Leading Edge Issue 62, "Friend, Inc." by Leading Edge

S c i e n c e

Issue 62

F i c t i o n

a n d

Fa n t a s y

June 2012

Science Fiction and Fantasy Senior Editor Daniel Friend

Editor

Emily Adams

Fiction

Caitlin Walls, Fiction Director Daniel Teichrieb, Fiction Director

Art

Shannon Williams, Art Director Zachary Horlacher, Asst. Art Director

Poetry

Caitlin Walls, Poetry Director

Production

Marie Stirk, Production Director

Circulation

Amber Thomas, Circulation Director

Development

Nyssa Silvester, Developmental Editor

Marketing

Jessica Landry, Marketing Director

Website

Drake Terry, Webmaster

Slushmeister Neal Silvester

Staff Benjamin Blackhurst Andrew Boyce Sara Butler Diane Cardon Amy Carlin Ed Eschler Gordon Goesch AmberLee Hansen Kevin Haws

Benjamin Keeley Brandon King Courtney Moyer Joshua Pothoof Jenna Roundy Sarah Seeley Neal Silvester Angela Smith Acacia Woodbury

This issue is dedicated with very special thanks to Summer Hanford.

Copyright ÂŠ 2012 by Leading Edge. Leading Edge, Issue 62, June 2012. Published biannually by students and alumni of Brigham Young University with assistance from the BYU Department of Linguistics and English Language. Single copy price: $6.95, plus postage. All payments must be in U.S. dollars. Back issue requests and all correspondence should be sent to: Leading Edge, 4087 JKB, Provo, UT 84602. For more information, see page 117. Unsolicited submissions are welcome. All submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. If the manuscript is non-disposable, the SASE must be of sufficient size and postage to return unused submissions to the contributor. Leading Edge does not assume responsibility for lost submissions. Electronic submissions may be sent to fiction@leadingedgemagazine.com. For more information, visit our website at www.leadingedgemagazine.com or see page 116.

ISSN 1049-5983 All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Contents do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brigham Young University or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers,

You’ve probably noticed that this issue is about six months late. The financial crisis has finally caught up to BYU and, by extension, to us. For the last year we’ve been struggling not only to put together a quality magazine while juggling class, work, and personal lives, but to do all that while figuring out how to fund Leading Edge completely on our own. It’s been a bumpy ride, but I think you’ll agree that the stories in this issue prove that we’ve succeeded. Along the way, we’ve started selling PDFs of back issues on our website and retooled our business model. You can also now email your short story and poetry submissions to fiction@leadingedgemagazine.com instead of sending them in via snail mail. Above all, we’ve pioneered a new developmental editing service, in which our experienced staff will review and offer comments on your story’s plot, characters, world building, and writing style—all for much less than a freelance editor would cost you. You can read more what we offer and how much authors have loved it on our website. We’re still scrimping and saving, but we’re back on our feet. To keep moving forward, though, we need your help. We need you to like us on Facebook and share us with your friends. We need you to keep sending us your stories and poems, and try a developmental edit if you can. Most of all, we need you to tell everyone you know that Leading Edge exists and that it’s awesome. With word of mouth, we’ll be here to stay. Thanks for reading.

Daniel Craig Friend Senior Editor

Table of Contents a Duckman

Neal Silvester

The ordinary superman.

Friend, Inc.

William Fraser

Made to be together.

Ferka

Mackenzie Parker

His song can calm the storm.

In the Shadow of Scythe Matt Moore

“Do it for Daniel.”

Suume

Elena Yazykova

“One begins as All, and All begins as One.”

Cover art by Ben Bronson (front) and Anna Repp (back).

Poetry b Blue Eyed Monster

Einsteinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Brain

When the Aliens Came

Heather K. Sanchez E. P. Fisher

Timons Esaias

Contest Guidelines b

Graphic Novel b

Adam Hanny

Book Reviews b Chilling Tales: Evil I Did Dwell; Lewd Did I Live

Unforgettable: Harrowing Futures, Horrors, and (Dark) Humor

by Michael Kelly

by Paul McComas

Illustrated by Lou Badillo

Duckman Neal Silvester

“There was a time in my life when I thought I was developing

electricity-based superpowers.” “How old were you?” “Twenty-six.” The patient, Pete Ballard, fidgeted in his position on the red leather couch. The listening psychiatrist took down a single note. “I see. What age are you now?” “Twenty-eight.” “And you don’t feel that way anymore?” “Well, that’s . . . that’s what I’m here to talk about, Dr. Vasicek.” “Then I think we’ve found a good place to start. What were the symptoms of this thought process? What led you to believe you were—” “Small things. Like every time I got in and out of my car I got a little shock. When I would walk under streetlights they’d turn off. Stuff like that. Or maybe it was just those two things. I don’t know. I don’t remember.” “What made your, ah, superpower symptoms stop?” “Never figured out the streetlight one. Probably just motion sensors malfunctioning. I don’t know. But it stopped after a while.” “And the car?” “It was just static electricity. The particular way I opened the door and sat in the car. Something with the metal strips on the doors.” “And that was it?” “That was it.” “So it seems you were already prone to—well, it seems you were in a state of mind where you thought this was a possibility, something plausible. Were you?” “Yes. And I had been for fourteen years before that. Sixteen, now.” “What happened sixteen years ago?” “I drank potentially radioactive water when I was twelve. Just once. Played around an old abandoned factory or power plant or reactor or something. I’m still not sure exactly what the place was, but I drank some water from a pond nearby. It was a dare; I got twenty bucks out of it, but never got sick. Nothing weird happened at all, no reactions or 7

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anything. But I always remembered . . . maybe even hoped. For most of my life I’ve been watching and waiting for something to happen. Never realistically, don’t get me wrong. But . . . I’ve just always had my eye out for it. I mean, maybe it would have taken time to develop inside me, with some kind of delayed effect. And that’s why I thought that way two years ago. That . . . was . . . my mindset. That’s what led me to believe.” Dr. Vasicek waited a moment, making sure Pete had come to a stop before speaking. “On the form you mentioned that you had seen another psychiatrist at what looks to be around the time you thought you were developing these powers. Were those meetings for that or for something else?” “That was for that. It was Dr. Blackhurst. He gave me some meds. Really helped. Through the meds and some counseling I realized how ridiculous and unrealistic my ideas were. I recovered from that mindset completely. But . . . but I’m experiencing that kind of stuff again, and Dr. Blackhurst moved away a year ago. I thought maybe the effectiveness of the meds was wearing off. Maybe I need a higher dosage, or something entirely different.” “Maybe. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe we can fix it with a bit more counseling. We’ll have to see. Now let’s talk about what kind of ‘stuff ’ you’ve been experiencing lately. Is it anything like what happened two years ago?” Pete exhaled slowly and shook his head slightly. “I think they’re just dreams. They must be. All the experiences end with me waking up.” “And the experiences are . . . ?” “The experiences are superpowers. More than electricity-based ones. Different stuff. Stuff no one should be able to do. I should know; I’ve read a lot of superhero stories.” “You read comic books?” “I read graphic novels.” “Yes, yes, excuse me.” Dr. Vasicek scribbled some notes down at this. “What kind of . . . powers . . . did you feel you gained?” Pete let out a long breath through his nose and pursed his lips. It was several seconds before he spoke again. “It started out small, a few months ago. I used to go running every morning. One time my best friend Lorne, who had just moved in with me, wanted to come along. When he asked I got the feeling that he wanted to show off. That was always his kind of thing. But I didn’t really care who ran better; I was just glad to have him along. Running could get lonely. Life could get lonely, too. It was good that he moved in with me. He’s been my best friend since we were kids. Middle school, I think. We were in the same scout troop. He’s actually the one who dared me to drink the water. “But anyway, the next morning, the Saturday right after he moved in, we went running, out in the fields, you know, the countryside, where I used to run a lot. I hardly ever saw anybody else out there, so I never thought about how long or fast I was running. But with him there . . . well, we both kept running for a long time and at a quick pace. We talked a lot. I was happy to have my friend back. But I remember looking at him towards the end and catching the expression on his face. He was breathing harder than I was, and he looked—well, on his face was just total confusion. I think it was because he

Duckman

expected to beat me, leave me behind, make me eat his dust. But if anything I was doing a lot better than he was. We finally stopped and he was tired, you know, bent over, hands on his knees. He asked me if I realized how long we’d been running. I just shrugged. I didn’t know and didn’t care. ‘Five hours,’ he told me. Five hours. It hadn’t felt like that at all. Maybe because it was so entertaining to be talking with him again and I just didn’t notice. I was hardly winded. After that he never asked to go running with me again. I guess he just didn’t want to compete.” “Have you ever considered running a marathon?” Dr. Vasicek asked with a chuckle. “You sound like a perfect candidate.” Pete, lying on the couch and staring straight ahead without any focus at all, shook his head slowly. “I never really did much running after that, actually. Just once, and I’ll tell you about that in a minute. But Lorne and I, we started doing other things. He showed me a video game that I had never heard of before but was one of those hidden gems that nobody else ever knows about. We played that a lot . . . though I did catch him running again one time. It was at night. I don’t know if he was training himself to be able to beat me someday or what. He never knew that I saw him, and I didn’t care enough to bring it up. At that point in my life I had really gotten over running. Never picked it up again.” “Well, that’s a shame,” said Dr. Vasicek. Pete shrugged. “Anyway, that’s when I first noticed something different in me. Maybe something superhuman.” “People run marathons often,” Dr. Vasicek said, “and that takes about four or five hours. It’s hard, but people can do it. Nothing superhuman about it.” Pete shrugged again but said nothing. “Was there anything else that made you think—?” “Of course. Running isn’t a superpower. If it was, then Forrest Gump should be wearing tights and a cape.” The doctor let out a laugh. “I’m glad we’re on the same page then, Pete.” “But,” Pete said emphatically, “it could indicate superhuman strength. That’s what I’m getting at. I told you I was hardly winded, remember?” “Mm,” said Dr. Vasicek, scribbling some more notes. “Was there anything else that could have, ah, indicated— ” “Oh yeah. Of course. That wasn’t the worst of it. That was just the beginning . . .” Pete trailed off. “So these other indicators . . . ,” said Dr. Vasicek after a few seconds. “Yeah,” said Pete, coming back. “There’s other stuff. But the thing about it is that I don’t know if it’s real or not. I could have been dreaming. Anything’s possible in dreams. And this is the stuff I’m really here about.” “You mentioned the possibility they were dreams before. Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help. And in any case, I’m glad you’re investing some trust in me.” “I just . . . I don’t want to go crazy. Or feel like I am.”

“That’s what led me to believe.”

