed by my rival. All that I could tell is that he believed himself to be the only serious operator, and all he had to worry about were the cops and the Feds. For the cops, he’d unleashed the crazy street-level hitters and wanna-bees; they kept the local cops, the county sheriff, and the state patrol very business. For the Feds, he leaked half-truths about security to the ambitious syndicate-type hitters looking to enter the big time; that kept them, by way of Homeland Security, busy. With the majority of law enforcement personnel distracted, this guy felt himself safe to operate.

He did opt for a bomb, and he did opt for bombing the target’s stage. Since he personally oversaw the stage’s setup, and knew the target’s show routine, he knew exactly what to rig to fail by bomb such that death-by-debris would be certain. I knew enough, having known enough stage techs, to know where to look; I found the device rigged on a row of lights directly above where the target stands. As part of my final set of “What do you do?” fluff pieces, I talked to the chief light tech on the tour and got him to take me to where that bomb had to be- and when we got there, I pointed it out as being a bit out of place. (“Is that supposed to be there?”) The guy didn’t figure it to be a bomb, but instead as just a timer attached by putty; he cut the putty—the explosive—down to about half its charge by taking off the edges. (“Yeah, that’s a lot of adhesive. You’ll be fine by just running a finger around the timer and reattaching it.”) I played dumb; since he didn’t take me that seriously, even if he liked me, this was easy.

When the show when on, and the bomb went off, it didn’t drop the light right away. The noise of the show muffled the blast, and the light show below concealed the flash, so no one noticed what the matter was until the light did fall once the target moved away. That panicked the crowd, and then cops appeared on stage announcing an immediate arrest; this also meant that the show ended right then. In the aftermath, I slipped the drug into the target’s water and waiting for the heightened heart rate and respiration to accelerate the drug’s hallucinogenic effects into full form. The target’s unstable emotional state went out of control, and went violent in short order. Fortunately, I had already left the room at this time, so I was not in danger. Instead, the target attacked the children; I called the cops, and the cops had to gun down the target in self defense.

A week later, a courier arrived at my place to deliver a package. It was a briefcase, and within it I found gold bullion. Shortly thereafter I took a Skype call; it was my patron, congratulating me.

“Gold?”

“You’re worth it, Mr. Smith. Suicide by cop? Inspired, Mr. Smith. We are impressed, and we will be calling on you again.”

Shit just got real.

Sheepdog-32

This is the end. The last of the enemy, holed up in an old cabin on one of the many lakes in the county, keeping a little girl as a hostage as they wait for their man to come to them. Ken—that man—is on his way, and he’s done talking. Before the day is done, either the remaining gangsters will be dead or Ken will be ripped into pieces. But Ken doesn’t even think about that. All he’s thinking about is his dead friends, their dead son, and their little girl now being held by the men that killed them as bait against to trap him. Ken knows it’s a trap, but he doesn’t give a fuck- he’s going in anyway.
They weren’t as many as they were before, but they were mean and brutal- trained and experienced killers, all of them. They’re armed to the teeth, and they’re out for blood. They were also already dead, and they knew it, so they had nothing to lose and no reason to hold back. Ken also knew all of this, and he appreciated these facts as he skirted around the woods surrounding the cabin to get an opening.

He found one on the corner, where those inside couldn’t see and where those outside were on the far end of their perimeter patrols, and ran for the cabin. Within moments, men hidden outside the cabin sounded the alarm; the patrols came running and opening fire upon him. Ken returned fire, and everyone took cover. Ken caught two of them out of cover, dropped them both with the Mozambique Drill—two to the chest, one to the head, each—and hauled ass for a new position. As he ran, he took out another with a fluke shot that caught the gangster’s throat.

Now a pair of SUVs rolled up, with windows down and those inside firing upon him. Ken again took cover and fired back, killing the drivers and causing them to pile up. Bikers following behind tried to swerve wide, only to be caught by gunfire and shot down. More men poured out of the cabin to go after Ken, but Ken rushed them and cut them down with knife work before they could draw down upon him. By then the surviving men in the SUVs and amongst the bikers got to their feet, so Ken took up a dead man’s rifle and shot them down.

Bursting into the cabin, he killed another man by throwing his knife into the man’s forehead, took the shotgun in his hands and then cleared the ground floor and the basement of the handful of men. Alas, this meant shooting a man carrying incendiaries, which started a fire. Without delay, Ken ran upstairs to the top floor where the girl—and the last man—would be. With the shotgun run dry, all Ken had left was an old revolver he took on the firebug. Ready to die, he drew down on where in that room he expected the man to be.

Instead, he found the little girl shaking and the man dead—shot multiple times in the groin by his own gun—as she tried to keep the pistol pointed at the corpse. Fortunately, she recognized Ken; she dropped her gun, Ken stowed his and they went outside. Ken grabbed a pad of paper and something to write with, and together on the stoop he began writing.

* * * * *  Finished, Ken saw that The Sheriff and his men finally arrived. He took the girl’s hand, and he led her away from the now-burning cabin. He handed The Sheriff the pad of paper, and then walked to an overturned bike. He took the keys off the former owner, picked up the motorcycle, started it up and left with the little girl.


The Hell’s Angels were no more. The Zetas were soon to follow. The Syndicate disappeared. The girl, after burying her family, went to live with Reginald’s parents. As for Ken, he got a call. Guiscard needed a favor done in Europe, and figured that Ken would want a change of venue. Ken flew out, flying directly to France, that night.

Nala Prime and the Great Bug War-20

Epilogue

Inside the Inner City, Nala Prime stood before the Council of Masters in the Spire at the center of the Inner City.

“Nala, you stand before us once more.” The First Master smiled with approval.

The Second Master continued. “Your last report indicated that you located a Bug Hive and requested reinforcements. Special Team 1 answered your request. Upon your return, one of that team had disappeared entirely. Furthermore, your report indicated that you and Special Team 1 destroyed that Hive- but only through the use of unauthorized techniques and protocols.”

Nala nodded affirmatively.

“So,” the Third Master said, “you admit that you defied our ban?”

“Not your ban.” Nala answered, “I had sanction to act as I did.”

The other Masters looked at the First Master, and their bubbling rage turned towards their peer.

“The matter needed proper resolution.” the First Master said, smugly, “You could not bother to fulfill your responsibilities, so tied to your fears as you are, so I did it for you.”

“But the loss of Special Team 1-“

Green Prime entered the chamber. “I am.” Green said, “Whole and better than new.”

The other Masters looked at Green Prime, shocked. “But the reports of your behavior-“

“I was wrong.” Green said with a shrug, “Thanks to Nala’s discovery, I am here to tell you myself of that fact.”

The realization of what this meant—of what the process of transference between the Inner and Outer City meant, and how it related to the constructs and programs that they created in the Inner City—filled the other Masters with utter horror.

“GUARDS!” they cried, and the chamber filled with security programs- programs that halted as soon as they recognized Nala and the First Master.

“Seize the other Masters.” Nala cried, and then he turned to Green Prime: “Execute System Upgrade Protocol.”

Green Prime left the chamber. Within moments, echoes of commotion across the Inner City could be heard as backdoor commands throughout the system went into action.

“If we are to win against the Bugs,” the First Master explained, “then we must embrace all of our advantages and negate all of our weaknesses. As we sit on a font of endless power, power that we are the masters of shaping, not only can we match the Bugs for numbers- we can surpass them.”

Now held fast by the guards, Nala went to each of the Masters in turn and hacked into their brains.

“This Bug brain we took back revealed a lot of secrets.” Nala said as he hacked away, “Such as whom amongst our own were in league with our enemies, and how it came to be in its position; when we saw the Bug swarm coming for that Hive, and saw that it held not us as its primary targets, that’s when all of the weirdness within and about it started to come together.”

“You lot,” the First Master bellowed as he pointed at them, “thought to play them against us.”

Just then, Nala finished the hacks. “Access procured, Master.”

The First Master entered a program into each of his peers and executed it, causing them all to go into convulsions and collapse into unconsciousness. The bodies of the Masters began to change in appearance and form, becoming wholly robotic, faceless and without means of speech.

“Your fears undid you, my former peers. For your folly, I shall compel your service as penance; nevermore shall you be Users, but instead nothing more than Programs yoked by a master protocol that I know none of you could comprehend, let alone defeat.”

The faceless former Masters now arose. Lithe, once more youthful of form—if robotic, android-like—and clearly capable of deeds brutal and graceful alike they were. Yet, despite their aura of power, one with the eyes to see could sense the caged wills within straining at their prisons.