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“I don’t want you to either. That’s why I’m here. To help you through this. So . . . whenever you’re ready, go on.” After a couple of moments Pete was ready. “I was swimming at Lake Wombat with some friends. I was underwater, feeling my way around with my eyes closed. My hand touched something that felt really bizarre. I opened my eyes to see what it was. It ended up being just an oddly textured rock with some algae growing on it. But I could see it so clearly. Lake Wombat is usually pretty murky. That’s why my eyes were closed at first. But then everything all of a sudden seemed so clear and, and, and . . . immediate, and I felt a kind of hyperawareness. And then as I’m just floating there in the water, looking at this rock, I realize, Wow, I’m just floating here, not moving at all, not even kicking. Then I do start kicking, just slightly, and I make to swim away and my hands and feet feel so much more powerful. So I look at them, and that’s when I see the weirdest thing: my hands and feet seemed like they were webbed. Flaps of skin connecting the fingers together. I felt the same sensation in my feet. And then I realized something else—I realized how long I had been underwater, and how all this time I never felt the need for air. Something about my breathing had changed. “I don’t know what it was, but it was like I could breathe the water almost, like a fish, or an amphibian. Yeah, more like an amphibian, because they can breathe above water too. I don’t know too much about how that works; I majored in accounting. But anyway, I stayed there, underwater, kind of freaking out, not sure what was happening, but not wanting to go back up, because I wanted to figure out what was going on. I swam around a little bit, and it was so easy. I just went. Wherever I wanted to go underwater. It was like it required no effort at all to move, like walking down the sidewalk. Minutes went by and I just kept swimming. But soon I started to get tired. Not from the swimming. It was more like drowsiness. It didn’t feel at all connected to my movement or my need to breathe. And eventually I lost consciousness. I don’t remember that, but I remember waking up on the shore, perfectly dry, my feet and hands back to normal, and my friends all around me. They told me I almost drowned. And now I wonder if I almost did. And maybe all that stuff was just a dream while I was really drowning. Does that ever happen?

Duckman

I’ve never heard of it before, but it would make more sense than what I thought was happening.” “I’m not sure,” said Dr. Vasicek. “I’ve never heard of it either. But I know that the exact opposite happens quite frequently. People often dream that they’re drowning. It usually symbolizes repressed emotions or unresolved issues. So perhaps yours is a unique case.” “What would it mean, do you think?” Pete asked, turning his head to look at the doctor. Dr. Vasicek seemed to be suppressing some kind of facial expression, but Pete couldn’t tell what it was. “I have a notion,” the doctor said, “but we’ll get to that later.” Pete turned back, a bit unsettled. “Now Pete, you mentioned that you majored in accounting. Is that what you do now?” “Yes. I’m an accountant.” “Did you want to be an accountant?” Pete shrugged. “It was practical and I’m good with numbers.” “How do you feel about that job now?” “It’s boring but I deal with it.” “Yes, I can tell. Video games and graphic novels. And other things, I’m sure.” Pete said nothing but continued bobbing his head up and down. He heard only more scribbling. He waited till it stopped. “There’s still another experience,” Pete said. “The biggest one, actually. The one that weirded me out the most. The one that scares me the most. But also the one that thrilled me the most.” “And that would be . . . ?” “I flew.” Pause. Then—“You flew?” “Yes. Like a bird. But not like a bird. I didn’t flap my arms. It was more like . . . gravity had no effect on me. Almost like being underwater. I could move freely through the sky. It started the next time I went out jogging. I was in the countryside, alone. I was sprinting, going really fast, making huge strides like a gazelle. That’s how I picture it in my mind, anyway. As I ran I came across this big boulder. Something compelled me to go straight for it, so I did. I jumped up to it, intending to climb it, but I didn’t even need to. I reached the top in one big bound, and then leaped off again, into the air, and never came back down. Not for a while, anyway. “I told myself I had to be dreaming, that this stuff doesn’t happen, can’t happen, by all the laws of physics, by all science we know now. But I felt it. I felt the thrill of personal flight. I knew what it was like to be a bird, except birds take it for granted. I was soaring, Dr. Vasicek. I can still remember exactly what it felt like. Just floating on air, floating in nothingness. I let the wind take me wherever it wanted. “I remember feeling it pass through my fingers, blowing through my hair. I didn’t flap, but my arms were still out, like I was gliding on them. I went higher and higher, bouncing along on the wind until the ground was way down below me. I could see the

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entire geography of the countryside. And then—just like in the lake, I started to get tired. Drowsy. Not physically tired, but mentally. Just like before in the lake. And while I was up there I thought about why that might be. “I thought that maybe these weird abilities I have—maybe that’s what it costs for me to use them. Maybe it takes a lot of mental exertion to do what I do. But it’s mental exertion that I’m not actively aware of. Like my . . . subconscious or something. I don’t know. But my vision started fading up there. I was losing awareness. And so I nose-dived. Nearly straight down, headed right for the rock I had jumped from. Just plummeting down, down, down. It was scary, I mean, I was terrified—but at the same time it was so . . . thrilling. I wasn’t really afraid at all; I knew somehow that I wouldn’t get hurt, but that sensation of falling . . . I think we’ve all felt it in dreams before. And just before I hit the ground I lost consciousness completely. And that was it.” “And you woke up immediately after?” “Well, here’s the thing. I know what ‘falling dreams’ are like. You fall and fall and then right before you hit the ground you wake up. I’ve had them before. This wasn’t like that, though. This was different. It was like I actually fell asleep in the dream itself—I didn’t wake up immediately when I hit the ground like you do in normal dreams. I felt like I was asleep for a while, or unconscious, and much later I woke up. Right next to that boulder. My head was really sore; I think it was bruised pretty bad. So I must have hit it somewhere. Either on the ground where I fell, or . . . or I guess maybe I could have somehow struck my head on the boulder when I was running, and all this was another crazy dream, like in the water. “I really should emphasize that I don’t honestly believe that I flew. I just say I did because it felt so damn real. So vivid. And I’ve never been a vivid dreamer. The images in my dreams have always been fuzzy and vague and undefined. But I don’t believe myself. I guess I really could be crazy. I don’t want to be, but if I am I need to deal with it. That’s why I’m here. But I’ve never heard of dreams like this before. I’ve never heard of anything like this.” “Except,” noted the doctor, “in comic—er, graphic novels, yes?” “Yeah, I guess so. But . . . do you ever fall asleep in dreams? Can that happen?” “If I understand you correctly, you’re saying there was a period of darkness and unconsciousness between the dream itself and when you woke up. Yes?” “Yeah, exactly. Exactly.” “Well, hm. I’ve never heard of that either. You’re right—sleep doesn’t work that way. Dreams always occur in the last stage of sleep. I’ll have to do some research on this and get back to you. But first some questions. Are all of these experiences one-time events? Have you ever gone back to try and test these capabilities of yours a second time?” “I never have. I’ve been careful not to.” “Why is that?” “I don’t want to be crazy. I don’t want to indulge in something that may not be real. It’s just—it’s just too much for me.” “Hm,” said the doctor as he took some more notes. “Now, have you told anybody else about these experiences?”

Duckman

“I told my best friend about it. Lorne. He was the one who suggested they might be dreams. Before I hadn’t even thought of it that way because they felt so real. He told me I should get it checked out. He recommended you.” “Lorne? That name does sound familiar. Was he a patient of mine?” “No, he’s just a therapist or counselor or something, kind of like you. Um . . . well, that’s weird. I should know what he does. But anyway, I just know he doesn’t do the kind of therapy he thought I might need. I believe he works in the same medical group you do. I don’t remember exactly. But he gave me your number and here we are.” “I see. Now Pete, I should have asked this earlier, but are you still taking the medication Dr. Blackhurst prescribed for you?” “Yes.” “Okay. Now let me ask you a question, Pete. What do you do for fun? You mentioned graphic novels and video games. Are those pretty regular escapes for you?” “Yeah, you could say that. I read sci-fi and fantasy all the time. Or I used to. I also used to write short stories, but that got too discouraging from all the rejections. Haven’t even tried to write one for at least three or four months. These days it’s pretty much just the games.” “Oh, you’re a writer, too?” “Not really. Like I said, I never got anything published, and the ideas kind of stopped coming. I used to draw some, too. But I think the last thing I drew was a superhero costume mock-up. That was about two years ago. Around when I thought I had electrical superpowers.” “So you like to escape into other worlds. Would you say that’s generally true?” “I’d say that’s generally true.” “Tell me, Pete, when was the last time you read the news?” “Can’t remember. Been a while, though.” “Do you think you’re, for the most part, aware of what’s going on in the world around you?” “Probably not, no.” The doctor was scribbling swiftly through these last few questions. It was a while before he spoke to Pete again. Then at the same time both he and Pete glanced at the clock on the wall. “Looks like our time remaining is quite limited, and I’m afraid I don’t have the answers quite yet. I’d like to meet with you again sometime next week to discuss this some more, perhaps probe a little deeper. Would that be all right?” “Sure.” The two of them stood and shook hands. “I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this, Pete. I’m glad you came to me. We’ll get this figured out.”

“So you like to escape into other worlds.”

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“I sure hope so,” said Pete with a sigh. “Thanks. It also just really feels good to talk about it all so openly. Thanks.” Dr. Vasicek showed him to the door. As Pete was stepping out, the doctor spoke up one last time. “One more thing, Pete, and this is very important,” said Dr. Vasicek with a seemingly warm but undoubtedly condescending smile, accented by just a hint of joviality to make it sound nice. “Take a look at the latest headlines when you get home. Think about them, and then come back next week and we’ll talk some more.”

“And the master of the house is home!”

Pete hadn’t even closed the door when he heard Lorne’s voice. He paused as his sharp-nosed friend came into view, a bundle of cash hanging casually in his left hand. Pete looked closer and saw that they were all twenties. “Where did you—” “Not even a word of greeting. I am irrevocably offended. But this gives me the opportunity to be the better man and ask how your day went.” He paused, and composed his angular face. “So: How did your day go? And the chat with the psychiatrist? I forget his name.” “Vasicek. It went fine,” Pete said. “Both my day and the chat. They went fine. He wants to meet with me again. Lorne, where did you get all that money?” “The piggy bank.” Pete stared at him, not amused. “Fine then, just the bank.” Lorne grinned. “I got a bonus last week. Didn’t I tell you?” “No.” “Well, I did, and these are the proceeds. Come on, I’ve been waiting for you to get home. We’re gonna get a few games. Play all night. You in?” “You’re buying?” “Mr. Ballard!” Lorne exclaimed as he put on his jacket and zipped it up about halfway. “I very much am buying. I believe I made this clear!” Pete continued to eye him warily for several seconds before sighing and shaking his head. “Works for me,” he said resignedly. “Aren’t Fridays wonderful?” Lorne said, putting his arm fraternally around Pete as they walked out the door. They drove to the mall, parked, entered the department store that bookended the mall, rode the escalator down, and passed the various shops and stalls on their way to the game store. All accompanied by Lorne’s frenetic commentary on everything he happened to see along the way. Pete mostly listened in silence, only occasionally adding a word of affirmation or agreement here and there.

Pete could see the devilish trickster in his impish eyes, in his roguish grin.

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“I find it hilarious how the Disney store is right across from the ladies’ lingerie store. I have to wonder if that was done accidentally or if there was some nefarious purpose to it. Get ’em while they’re young, I suppose? Anyway, here we are.” There they were. At the game store. They stepped inside and started scanning the shelves. “What are we looking for tonight?” Pete asked. “Whatever catches your fancy,” Lorne replied. “And what’s the budget, exactly?” “The budget is blind. Doesn’t matter. Pick what you want, Pete. Don’t look at the price tag.” Just then the store clerk finished with the other customer in the store and addressed Pete and Lorne. “Can I help you guys with anything today?” “Not right now, thanks,” Lorne said brightly. “All right. Let me know if you need anything.” And he went back behind the counter. Pete separated himself from Lorne to examine a display of a certain series of games, six different ones laid in a flimsy cardboard stand. He picked one up and started reading the back. After Pete had spent a few minutes of examining each one, Lorne passed by him and said quietly, “You want those?” “They look fun. And they’re all multiplayer.” “We’ll get those.” “No, Lorne, you don’t have to get all of—” Lorne shushed him. Pete could see the devilish trickster in his impish eyes, in his roguish grin. He knew that face. He knew Lorne was up to something. “Just play along, okay?” Both glanced at the clerk, who was doing some kind of cataloging in the drawers behind the counter. He hadn’t heard them. Pete felt an incredible amount of trepidation. And yet, at the same time, a bit of the high, a bit of the adrenaline he knew Lorne was also feeling. And so he said nothing. Just watched, just waited. Lorne hadn’t even done anything yet, but out of nervousness Pete started to sway and bounce on the balls of his feet. Something he had done since childhood. “I think I’m gonna check the used games,” Lorne said out loud. “Hey, guy, you don’t sell old Super Nintendo or N64 games, do you?” The clerk glanced briefly back at them. “All the cartridges we have are for the handhelds. Oldest discs we sell are for the original Playstation. Not too many of those, but they’re gonna be in that bin over there.” He nodded in the direction Lorne was already heading and went back to his cataloging. “Thanks,” Lorne said, and started in that direction. As he did so he ever-so-slightly bumped into Pete, who was in midbounce. Pete stumbled backwards and fell over, knocking the cardboard display down. Games spilled out and the clerk rushed over. Lorne carefully sidestepped out of the way and out of the view of the clerk. “Sorry, sorry!” said Pete. “Hey, no problem. You okay?” asked the employee, whose nametag said “Nick.” “Yeah, just fine. I’m a bit clumsy. Sorry,” Pete said again, and started to help pick up the fallen games from the floor.

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Lorne, out of view of the clerk, shook his head quickly and mouthed at Pete to stop. Pete frowned. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” Lorne said out loud. “And I am. Most dreadfully so.” As Nick continued helping Pete to his feet, Lorne righted the display and started putting the games back in their slots. Nick, distracted, did not see what a horrified Pete saw: Lorne silently sliding a copy of each game from the display into his half-zipped jacket. At the fourth stolen game, Nick the clerk happened to turn around to look back at his counter. Lorne stealthily stayed out of view, stepping to the left as the clerk turned to the right, and then to the right as the clerk turned to the left. He then zipped up his jacket all the way and floated like a butterfly to another corner of the store, where he pretended to be interested in a different game. “Well,” said the clerk after everything was back to normal, “is there anything more I can help you with?” He looked to both Pete and Lorne. Pete, his heart beating rapidly, said nothing. Lorne, however, spoke, and quite calmly. “Yeah, I think I want this one, actually,” he said, bringing the game in hand to the counter. “Grand Theft Auto?” “Grand Theft Auto.” “And that’ll be it?” “And that’ll be it.” Lorne paid and the pair left the store. Pete’s step was swift, Lorne’s buoyant. Neither of them said a word until they had left the mall entirely. It was then that Pete realized he was holding his breath, because it came out like a punctured balloon. At this Lorne laughed loudly. “Some high, huh?” “I can’t believe that just happened.” “Did you like my fancy footwork, maneuvering my way through that store?” “You were always more graceful than I was, Lorne . . .” “Thanks. I did take ballet for three weeks when I was seven. Mom always wanted a daughter. My name was supposed to be Lauren.” “. . . but still, you shouldn’t steal things.” “So I have kleptomaniac tendencies. What the hell of it?” “It’s wrong.” “Oh, hell. You’ve always been a good guy, Pete, just like I’ve always been more graceful. You know what I’ve called you? ‘Impeccable Pete.’ And I’ve always looked up to you for that. Or at least for your good intentions. But saying something is ‘wrong’ is just silly. This is the twenty-first century, Pete! What’s wrong for you isn’t necessarily wrong for me.” “But you gotta live by society’s rules if that’s where you want to live. It’s our civic duty to—” “To what? Conform?” Pete’s brow creased. “That’s not what I meant to say, but I suppose it fits.” “What were you going to say?” “I don’t remember now.”

Duckman

“This kind of talk bores me. Mr. Ballard, you are a dullard. That’s why we’re gonna go home, get plastered, and play these games until we pass out. Deal?” “Yeah, deal. I guess.” “Cheer up, little buddy. Tall buddy, I mean. By morning you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

cd Pete had meant to wake up early the next day, Saturday, and go for a run. Talking about it with Dr. Vasicek had made him somewhat eager to go at it again, to see if he could match his pace from that last run so long ago. It had been a long time, and he knew he was out of shape. Or should be, he thought that night. He closed his eyes, knowing tomorrow he would test it. Instead, though, he woke up at noon with a bad hangover and a cowlick on the back of his head, the only place he had enough hair to bother with. His comb-over was getting thinner every day. He also found, through squinting at the mirror, that he needed to shave. Nah, he thought. I’ll do it later. He went out to the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. His hand wavered between Lucky Charms and Wheaties. Ultimately he chose the former. Remembering Dr. Vasicek’s advice just as he was about to take his first bite, Pete brought out his laptop and pulled up a local news website. It had been quite a while since he checked it. That was another thing he had abandoned shortly after Lorne moved in. Lorne provided conversation that was more entertaining than reading the news. The site finished loading and he stared transfixed at the headline: SECOND BIZARRE HEIST BAFFLES AUTHORITIES Supposed “Supervillain” Steals Millions More Pete’s eyes sprinted through the article. “Could a supervillain be real?” it asked in its opening line. Apparently a man—or woman, the point was made— dressed all in black, wearing a ski mask, yellow-rimmed, bulbous black goggles that made him look like a bug, and some kind of buzzing, backpack-looking apparatus on his back, had robbed a bank single-handedly. The words of bystanders and witnesses declared categorically that he had used some kind of supernatural methods to get the money; he had the ability to fly and hover. They also joined with the voices of witnesses to his previous robbery in testifying of the strange buzzing noise the flying apparatus on his back made, and reiterated the nickname given to him before.

“Could a

supervillain be real?”

Leading Edge

“The Black Bee,” said one Karen Jones. “That’s what we’re calling him. Or it. I’ll be damned if that’s just a man. I swear I saw him fly. Just like a supervillain from the movies.” The robber, supernatural or no, made off with millions of dollars, and left no trace behind, just his costumed image on various security cameras. The article was rather skimpy on what exactly had happened. Pete guessed no one, not even the police, was really quite sure, only that what they saw was extraordinary and strange. “Since when do you read the news?” came Lorne’s voice. Pete detected a strain of irritation in it. He glanced up briefly and saw him standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “The psychiatrist you recommended told me I should,” Pete said simply as he put another spoonful of cereal in his mouth and continued to scan the article. He could definitely see why the doctor—the psychiatrist—had told him to read it. “Hey,” Pete said, “why did you refer me to a psychiatrist and not just a psychologist or therapist?” “I want the best for you, buddy,” said Lorne, patting him on the shoulder. “Ordinary psychologists or therapists can’t prescribe you anything. Psychiatrists can give you pills. And if it’s pills you need, then I want you to have them.” Pete’s eyes left Lorne and once more passed over the news article about the supposed supervillain. He then looked up the archived articles to see when the first incident happened, and found it was just a short time ago, a matter of weeks. Lastly he signed up for instant online notifications of developments on the Black Bee story. Yes, he could see the point Dr. Vasicek was trying to make. That was obvious. But there was also a certain fact Pete remembered that easily invalidated the psychiatrist’s assumed point.

The next Friday came.

“Well, Pete? Did you get a chance to read the news? Catch up on current events?” “Yeah, I did, actually. Pretty interesting stuff.” “Notice anything particularly relevant to you?” “Of course I did.” “And what was that?” “Comic books in the news. A masked supervillain on the loose after stealing lots of money. And listen, Dr. Vasicek, I know exactly what you’re trying to get at with this. You don’t have to ask those condescending questions. I’m on your side; I think I need help. But this line of thinking isn’t the solution.” “What line of thinking do you mean?” Pete sighed. “You think my subconscious mind is making up this stuff about having superpowers because I see it in the news, because somewhere in the last few weeks my brain picked up the headline but it never consciously registered with me. Something like that?”

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“Well, yes, something like that. I think those kinds of headlines and what’s going on in the world today can have a substantial effect on the minds of ordinary people. Don’t you think that’s a possibility?” “Maybe I would. But it’s not the case.” “How can you be so sure?” “Because these headlines started only about two weeks before my appointment with you.” “And?” “And I scheduled that appointment three weeks before we actually had it.” Silence. Vasicek, though appearing quite calm on the outside, was clearly scrambling for words on the inside. “Are you sure?” he said, his voice leaking some of his fluster. “Yes. It was Wednesday the twenty-second. I remember that very clearly. I checked the online archives of the news and found that the first incident happened on the thirtyfirst. Our appointment last week was on the fourteenth.” More silence. “Otherwise I would probably agree with you,” Pete went on. “I don’t feel like I have a great hold on my sanity these days.” “Well then, maybe that’s not the answer after all. We’ll have to probe a bit deeper now, won’t we?” The psychiatrist looked a tad shaken as he fumbled through his notes but also seemed to be gradually regaining his bearings. “Now, just because this isn’t directly connected with recent headlines, doesn’t mean it’s not about your subconscious mind seeking release and escape through common themes in your life. Themes like fantasy, like comic books, like superheroes and supervillains. You’ve been involved, maybe even immersed in those worlds for most of your life, no? And up until the last few months, you’ve been doing this through video games and books and art. What I’m suggesting is that your escape threshold has been raised, that those things aren’t good enough for you anymore. And so your subconscious has to step it up to keep you entertained, to keep you, in a very ironic way, sane.” Pete smirked. “Keeping sane by means of insanity, huh? That’s comforting.”