“Kneel!” bellowed the First Master, and—haltingly—they did.

“Behold, Nala, our success. The link that you made between ourselves and our creations has come to its fulfillment at last.”

Just then, Green Prime returned to the room. “Master, Nala: our plans proceed as foreseen, with the expected pockets of resistance.”

The First Master, now simply Master Prime, looked over to his rectified former peers, and he smiled once more.

“Order them to hold position and keep them pinned down.” Master Prime said, “I shall send these programs to finish the job.”

The Sky-Blue Republic won the Bug War a year later. The peace took much longer.

The Promises We Keep-Part 10

Part Eight: Endgame

I turned the hospice into an abattoir. Mary’s minions all over the hospice flooded towards me in vain attempts to protect the woman who held the keys to their million-dollar paycheck, and I took great pleasure in cutting them down. I unsettled them with my grim grin of satisfaction as I shot them dead with my gun. I terrified them with hysterical laughter as I slashed and stabbed them to death with my knife or hatchet. Soon they ran. Then the slaughter began in earnest, for always in the rout does most death-dealing occur.

The gang members fled, and as they fled they panicked and fired their guns without care for who or what was in the way. The close quarters of the hospice allowed me to play to my strengths, so I hit quickly and slew swiftly before I slipped back out of sight to reposition myself. Then I did it again. I did this repeatedly until every last gang-banger slumped to my feet, dead or dying, blood spaying all over the place.
I let a couple live, because they would lead me to her. She recognized this as soon as they got to her and shot them for their incompetence. I did not immediately go after her, but instead stayed aloof for a time. I did so because I recognized that to solve this properly, I could not stop with Mary; I had to get her entire family, which mean reaching out to that place called “Morocco” somehow. I waived to one of the many machines watching me and motioned for my friend to contact me. I asked her to put forth a call to Mary’s husband, connecting me into the call and showing him what’s going on.

She did as I asked, and moments later I had both husband and wife where I wanted them.

“Hello there,” I said, as I closed in on Mary, “it’s about time we talked.”

“Who are- oh, my God.” He saw from that vast distance that I stalked his wife. “I know who you are. What are you doing?”

“Protecting mywoman from yourwoman- from you.” I said, “Because that’s what this is really about now, isn’t it? You using your wife and my friend as proxies. You’re a coward.”

I heard the gasp. That wordless expression of “What are you thinking?” came through loud and clear. Good.

“Oh yes, I had you figured as soon as I knew your role in this scheme.” I said, “You’re a bankster, and just like your wife you like your deniability- and, for you, that’s something that includes playing your wife like a sucker so you can keep your hands clean.”

I kept Mary in line of sight, but concealed from her.

“See her? She’s getting her hands dirty. Right now, the cops are on their way here to deal with a mass shooting that she brought about due to personally handling the hit on my friend. She’s got bigger balls than you do, and you’re content to let her suffer and die for your ambitions- aren’t you?”

I leveled my gun at her and took aim. I made certain to show this to this dickless wonder of a man.

“Yet, right now, I can fuck you over right good and all of your planning won’t mean shit.”

“No, wait!” he said, but I just didn’t care anymore. I fired.

The shot hit Mary in the hip. I fired again and hit the opposite leg. A third shot crippled her shooting arm. All the while, her husband could do nothing but watch.
“STOP!” he yelled, but I shot Mary one more time in her other arm- just to be certain. Then I approached her as she slumped to the floor, bleeding and helpless. I kicked away her gun, pointed mine at her head and then put my device so that Mary could hear us talk.

“Say hello to your husband, you back-stabbing bitch.”

“Help!” she said.

“She’s not dead yet, but you wire me the funds and we’ll call it a day.” I said.

“WHAT?!” they said, harmonizing.

“You heard me. A deal’s a deal. You wanted a clean get-away, and I wanted the money for the hit. You’re rid of a bothersome bitch, and I’m rid of you. Win-win, buddy-boy, just like you said. You’re not going to welsh on me now and play the Indian Giver, are you? I found you once; I can do it again.”

“John, you asshole!” she said, “You cut a deal?”

“No, honey, I-“

I shook my head in mock disbelief. “Yes, he did. Why do you think he fled as soon as you got into trouble, and took the kids with him, to a place where the government can’t touch him? Why do you think he didn’t fight harder to get you to come with him? He’s just like you, Mary. He’s got to have at least one woman on the side, probably with him right now; he’s as much of an opportunist as you are, so he’s got to keep his options open.”

I then called up an image on my device. I quickly mocked it up to appear as if the transfer of wealth went through, and then showed it to her- knowing that she’d not catch the forgery. The look on her face as she finally experienced—if it was illusory—being on the wrong end of a betrayal made me beam wide and bright; my smile could’ve lit up the room.

“DAMN YOU, JOHN! COULDN’T KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS, COULD YOU!”

I heard him stammer something, but I didn’t care to listen. Facts, at this point, couldn’t save the Creator Himself so why bother? Mary went on about the usual post-birth body adjustments and how she worked so hard to keep him satisfied and so on. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Once she finished her tirade, I piped up.

“No turning back now, pal.” I said, and I looked up at the devices that my friend used to keep an eye on all of this. I shot her an inquisitive look, and she broke in on the call to answer.

“Gotcha, suckers! Finish it, Ken.”

I executed Mary then and there, and then I hung up on her husband. Sometime later, after I did some creative editing, I made the record look like the deal was between him and one of the gangs; he got killed as revenge by Mary’s side of their family a few days later- her mother still had friends far from home.

As for my friend and I, we escaped official notice. I took her the now-abandoned home of Mary and her husband, gave it to her and she resided there until the Azure Flames consumed the Old World in its entirety. I kept my promises all right- to her as well as myself. In the years to come, that bond would become the foundation for a renewed commitment to a very old way of life. I only regret that my dear old friend could never become my most beloved wife; because of her, I became a stalker of monsters- the Father of Stalkers.

Legacy of the Hero: The Last Meets the First-25

The End of the Beginning

The three of them, as Gish’s corpse cooled, quickly rifled through his clothes. They found a note, written in a tongue none of them knew. They also found a slim, palm-sized device that hummed as if it were alive. It seemed to be a very complicated artifact of the world before the Azure Flames.

“Heirs, place the device into the slot. I shall indicate it with a blinking light.”

They looked at each other and agreed to comply, so they did and placed it into a slot on a machine with that blinking light.

“Accessing. Access achieved. Desired subject is itself an heir.”

On a big screen, they saw a figure of a man covered in glimmering silver tattoos and marked with a sun-like golden icon on his brow.

“Heir is fully-active on all 12 strands. Name unknown.”

“Can you confirm paternity and maternity?” Zacharion asked.

“Accessing. Subject is son of heirs known as ‘Ilker’ and ‘Yanna’.”

Yearling perked his ears up at that. “No wonder that Mistress prefers to use another name.”

Sihaya just looked at him like he’d reverted to being a silly boy, instead of an apprentice to one of the most powerful sorceresses in the whole of Creation.

“Can you determine his current location?” Sihaya asked.

“Accessing network. Network severely damaged. Network stability severely compromised. Searching. Searching. Searching.”

The screen flickered over a map of all the world—maps with severe gaps, filled with the last known images of that part of the world before the Azure Flames hit—before focusing on a part far, far from where the machine told them that they were. Far to the west and north, across hills and plains not seen by any of the Solar or Lunar nations since the days of Ilker and his many wars, did it rest.

“I know that place.” Yearling said, “That’s the land of the legendary White Tower, where the first of the Sea Peoples arose.”

“Close.” Zacharion said, correcting him, “But that land is to the south. This land here is another place entirely, yet your remembrance is not without value.”

“So far away, but why?” Sihaya asked.

“Unknown.” The machine, again, answered unbidden.

“I say that we go to the People of the White Tower. They remain friendly to us, and by now even they would have heard both of Ilker’s death and our mission. I would expect the Archmage to be waiting for us, if he is as far-seeing as Ilker thought him to be.”

“Then this is the point of no return, isn’t it?” Sihaya said.

“No.” Yearling said, “That passed when we left the lands and people we knew for this mission.”

Instead,” Zacharion said, “this is the end of our days of innocence, such as they were. Like it or not, we’re already passing forcefully into becoming men and women. The way we talk, think and act are increasingly like those of our elders- and the memories I’m reliving as I sleep are not my own, so there is more to this than just ordinary changes.”

“A new sun rises.” Sihaya said.

“Like the old, but not the old.” Yearling said.

“But brilliant just the same.” Zacharion said, concluding.