Leading Edge

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it insanity. It’s just the brain reaching out desperately for some kind of release. A normal brain function that may have overstepped its bounds. Keep in mind, this is all conjecture and I’m not ready to declare anything as an absolute. Not yet. Maybe never. The mind is a tricky thing, and I’m not sure if humankind will ever figure out all of its secrets. But let’s move back towards solving the problem. Let me ask you this: about how long do you think you’ve been playing video games?” “Off and on throughout my life. But I probably got into them a lot more in recent months. Since Lorne came.” “Would that have been when you started using them to escape?” Pete thought about that. “Yes, that’s probably accurate.” “Did you feel the need to escape before that?” “I’m sure I did, but never in that way.” “What did you use for that? What I mean is, what kind of behavior did video games take the place of ?” Pete thought harder. “I told you I used to write short stories. Only occasionally, but other than that . . . I guess . . . I guess I used to draw a lot. I know I planned out some ideas for video games. Made up the story and the control schemes. I almost forgot I used to do that. It was fun.” As he said this he did not quite smile, but his lips did curve slightly upward and his eyes lost focus. “Do you ever still feel creative like that? Do you have some sort of creative outlet?” Pete shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I haven’t felt the need for that in a while.” “About three or four months.” “Could be.” “Around the time Lorne came.” “Sounds about right.” “Tell me a little bit more about Lorne. You’ve said a few things, but I’d like to press deeper. Who is he to you?” “He’s my best friend. Now my roommate. We grew up together, became best friends in middle school, but his family moved away our senior year of high school. Between then and now we’ve seen each other off and on, but he was still my best friend throughout those years. It made me happy when he called up one day and asked if I needed a roommate. I didn’t need one financially, but I did need a friend. And I suppose that’s always been an aspect of our friendship—that I need him more than he needs me. He’s a lot more independent than I am. We’ve never discussed that out loud, but I think we both recognize it. Which is why it made me so happy to have him ask me if he could live with me. Since then I’ve felt like we’re equals. It’s a nice feeling.” The doctor nodded and made small grunts of understanding all the way through. “And how exactly would you describe his character? Nice enough fellow?” “I suppose he’s nice enough, yeah. But—” Pete frowned, then smiled to himself. “But Lorne’s always had a kind of ‘disposition for deviousness.’ I made up that phrase a long time ago and it’s always applied.” “How do you mean that?”

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“We were in Boy Scouts together. I eventually made Eagle; he didn’t. He didn’t care for the program too much, but his parents made him go through it. Even though he didn’t like it, he found ways to have fun anyway. Like me, I guess. He had ways to escape. One year at our scout camp he planned a little heist of the snack shop they had in the middle of the campgrounds. We pulled it off together. But later I felt bad and gave the candy bars back. And I guess . . . I guess something strange happened last week. Lorne and I went to the mall to buy some video games. He ended up stealing a bunch of them. That wasn’t the strange thing though. That was normal for Lorne. What was strange was how I felt about it. When we first got out of the mall I felt bad, sure. It bothered me. But that feeling only lasted a few minutes. Not even long enough to take the games back to the store, like I did with the candy all those years ago. And after a while I just didn’t care at all. I still don’t. I mean, I know what’s supposed to be ‘right,’ but I just don’t feel it nearly as pressing anymore. And that’s strange for me. But I suppose I’m changing. We all do, right?” The doctor took his time in responding. “Pete, you talked about how you were always the dependent one with Lorne. That you needed him more than he needed you. Do you think that dependence may have caused a shift in your perspective on the world? What I mean is, given this dependence, do you think you might have conformed to Lorne’s paradigm, Lorne’s proclivities?” Pete lay on the couch in silence for a few moments. After those moments he spoke. “I was always kind of Lorne’s moral foil. I don’t seem to be that anymore. So . . . maybe so. Maybe so. But again, I just don’t feel the way I used to. I don’t care anymore.” “It sounds like your sense of values and judgment might have atrophied along with your creativity. And the evidence of both of these casualties seems to implicate . . . Lorne.” The doctor let that last word hang heavy in the proceeding silence. No one said anything for a full ten seconds. “Do you feel like we might be finding something here? Some roots of your problems?” Again Pete said nothing in reply. Dr. Vasicek let him think and respond in his own time. And finally he did. In a bit of an offended tone. “Dr. Vasicek, I didn’t come here to discuss my relationship with my best friend. I’m not here to discuss how lonely I was before he came back into my life. I don’t see how this connects in any way to the weird experiences I’m having. And so I don’t really want to talk about it anymore. Can we please go back to my real problems?” Vasicek raised his eyebrows and forced a smile. “Sure, Pete, sure. Just—I would advise you, when you’re home, to try to take note of Lorne’s words and actions, and your own words and actions in response. See how he makes you think and feel. And then if you find anything, let me know next week. Okay?” Pete nodded once, curtly. “I understand,” said the doctor. “So let’s move on. There are a couple of questions I have about your incidents, questions I forgot to ask last time. So let’s go back to that. First, did anybody see you do these things, use these superpowers? Were there any witnesses?” “None. That I know of, anyway.”

Leading Edge

Another note on the doctor’s notepad. “How long ago did all these things happen? Did they come all at once or over a long period of time?” “Over the course of a few weeks, starting about two months ago. I don’t remember the exact time span.” More scribbling. “And did you ever go back to test the veracity of these experiences?” Pete paused. A wall was breaking down. “No. I was too scared. Still am.” “Scared? How?” Emotions began to rise. He had to swallow them down. “I’m scared that they might be real. I’m scared that they mean I’m crazy. And if they’re real, I don’t want to drown, or fall from the sky, or anything like that. I don’t want to test any of it. It’s too weird. And it made me so tired. So tired I lost control over my body and everything went dark. Those feelings as I felt myself slipping were some of the most frightening of my life. I don’t want to repeat any of it. And then—and then, what if it’s all real? I mean, what if I tested it and it worked again? What if I actually had powers? What kind of responsibilities would I have? I’m not like the guys in the comic books. I can’t do what they do. I’m not who they are. All my life I’ve thought it would be so cool to be like them. But now I’m faced with the full breadth, gravity, ‘whatever’ of the situation, and I realize I don’t want it. It’s too much. I’m not good enough for it. But at the same time I can’t deny how real it was. I can’t say it didn’t happen. It sounds impossible, but it happened; somehow it happened; I can’t deny that. So that means if it’s not actually real, I’m crazy. But if it is real, and it somehow changed all of science, everything we know, then it would mean my life was forever changed too, and I couldn’t—I can’t—” Pete’s breathing suddenly grew quicker and heavier; sharp gasps escaped his mouth as tiny teardrops formed in his eyes. He kept his face away from the doctor and swallowed a few times to get his breathing under control and his face composed. Dr. Vasicek waited a few respectful moments before speaking again. “I understand, Pete. I understand. I can tell this weighs heavily on you. New, impossible experiences that may or may not be real. I think we both know that whether or not they’re real, both pathways come with huge repercussions. Your entire life would be altered in either scenario. I’m here to help you. Okay? Do you understand that?” Pete nodded and wiped his nose. “Yeah.” “Okay, Pete, just answer me this one last question for me: if the experiences haven’t happened again, why did you come visit me?” “I told Lorne about them and he said I should seek professional help, just in case.” “That was good of him to advise that.” “Yeah. Lorne’s a good guy.” “Mm.” A few quiet seconds passed as the doctor went through some of his notes again. “Well, Pete, I’m not ready to prescribe much of anything right now in terms of medication or specific therapy, but I think I’ll be able to soon, after a bit more

“I’m scared that they

might be real. I’m scared that they mean I’m crazy.”

Duckman

outside research. Oh, and speaking of that, I did check up on the abnormality of your supposed superpower dreams. Where you dream, then it goes black, and then you wake up. I must say, it’s a phenomenon I can’t explain. It seems like you’re a unique case here. Someone special. But like I said, I’m not ready to prescribe anything yet or even come to a definite conclusion. I do, however, feel confident I can do both of those things after our meeting next week. Can you be here same time next Friday?” “Yeah, I can.” “Good. Thanks, Pete. Thank you for your trust. I’ll see you then.”

ete was in his room, at his desk, sifting through old notebooks, old papers, some with drawings, some with words. His hand flipped open to a certain page and stopped instantly. There it was. The final design of the hero Boltaire. He wore sky blue tights, a dark blue cape, and B-shaped goggles with jagged corners that zig-zagged up like lightning bolts. In this picture his cape was rippling in the wind and his body was in a posture of attack. Above him the words “BOLTAIRE: MEMOIRS OF A SUPERHERO” trumpeted the title of his story. In the corner of the page he scrawled these words: “Goal: write the first draft of a short story by my next appointment with Dr. Vasicek, the 28th.” Pete was just about to turn the page of the notebook when Lorne filled the empty doorway. “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the papers with his chin. “Just stuff.” “Stuff ?” “Stuff I did a long time ago. Just looking through it.” “I didn’t know you drew.” “I don’t, really.” “What made you draw him?” Lorne pointed at Boltaire. “Didn’t I ever tell you about that?” “Nope.” “A couple years ago I experienced weird electrical shock things. Thought I might be . . . well, it was stupid. But I felt like I had electric superpowers. Turned out not to be like that at all. But it was still exciting. I felt like I could have been someone. A lightning-based superhero. Like Boltaire here. Or something to do with Zeus or Jupiter, or . . . I dunno. I even started writing my own story.” Pete showed him a fistful of papers filled with handwritten notes and drawings and diagrams.

There it was. The

final design of the hero Boltaire.

Leading Edge

“Whoa, man! Thinking like that’s gonna drive you crazy!” Lorne said, eyes wide with incredulous concern. “Maybe it already has,” Pete said quietly. “But . . . I think if I ever finish this story I won’t make it like a normal comic book. It won’t be a typical superhero story. It’ll be more about Boltaire’s thoughts and feelings about who he is and what he has to do, and less about the action scenes. Maybe Boltaire will have to go to a therapist to talk about all these with someone who will listen. Yeah, stupid, I know.” “Hey, man, don’t worry about that right now. Put those things away, and come with me. We gotta get your mind free. I wanted to show you something anyway.” Pete stood up and followed Lorne into his room, where he was just pulling up something on his computer. “Uh, Lorne? I was about to watch my show, actually. It’s on in five minutes. I was gonna see if you wanted to watch it too.” “Maybe in a minute, Pete, maybe in a minute,” Lorne said as he started clicking and typing his way through the internet. “But Pete, come on—TV, really? All television is just entertainment for your eyes. You just sit there and stagnate. Now with this online game I’m about to show you, it’s exactly the opposite. You’re actually doing something. You interact with people. You get stronger. You get new weapons and skills and armor and abilities. Then you can challenge other players or fight with them on quests with dungeons and bosses and all that jazz. And unlike real life, it is very easy to analyze your progress and know what to do to achieve and conquer more. Look at these graphics. It’s already getting rave reviews from all the major critics. Look at this list here. Nothing but ninety-percents and above, all saying it’s addictive as hell. Doesn’t come out until next Tuesday, but I’ll be buying us both a copy. And I’ll pay for it this time, for the sake of your moral compass.” “It does look pretty awesome,” Pete said, clearly impressed by the images and words on the screen. “Look it up some more; watch the show online later. Aren’t we recording it anyway?” “Mm,” nodded Pete, giving Lorne only half his attention. The other half was fixated on the monitor, where he had pulled up a game review site. As Pete was reading, Lorne started changing his clothes. Pete glanced at him as he was pulling off his shirt. “What are you doing?” “I’ve been in these work clothes too long. It’s the weekend, I need something more loose.” On Lorne’s exposed right bicep was a greenish-blue bruise two inches wide. Pete winced as he pointed with his chin and asked, “Where’d you get that?” Lorne looked down, seeing it as if for the first time. “I have no idea. Shooting hoops or something.” Pete cracked a grin. “You shoot hoops?” “Apparently so,” Lorne said, and he winked. “Yeah, Lorne, I’m on to you,” Pete said, laughing a little. Lorne slowly came to a full stop in his movement and looked at Pete warily. Time seemed to briefly freeze. “You got it when you were out running that one night last week, didn’t you?” Pete said.

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Lorne noticeably relaxed and gave a mischievous grin. Then, shirtless, he bowed and said, “I confess, it was I who ran. Now, Pete, buzz off while I change my pants.”

With the research on the

game and the television show after that, Pete forgot all about his story writing goal and went to bed that night without giving it a second thought. He woke up an hour early the next morning, and after getting out of the shower happened to notice the open notebook on his desk. The thought came to him that now might be a good time to start work on that story . . . But no, he thought. He was too sluggish right now. His mind wouldn’t function properly. He’d start it later when he was more alert, when he had more time to think about it. For the rest of that free hour he went back to read more about the game. It did indeed look quite fun. As Lorne had said, it was supposed to be rather addictive, an entirely different world to immerse oneself into. He ended up late for work that morning, merely from reading about the game. He didn’t think about how distracted he’d become if he actually started playing it. That night he also happened to be too drained from the day’s labors to start work on the story. At this point in the day he just wanted to relax, to be at ease. He had worked all day; now was the time for his rest. With this line of reasoning, the story was easy to put off. Even easier midway through the week, when he began to mentally associate the story of Boltaire with his superpower dreams, and thus with uncertainty and self-doubts, and thus with negativity. The anxiety he felt when he thought about it caused a sharp pain in his gut; avoiding that anxiety became paramount. Get away from unpleasantness: that’s all he wanted to do.

Leading Edge

n Pete’s drive to the appointment that next Friday evening he realized that he had not even begun to work on his goal, let alone have it finished. “Eh, it’s not a big deal,” he said out loud to himself. “I’m doing fine. I don’t need it.” The visit ended up being quite short. Pete had nothing more to say, and the doctor had only a few minutes’ worth of words. “I think you should try to take up running again. You’re good at it, you enjoy it, and it’s a very healthy thing to do for both mind and body,” were the first things Dr. Vasicek said. Pete nodded until he moved on. “I think these experiences you’ve had are symptoms of your subconscious trying to break free of the numbers and tedium of your choice in career. Pete, I feel you’ve got a lot of possibilities ahead of you, regardless of whether or not those possibilities include superpowers. You can be a very creative person. You are far more creative than you think you are. Look at what your mind has produced: false realities that feel incredibly real. I find that absolutely remarkable. You have great potential, Pete. You know yourself how vivid your imagination can be. The wind in your hair, passing through your fingers. Yes?” Pete nodded. “But I find that—and you will certainly agree—your mind’s typical creative outlet has been suppressed by something—or someone—and these wild, out of control dreams, these fantasies you have are your brain’s methods of finding release. You are expressing, pure and simple, but not in what either of us would call a normal or healthful way. Pete, I want to stress this: let your imagination flourish. If you don’t, I fear it may come out in other ways, perhaps even destructive ways. If you don’t get it under control these dreams could be just the beginning.” The doctor, after this serious admonition, smiled at him. “You understand? Yes?” Pete nodded again. “And so, to help you do this, to help you get it under control, I’ve filled out a prescription for you. The instructions will be on the bottle, but it’s simple to remember. Just pop two of these every evening before you go to bed. It should take those superpowers down a notch to normalcy. I think you’ll find a bit more contentment in your life, and a bit more restfulness in your sleep. These also work as antidepressants and have been known to decrease anxiety. Does that sound okay to you?” For the final time Pete nodded. But this time he said, “Yeah. It does.” “And you agree to follow my advice in taking this prescribed medication?” “Yes. I will.” “Very good, Pete. I wish you the best. Don’t hesitate to call if something comes up.” “Thanks, Dr. Vasicek.”

Looking back on it, Pete realized how easily Dr. Vasicek had assumed the

incidents in the lake and the countryside were dreams, even hallucinations, his imagination going haywire. Lorne assumed the same thing. Neither of them, his

Duckman

most trusted confidants at this time in his life, had even come close to believing in the dreams’ reality. They were both intelligent people, empathetic people. They knew what they were talking about. They wanted the best for him. They had both said that. So did these qualifications mean they were right? Was he so off the mark? Was he the false one, the crazy one, the one who was not to be fully trusted? The easiest, simplest thing would be to agree with them. To deny himself, to conform to their view on reality, on what was possibile. To put these experiences—no, these dreams—in his past. But . . . could he honestly call them just “dreams”? Could he really deny the reality of what he felt? Of what he had done? Could he deny the reality of that incident in his childhood that had sown the seeds of extraordinary possibilities? “Lorne, I have a question for you.” “Pete, I may have an answer for you. Talk to me.” “Have you ever had any dreams similar to mine?” “Similar in what way?” “Like . . . superpowers.” “I’ve long nursed a desire for them.” “I don’t mean dreams in that way.” “I know you don’t. I know you don’t. But tell me what you mean.” “I mean where you have this experience of having this power. Flight, let’s say. You can fly. And then it all goes dark, and then later you wake up.” “Actually I have had those kinds of dreams before. You dream something, and then it goes black again, and later you wake up.” So Pete wasn’t unique after all. There was at least one other like him. “But,” Lorne continued, “those dreams have always been ordinary things. Well, weird things, but ordinary for dreams. Nothing that felt like real life. No superpowers like yours. Or like what you’ve said.” Pete stared wordlessly out the kitchen window. No visible reaction. But inside, disappointment. Inside, loneliness. Inside, a creeping feeling of despair, even after all the doctor said. Lorne, finished with packing his backpack, zipped it up and could see Pete’s invisible reaction. “Hey, you okay, buddy?” Pete continued to stare straight ahead but said, “Lorne, do you remember that day? When we were twelve. At that scout camp after the first candy bar heist. At that pond. That duck pond.” Lorne’s face scrunched up as he seemed to be searching his mind. “Nothing’s coming to me,” he said, shaking his head slowly. Pete’s crest fell. Now that was a hallucination too. Was it all in his mind? Was he really, truly going crazy? “You really don’t remember it?” he said weakly. “I really don’t. But I’m going jogging now. No point in sneaking out anymore, right?”

Could he really deny the reality of what he felt? Of what he had done?

Leading Edge

Pete paid him a glance but didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why he was going jogging dressed all in black with the burden of a heavy-looking backpack on his shoulders. He was on his way out the door. “I’ve never forgotten that day, Lorne.” “And I’m telling you, Pete, I don’t remember it at all. Sorry.” The door closed.

Adrenaline propelled twelve-year-old Pete and twelve-year-old Lorne through the

woods, powered their legs as they darted around trees and leaped over logs, shouting and gasping in panic and excitement, electrified in the thrill of the chase. “Did anybody see us?” “I don’t think so!” “What if they did?” “Doesn’t matter. We’re fine. Keep going! Go!” They continued running from anyone who might have witnessed their crime, puffing away like steam engines, their legs in their motion cycling through like rods on a train’s wheels. In their arms, clutched to their chests, were their prizes: boxes of candy bars, two each. Suddenly Lorne’s foot caught on a log and he tripped spectacularly forward, rolling gracefully on his shoulder and back up to his feet like a stuntman. Unfortunately Pete had slowed down upon seeing his friend fall, and Lorne crashed into him just as he was regaining his footing. The candy bar boxes they had before been holding so successfully spilled out of both pairs of arms, scattering candy bars everywhere. After a moment of sitting there dazed in the dust, the boys began to pick both themselves and the candy bars up. “Sorry,” Pete mumbled, collecting Butterfingers from the ground. “That would have been beautiful, Pete, if you hadn’t gotten in the way.” “Sorry,” Pete said again. “Hey, no worries. I’ll just have to make sure you’re not in my way next time.” Lorne grinned. Just then they heard a choir of ducks all quacking at the same time. They looked to the sound and found a pond just beyond the trees ahead. “Listen, Pete. They’re laughing at us. They’re—they’re quacking up.” Pete burst into laughter. Lorne looked at him oddly. “I guess you haven’t heard enough bad puns in your life. Don’t worry, I have plenty more.” Pete’s laughter simmered and he ended up just shrugging at Lorne. Then his attention turned to the forest behind them. “I don’t think anybody’s chasing after us,” he said. “Of course they’re not,” scoffed Lorne. “The plan went off without a hitch. All according to my master strategy. Am I right?”

Duckman

Guilt suddenly soiled Pete’s face, and his shoulders slumped. The thrill he had just been feeling left him, and his whole person seemed to sag. “Lorne, I don’t know . . . we really shouldn’t have done this.” “Too late now, i’n’t, guvner?” Lorne said with a bright Cockney accent. “Look, let’s move. I wanna see those ducks. Maybe play around with them a little.” Pete, whose misgivings didn’t appear at all assuaged, silently complied and followed Lorne to the pond, candy bar boxes in his arms. The pond was green and brown, filled with sludge and scum. The ducks were gathered on the opposite bank, mostly standing still on the shore, some of them waddling about. A few were even quacking at each other. “I wonder what it is they’re saying,” Lorne pondered out loud. “Of course, if that was the sound I made when I spoke, I probably wouldn’t open my mouth at all. Look at them. Such useless creatures. They can fly. They can swim. They can go anywhere and do anything they want, but they just sit there, stand there, float there, whatever, just waddling around, looking ridiculous, making humiliating sounds, and living in this disgusting pond. I mean, they can fly! Don’t they know that? If I could fly I’d use it for something awesome. And speaking of something awesome . . .” Lorne’s eyes had moved from the pond and ducks to much farther beyond, past a tall barbed-wire fence and onto a building in the distance. “What is that?” Pete looked too. “A factory?” “Yeah, maybe. Maybe a power plant. Maybe a refinery. It looks abandoned.” Lorne shot a glance at Pete, that impish grin on his face and mischief in his eyes. “Wanna go check it out?” Pete looked warily at Lorne. He shook his head slightly and started to say something, but Lorne cut him off. “No, wait, I have a better idea. I wonder if—hey, I dare you to drink that water.” “What?” “I dare you to drink that water!” “From the pond?” “Of course from the pond.” “Huh? Why?” “Pete—I have my reasons. Trust me on this.” “What are your reasons?” “Can’t tell you right now.” Pete glanced at the pond with disgust, then back to his friend with much the same look. “That’s stupid. No. I’m going back. And I think I’m gonna give back the candy bars.” “Okay, okay, wait, just wait. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, okay? Just wait. What if—what if this water is radioactive?” Silence. Then— “Like from that factory over there?” “Yeah. Like from that factory over there.” “Or whatever it is.” “Whatever it is.”

“If I could fly I’d use it for something awesome.”

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Pete smirked, letting down his defenses by a hair. “Like those comic books you showed me.” “Graphic novels, Pete. Graphic novels. And yes.” Pete’s eyes wandered back to the abandoned factory, refinery, whatever it was, then back to the pond, and then to the ducks. “It’s still a dumb idea. I could get really sick.” “Or you could get superpowers.” “Like that’s possible.” “Tell you what, I’ll throw in twenty bucks. And you can go buy those candy bars honestly, like your mother taught you.” Pete leered at Lorne. “Okay, sorry, sorry,” said Lorne, his hands up apologetically. “But . . . you could.” “Why do you want me to do it? Why not you? Why not both of us?” “Pete, my friend, this is an experiment. You’re the test subject and I’m the researcher. I just want to see what happens, if there are any results to begin with. And remember, you’re being paid.” Pete’s twelve-year-old mind pondered all these things. Eventually it landed on his subconscious desire to impress his best friend, to be equals with him, to stand on the same ground he did and be respected. This subconscious catalyst also happened to be the reason he went along with the candy bar heist in the first place. But he did not realize this fact at the time, not consciously. And so he agreed. “Twenty bucks?” Lorne nodded. “Twenty bucks.” “And superpowers.” “Can’t promise that. That’s the point of the experiment.” “If I did, what kind do you think I’d get?” Lorne shrugged. “I dunno. That’s part of what we’re trying to find out.” Pete gave him one last, steely look and then knelt down at the pond’s edge. He leaned his face forward, cupped his hands, and brought the brownish-green water to his lips. After it went down he coughed and sputtered. Lorne grinned widely. “You could be Duckman.” “Why ducks?” Pete choked out as he spat out the taste and gathered his breath. “That’s duck dung you’re ingesting. But I suppose there are other bacteria in there too. Could be anything, I suppose. Pondman, maybe. A whole mess of different things. Hmm.” “And you’d be Pondscumduckdungman. Or something.” “Nah,” Lorne said, shaking his head, not laughing like Pete had hoped he would. “I’d be—” He cut himself short, frowned, and narrowed his eyes on Pete. “You could be ‘The Doctor’ and I’d be—gah, never mind.” “What were you going to say?” “I was just trying to fit a pun in there. Something about being a quack.” Pete guffawed, a strange sound for him to make, similar to when he had laughed at Lorne’s first pun. Then again his laughter died away, and the candy bar boxes on the ground drew his gaze. “Okay. I want my twenty bucks.”

Duckman

“Don’t have it with me.” “Then when we get back to camp.” “Don’t have it there, either.” “What?” said Pete, frustrated. “So how am I supposed to pay for these candy bars?” “I can pay you back. Don’t you have money of your own?” “No. Gah. Dang it. You tricked me!” “I guess I did.” “Okay, fine, whatever. I’m returning this stuff. Giving it back.” He started gathering the boxes again. “Are you going to tell on me?” Lorne said, still wearing his grin. “No. But they’ll know I didn’t do it alone,” he said, and turned to go back into the woods from where they came. “Ow,” he heard Lorne say behind him. “What?” Pete said, turning back briefly. Twelve-year-old Lorne was examining his right arm. “I think a bee just stung me.” “Justice,” said Pete, and he headed back into the woods.

It was Tuesday night. Lorne had gone out running again. Pete was at his computer, pressing

a certain key on the keyboard furiously as he fought two enemies at once. Despite his efforts, his on-screen character ended up dying. He had bitten off more than he thought he could chew. As the game took its time reloading to his previous position he alt-tabbed to the internet. He had gotten a notification of an update on the Black Bee story. A live video was playing. “We’re here live at the scene of a hostage situation,” said the reporter in a frantic voice. “A man is holding employees and customers hostage, demanding money and a safe passage out. Police responded to a call that a robbery was taking place inside this jewelry store. We’ve been here for half an hour so far, and the police have nothing else to report, but we have some eyewitnesses here, including the woman who made the initial call.” “It was the Black Bee,” said the woman’s voice. “I saw him. I saw him go in and I called the cops. All in black with those yellow goggles and that buzzing sound. It was real low when he was walking, but I heard it. I heard it and I saw it. I was never so scared in my life. It was him. It was the Black Bee.” The reporter and bystanders were outside some store, yellow caution tape all around, red and blue lights flashing and several different camera crews all filming and talking about the same thing. Pete didn’t move for a while. Slowly he leaned back in his chair and thought about his dreams, his experiences . . . the abilities he had always suspected he might have, the things he could be capable of doing . . . But . . . thinking that way gave him anxiety. His character in the game rezzed and started moving again, and his attention was drawn back to the monitor. Here in the game he had those abilities. And they were so much easier

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to use. He just had to press a few keys and he could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wished. His ears again heard the word “hostage.” Then “Black Bee.” Then “gunshots.” Pete’s eyes lost their focus, and he stared distantly past the screen, through the wall, deep into everything and nothing at the same time. Then he turned back to his virtual world. ·

Blue Eyed Monster By Heather K. Sanchez

I was born a dragon And fell in love with a blue eyed monster. Every night when the moon glows My monster plays his cello For me. The notes are sweet Like cherries, and strawberries But my monster is Even sweeter.

Illustrated by Keriann Horlacher

Illustrated by Ben Bronson

Friend, Inc. William Fraser

Beneath soft yellow lights, in a room of sterile white tile and

gentle machines, an old man lay beneath clean, starched sheets. His skin was translucent. His eyes were milky white. His muscles, once ropy and useful, were now waning and thin. He lay there for a long time, not moving. He breathed. He slept. He waited. The door opened, and someone entered. It could be sensed almost at once that this visitor was a machine, a machine built to look like a man. Silver pupils reflected brightly, and aged gears whined softly as it walked to the old man’s bed, sat slowly into a chair, folded its hands and waited. An hour passed. The man in bed shifted and his eyes fluttered. He turned to look beside him, focused, and said, “Andy.” “Hello, Martin,” Andy said, and smiled. Martin closed his eyes again. For another long while, there was only the sound of the hospital’s watchful devices. One chimed with each of Martin’s heartbeats. Andy again sat patiently, as only he could. “What time is it?” Martin finally asked. “Three o’clock.” Martin lay there once more, this time with his eyes wide. Above him, the drop ceiling panels were decorated with a myriad of miniature dots, a random pattern. One could count them all, given enough time. Given enough minutes, hours, days. “What did they tell you?” “I have been informed,” said Andy, “that only family is privy to such information.” “Family,” spat Martin. He drew a dry breath. “I’m dying.” Something inside Andy’s cranium whirred, paused, shut down. “I know,” he said. “Isn’t that strange?” Andy nodded. His smile went away. “What is it like?” The old man shifted. “Steady.” “Does it hurt?” Martin shook his head. “It’s too slow to hurt.” Andy blinked. “Slow and steady.” Martin nodded. “Like a river,” Andy said. 37

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“I suppose so.” Martin closed his eyes and lay there for a long time. Suddenly he opened them, wide. “Do you remember when we went to that lake? Out past the ruins of that old foundation, the one with no house on it?” “The one that was overgrown?” “Yes, that’s the one.” “I remember,” said Andy. “We caught twelve trout.” “And your mother wouldn’t let you leave the house after school for a week.” Martin chuckled, low and quiet. “It was worth it. That trout was wonderful. I wish you could have tried it.” “If only,” said Andy. “If only,” said Martin. He turned back to Andy. The machine’s bright eyes stared down at him. “That was a lifetime ago.” “Only sixty-eight years.” “Only?” Martin laughed, coughed, and then gathered himself. “Look at you. Not much worse for the wear. You have that repair on the right of your face.” “We hit a fence, when you first learned to drive.” “Your right knee doesn’t bend as fluidly as your left.” “A ruptured valve, catching you as you fell from your grandfather’s apple tree.” “Your hands have been replaced.” “Throwing too many baseballs, swinging too many bats.” Martin looked at Andy. “A hundred repairs, a thousand nicks and scratches,” he said. “I remember them all.” “So do I,” said Andy. “Of course you do.” Andy nodded. “I need that,” said Martin. “To know that you will remember. My summer will live forever.” “Yes,” said Andy. “Good,” said Martin. “If you leave no mark, then what do you have?” Somewhere behind him, several machines felt the tide ebb. Martin closed his eyes and relaxed. He breathed thinly. Old hands released their hold on their clean white sheets. Andy placed his hand on Martin’s forehead. He, too, closed his eyes. They waited. “What is it like, to never age?” Martin whispered. “I think,” Andy said, “that it is no fun at all.”

Friend, Inc.

“Ah,” said Martin. “I knew it all along. Thank you, my friend.” “Always your friend.” “Of course,” said Martin. He paused. He exhaled. A machine sensed an aberration. And the river ran dry.

The technician ran his finger down a list of statistics.

“More than eighty years of service,” he said. “That’s a record for a Friend.” “Yes,” said Andy. He sat neatly in a steel chair, his posture perfect. “The things you must have seen.” The technician lowered an overhead light and pointed it at the back of Andy’s right ear. “Please remain still. You older models have touchy hardware.” He gently prodded with a utensil. Andy turned quickly. He stared up at the man, who took a step back. “What is it?” the technician asked. Andy blinked once, hesitating. He folded his hands together in his lap. He asked, “Will I remember anything?” The technician stared down at him. “Will you remember anything?” From his tool tray he selected a needle-like instrument attached to a long cable. Light glinted sharply from its tip. “Close your eyes, Andy.” Andy did. The technician pulled back a thick flap of skin behind Andy’s ear. The device was inserted. A button was pressed. Eighty-two years became fresh new code.

In the center of the city, a boy and his parents were window-shopping. All three were

dressed smartly, in dark clothing, with nicely polished shoes and neatly combed hair. They stopped at a window where, inside, many figures could be seen standing in different poses. They looked like people. They were machines, designed to look like people. A sign announced discounts on pre-owned and early models. The man considered the display. “Look,” he said. “My father had one of those when he was young.” The boy looked up, squinting. “What are they?” “What are they?” said the man. “Those are Friends.” “What do you mean?” “Synthetic friends,” said the man. “A sort of playmate. You can tell these ones are outdated.” Next to him, his wife read details from the display. “‘Safe. Reliable. Never ages, always engages.’” She raised an eyebrow. “A fake friend. Who thought up such a thing?” The man could only shrug at her. “They look fun,” said the boy. He cupped his hands to the window and peered inside. “Can we get one?” The man stepped closer to the glass. One Friend stood particularly near the window, and he looked into its eyes. The dull, silver pools only stared blankly out.

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“I suppose not,” the man finally said. “I mean, why?” He looked to the boy, but he was already chewing a fingernail, and did not look back up. His wife glanced over the figure at the window. “Really, it’s just plastic and steel.” “Not one of them real,” said the husband. They looked at each other for a moment. The three laughed at his little rhyme, then continued on their way. It was getting dark. They paused only once, in an eddy of cold wind at the next corner. It took them by surprise, but it was inevitable; it was the year’s end, steadily encroaching. The group tightened their coats and, holding hands, crossed the street to hurry home. ·

Illustrated by Hannah Hillam

Ferka

Mackenzie Parker

In the beginning it was said, simply, that he was crazy. When they

saw him, though, risking his life to carry their children away from Nazi raids, the women suddenly thought he was rinkini, beautiful. Eventually, as with all legends, songs were composed and sung—about his bravery, and about the music of his lavuta, his violin. The sound, some say, can enchant the mind of man, and can sway even Mother Nature herself. There were always others. There were always other men, such as myself, who followed him: men who spied, who stole, who fought, and who died. But he was the legend—the hero the children prisoners waited up for, with the hope that they would catch a glimpse of his shadow. Few knew his name, and no man alive had ever caught him. How could they when no Nazi guard had ever seen him, when few Romani knew his face? He was latcho. He was good. He was the ghost the Nazis tried to capture; he was the spirit within every prisoner. Those in ghettos and camps would discover food, or a clean shirt, or a letter from a loved one. And if the forced laborers were lucky, they would turn around and find a dead guard, an open gate, an open road. In the beginning, it wasn’t much. But it was dosta. It was enough. It kept the song alive.

I remember the day I first met him, back when I was still Unterscharführer Klemens of

the Schutzstaffel Totenkopfverbände. I was standing by the edge of the work compound, my hand resting lightly on the gun at my waist. I was the youngest of all the officers there, and, even worse, slight for my age. And if I was truly honest with myself (which I tried not to be), I didn’t want to be anywhere near the concentration camp. I didn’t want to be part of the Third Reich or a Nazi officer. I especially didn’t want to be part of the “Death’s Head Units”—I had gotten nightmares from mere rumors about the camps as it was. I had been horrified when I had been reassigned to guard duty at a concentration camp. I had left the office building in Berlin with the proper amount of decorum, only to dash to the closest trash can and regurgitate my lunch. 43

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But sacrificing numerous meals to trash cans and pretending to support the Nazis kept my family safe; it protected my father, whose mother had been Jewish, and it protected my brothers, who were the prime target age for Nazi recruiters. I tried not to be unnecessarily cruel, tried to be kind to the prisoners, yet there was only so much I could do without getting myself shot. I did what I could. But I was no longer proud to be German. I avoided looking across the yard towards the prisoner barracks. When we had herded the prisoners into the labor detail lineup, one of the older men had collapsed. I’d kicked him in the ribs, as expected, forcing myself to snarl as I told him to get up. He didn’t, of course. He couldn’t. He was already one of the walking dead. I’d wanted to gather him up, carry him back inside and, at the very least, make him comfortable as he died. Instead, I shot him in the back of the head. I felt nauseous, but it was better than letting Unterscharführer Armin drag him off, knowing that the poor man would have then wound up dismembered piecemeal. I watched the prisoners as they rebuilt the wall of the commons, brick by brick. Most of the prisoners worked diligently, emaciated arms struggling to haul up the endless amounts of building material. But one of the younger men, a newer prisoner, moved at a much slower pace—leisurely, almost, and unconcerned. I walked over to the man, sighing in annoyance because another problem meant yet another performance . . . “You! You there! What are you doing? Think you’re on a vacation, do you? Keep up with the others, and get this wall built!” The man set down a brick on top of fresh mortar and turned slowly to face me—revealing the inverted black triangle and black circles sewn onto the arm of his shirt. A special prisoner, even though he was Romani. My admonishment caught in my throat as bright blue eyes stared right through me. There was no fear in those depths, not even a hint of trepidation. The eyes seemed to contemplate me, and seemed to be unimpressed, even amused, by what they saw. The voice, however, matched both the impassiveness of the eyes and of the rest of the face, “Lel the tacho pirro, and it’s päsh kaired. Well begun, as you say, is half done, tacho? But you want the wall baro, not latcho, so, I’ll not worry about the skill of it.” Disconcerted and confused, I saved face by dismissing the man’s words and snapping at him loud enough for the other guards to hear, “Get your part of the wall built by the time the others manage it or you can forget about getting any food!” The man bowed his head in acknowledgment, and turned back to the wall as I returned to my post, mimicking the intimidating military stomp of the other guards. From his post further down the wall, Unterscharführer Armin raised an eyebrow at me. “Trouble?” “Nein. One of the Zigeuner was lagging behind.” “I meant trouble from the gypsy.” I shrugged. “I can’t understand a word those people say. I wish at least one of them spoke fluent German for a change.”

Instead, I shot him in the back of the head.

Ferka

“You should have just hit him; that would have gotten the point across well enough for even a dumb gypsy to understand,” Armin chuckled. “But that one got your message well enough. Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.” I thought of those blue eyes and shifted uncomfortably.

t only took ten more minutes for the prisoner to complete his part of the wall— working calmly but quickly, with a fluid effortlessness that betrayed the hidden strength within his still-lithe form. After a quick, final flourish with his spade, he dropped from his perch atop the wall, bare feet sinking slightly into the muddy ground. He turned towards me, and smiled. “Kamerad Klemens! The shadow moves as the sun commands, and I have done as you commanded, no? What other work do you have for me to complete, may sigo sar te may khav, eh, kamerad ? Before I eat my next meal?” Again disconcerted, I opened my mouth to stutter out some form of reply, but was saved from potential embarrassment when Waldhar, the commanding officer of the camp, strode out into the yard. “Übersetzer!” he bellowed. “Translator!” The strange, blue-eyed Romani turned towards the other Nazi officer, “Hier, Mein Herr.” “Another file has arrived from Berlin. My office. Now.” The prisoner nodded once, and obediently trudged through the mud towards the administration building. But he paused in the open door, and turned back to me. I was still staring at him, openmouthed. “Kamerad Klemens!” he called, his voice ringing across the commons. “Hatch till the dood wells apré.” “What?!” I yelled, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? And since when do you speak German?” He was gone, and the door snapped shut behind him. I sighed, putting my hands on my hips as Armin laughed in my face.

I later learned that the strange new translator had been discovered in the Łódź Ghetto.

He was Romani, but spoke German, English, French, and Polish fluently, as well as some Hebrew and Russian. He was a valuable prisoner, extremely valuable, so he was sent first to a transit camp and then a concentration camp. Kamerad Waldhar had been ordered to keep the translator “comfortable.” Since he was bunked in one of the barracks I was responsible for, I was told I would have to provide any of his approved privileges. But the new prisoner turned down the food from the officer’s hall, gave up his mattress, and refused to wear his civilian clothes. I was surprised to learn that the man had volunteered himself for labor detail. The new translator caused no trouble and was an eager volunteer and a reliable worker. The

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prisoners welcomed and adored him, while I learned to rely on him. He was always at my shoulder, to translate when prisoners couldn’t understand German: “Wo ist deine Karte?” I demanded. “Where is your card?” The woman stared at me, terrified and uncomprehending. I tried again. “Haben Sie noch Zustimmung in diesem Bereich sein? Do you have approval to be in this area?” No response. “Listen, I don’t want to get you in trouble, but unless I see your card I’m going to have to escort you out of this area.” Still no response. I reached for her arm, but she shrank back with a small gasp of terror. Suddenly, there was someone behind me, and a voice in my ear. “Ask, ‘Avez-vous une carte?’” It was the translator. I did so. The woman’s face cleared, and she handed me the tan card I was looking for. In that instance, and in many others, I would have eventually been forced to hurt or punish prisoners if I’d been on my own. But he would always appear, usually with a startling suddenness, whenever problems arose. He helped me keep up appearances, and he seemed to be the only one who understood what a poor Nazi I truly made. We continued to offer various privileges—most of them were refused with a smile, a bow, a shake of the head, and a tone of unswayable firmness. During the first seven months of his residence at the camp, the prisoner only asked for one thing: “Beg pardon, Kamerad Waldhar . . . I have a favor to ask of you . . .” “What?” “Is there any way to recover my violin? It was confiscated . . .” “Perhaps, kamerad, perhaps. It might have been thrown out . . .” “Ja, kamerad, I know. I would like my own, but if it can’t be recovered, is there any way to acquire a different one? It wouldn’t have to be new, as long as it could be repaired easily enough . . .” “Oh, ja! That can be done easily. Kamerad Klemens, look for one when you go into Berlin tomorrow. . . Actually kamerad, I’ll send him with you. He’ll know what to look for, after all. And then he can help you load supplies.” The prisoner smiled, and bowed to the officer behind the desk before turning to leave. He was called back. “One more thing, kamerad. I can’t have you playing that violin in the camp, though, especially not Gypsy songs or any garbage of that sort . . .” “Not even if I played Deutsche Lieder?” Waldhar laughed in pleasant surprise. “I suppose, kamerad, I could let you play German songs to your heart’s content!” The dark-haired man again smiled, and left with another small bow, leaving the Nazi to shake his head in wonderment at his prisoner’s strange request as he signed my newest barrack report.

“Am I not allowed to be curious?”

Ferka

“Well, he timed his strange request well, I’ll give him that,” he mused. “Almost as if he knew I was sending you to Berlin tomorrow . . . But that’s a foolish idea. He’s only a prisoner—a stupid Gypsy . . .” I nodded dutifully. “Ja, kamerad. It has to be a coincidence.” But, for some reason, I didn’t believe myself for a minute.

I awoke just as the first faint orange slivers spilled over the pale crests of the nearby

mountains. I took extra care getting dressed—I was going into Berlin, after all, and every button needed to be polished and my hat needed to be just so on my head. I was beyond excited at the prospect of getting out of that godforsaken camp. Even if I was only going to get supplies, I was still going someplace else—for half a day, at least. When I entered the commons, I saw Waldhar and the translator standing next to the supply truck. The translator’s hands and feet were shackled. Waldhar handed me the keys to the truck and to the shackles. Promising to watch the valuable translator and leave the restraints on, I stepped up into the truck and started the engine. I watched as the prisoner swung himself up into the passenger seat, amazed at the man’s agility, even when shackled. For a while the only sounds were the engine’s rumble and the flap of canvas. But then the passenger turned towards me. “So.” “Ja?” “What’s your name?” I glanced at the man. “You already know my name.” “I mean your full name, kamerad, your first name.” “Why?” “Because I’m curious, kamerad. Am I not allowed to be curious?” “Generally speaking, no. No you aren’t.” We sat in silence again. I felt guilty for snapping at him; he was just trying to be friendly—and I was being the stereotypically unpleasant Nazi. “Bonifaz. Bonifaz Klemens.” The man hummed softly in approval. “Bonifaz, that’s a good name. A lucky name.” “And yours?” “My name?” He sounded surprised. I raised an eyebrow at him. “Am I not allowed to be curious?” He laughed. “Ferka. Ferka Loiza.” “Ferka? It suits you.” He smiled. “My mother thought so.” This piqued my interest. “Your mother . . . Where is she? At the concentration camp?” Shaking his head, Ferka turned his gaze back out the windscreen. “The life has gone out of her shirt. Gone to a better place.” “I’m sorry.” Ferka shrugged. “Better for her not to have seen this war.”

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“What about the rest of your family? Your father, what about him?” “He dances with my mother.” He turned back to me. “And you, Bonifaz?” I was startled. “Me?” “What about your parents?” “That’s none of your business,” I snapped, suddenly worried. Even though Ferka was more or less an ally, I wasn’t comfortable telling anyone else about my family. It was too dangerous. But he refused to leave the matter alone. “Are they proud of you?” I glared at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “Only what it sounded like. Are they proud of you for putting on that Nazi uniform of yours?” I sighed. “No.” “And are you?” “Alles für Deutschland.” I shrugged. “Everything for Germany.” “That was enthusiastic.” I looked at him, fear gnawing at the edges of my stomach at the tone of his voice. His expression was unreadable. “I noticed on your barrack report yesterday that your middle name is Dor.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “What of it? It’s an old German name.” “It is also a Hebrew name.” He looked at me pointedly. “Why did you enlist, Bonifaz Dor Klemens? We both know it wasn’t for Hitler. We both know you’re one of us.” “Us?” “Prisoners. There are many different kinds, some more obvious than others.” I sighed, defeated. “I had to enlist. It would have been suspicious if I hadn’t . . . I didn’t want to, but . . . But it was the only way to get my family out of Berlin . . . My father’s Jewish . . .” “And you wanted to keep them safe.” It wasn’t a question. “You are a brave man, to willingly become a prisoner.” I didn’t deny the statement. Instead I turned the conversation away from myself and asked Ferka how he had wound up in the Łódź Ghetto.

Ferka

“I slipped over the wall, into the ghetto, so that they would catch me.” I stared at him. “You wanted them to catch you? Why would you do that? You’re a gypsy! To them that’s just as bad as being Jewish! You’re lucky some Nazi zealot hasn’t killed you yet, even with all your translating expertise!” Ferka shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Every man must go to the church to be buried some day or other. I know only too well that he who feeds the pig also holds the knife over it when it is fattened. I, the pig, have no intention of becoming fattened, Bonifaz. I intend to help my people.” I shook my head. “How can you hope to do anything? You’re a prisoner, or hadn’t you noticed?” He smiled. “Hatch till the dood wells apré.” “You’ve said that before, I remember. But what is it supposed to mean?” “Wait till the moon rises.” I frowned. “I still don’t understand.” “There are more things to come.” “What sort of things, Ferka? What on earth do you mean?” I sighed in frustration. “Why must you always talk in riddles?” Ferka laughed, a rich, pleasant sound. “Surrounded by you Nazis, my friend, my only defense left has been my tongue. Yet”—I let out a yelp of surprise when he held up the suddenly unlocked shackles—“while they tell lies more believable than truth, their acid corrodes its own container.” He tossed them down by his feet. I started to demand another explanation, but Ferka placed a finger over his lips. “A cloudy morning, Bonifaz Klemens, often changes to a fine day.” I could hear something in the man’s voice, see something in his eyes—a silent promise, a promise of . . . freedom. “So,” I said softly, “I’ll wait till the moon rises . . . And Ferka?” “Yes?” “I’m tired of these cloudy mornings.” Ferka smiled again, and his eyes fairly glittered. “You and I both, my friend. You and I both.”

“Waldhar won’t be pleased if we come back at midnight, you know, Ferka.”

“I know. But, me djan nos. I know it’s here. My own lavuta. I can feel it. I just need to find it. Kulath me lavuta, somehow, amongst these piles and piles of khul . . .” He froze, his eyes on the middle of a pile of confiscated items. Then, before I could blink, Ferka scaled the pile in front of him and then leaped from the top, to another, and another, and another, across the room. He seemed oblivious of the clattering as the piles slipped and merged with each other. He slid down the final pile, grabbed a battered violin case from the middle of it, and held it up triumphantly. I sprinted after him. “What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to get me in trouble? Waldhar himself probably heard that commotion back at the camp . . .”

Leading Edge

I broke off midsentence, suddenly uneasy. There was a strange glint in my new friend’s eyes, and their blue depths almost seemed black. Ferka, without sparing me a glance, savagely kicked a dictionary, a lamp, and a blanket, clearing a space on the warehouse floor—and laid the case down. He bent over, almost reverently, and I watched, silent, as the dark-haired man lifted the lid, then ran his fingers over the four taut strings, listening to the faint scale his fingers produced. Lifting the bow, tightening the frayed horsehair till the wood curved, Ferka picked up the violin, raised it to his shoulder, and stood up. And he was taller, his shoulders straight and confident. His feet were spread apart—providing a rocksolid foundation for the suddenly godlike figure surrounded by piles of confiscated treasures. He began to play. The notes were fast, fluid—and I stared transfixed as Ferka made the violin sing. It was the most beautiful sound, as if an angel had come down from heaven above to possess the violinist in a tattered prison uniform. Fingers flew across the strings, never faltering; memory provided the sheet music, the tapestry of magic that Ferka wove. Silence, then, echoed through the warehouse. I stared at Ferka, awed and speechless. The Romani smiled, and bowed. I, the German, smiled in return. As we drove back to the camp, I could have sworn that Ferka was in the back of the truck playing his violin. But Ferka sat quietly in the passenger’s seat, with the scarred case on his lap and a smile dancing in his eyes. I never saw how or when he managed it, but by the time we arrived back at Sachsenhausen, Ferka was wearing the shackles again. I fought the urge to let my jaw drop. He laughed. “I couldn’t have you getting in trouble, now, could I? I can’t have a decent conversation with anyone else here . . .” I smiled.

I slipped on the sodden earth for the hundredth time that day and would have fallen

again into the deep mud had Ferka not been walking next to me. “Where is that fine day of yours, Ferka?” I asked over the pounding rain. “I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m heartily sick of all this mud!” My friend smiled, even as water dripped into his eyes. “Make the best of it, Bonifaz; no storm can last forever.” “This one’s trying. And doing a fair job of it.” We turned towards the commons. “By the way, what did Waldhar want earlier?” Ferka shrugged. “He told me I needed to be more helpful, or he’d stick me in one of the flooded barracks. So, so, so. I go with you to get more sandbags.” “You should be more careful. I know he’s being . . . well, whimsical, but he might decide to shoot you one of these days.” “Then may I redden the earth with my blood . . .” Ferka shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Whimsical my grandmother’s bodice! Waldhar thinks too much of himself.”

Ferka

We crossed the commons and headed for the entrance gate, where Armin stood supervising the removal of dry sandbags from the supply truck. I took a sandbag and stared pointedly at Ferka. “Waldhar is a decent man.” Ferka, taking the blatant hint, lifted one sandbag up onto each of his shoulders, and nodded to a now-sneering Armin, with the declaration, “I cannot say aught against him.” But as we recrossed the yard, I heard Ferka mutter, “Although the devil himself can be a decent man when he wants to be.” I refrained from chuckling in amusement and instead rolled my eyes at a slyly grinning Ferka. We added our sandbags to the pile in front of the administration building. The prisoners from the flooded barracks in the small camp had been moved to other barracks, and, when they’d run out of room, into the officers’ buildings as the officers hastily cleared out offices and closets. Ferka had given up his quarters for the children to live in, after charging me with the well-being of his violin. I had tried to get Ferka to wear one of the extra ponchos in the officer’s cloakroom, but Ferka had refused. “You! Übersetzer!” Waldhar shouted as he squelched towards us. “Get a poncho. Now. That’s an ord—” His words were cut off by another violent clap of thunder, and I watched in horror as a bolt of lightning struck the nearest guard tower and set it aflame. Waldhar let out a yell of anger as the rest of the officers ran towards the smoldering structure. “This storm needs to stop. It’s unbearable! I swear to God, I would do anything, anything at all, to stop this storm!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ferka’s head whip around. I turned towards my friend, and found Ferka staring at Waldhar with a grin on his face. Those familar blue eyes sparkled with a peculiar sort of excitement. “Did you mean that?” Ferka asked softly. Waldhar turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Did I mean what?” “Doing anything, if it meant stopping the storm.” Waldhar shrugged. “Of course I meant it. I’m sick of this weather, aren’t you?” He started to turn back around, to survey the damage. Ferka’s eyes gleamed. “Let all the women and children go.” Waldhar spun back around. “What?” he snapped. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Let all the women and children go, and the storm will be stopped.” “Stopped? By whom? By what?” “By me.” “You?” Waldhar laughed. “You’re insane! I’m not letting prisoners go just because you tell me to, gypsy! What sort of fool do you think I am?” Ferka still seemed to glow with excitement. “Will you let them go?” “If you manage a miracle? Why not? By all means, I’ll open the gates myself!”

“Let all the women

and children go, and the storm will be stopped.”

Leading Edge

Ferka’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed at Waldhar. “On your honor, German? And your head?” Waldhar’s patronizing agreement was barely past his lips before Ferka was turning and running towards the officers’ quarters. I raced after him, stumbling, as a strange, unexplainable fear filled my chest. By the time I made it through the doors of the building, the hallway was empty, save for Ferka’s muddy footprints and shadow, sharp and crisp in the pool of light spilling from my open door. I stumbled into my room, panting. “Ferka! What are you doing? Waldhar’s right! You’ve gone insane, haven’t you?” The taller man knelt on the floor next to the bed, the now-open violin case pulled out from under the metal framework. He turned as I spoke, half in the act of lifting the violin to his shoulder. He stared at me, eyes blazing. “Kaski san, Bonifaz?” His words were Romani, rushed, unintelligible, almost slurred, volume and force rising as he drew himself up to his full height, his violin clutched in his fist like an impromptu battleax. “But I’m boccalo ajaw to haw my chokkas. And I haven’t . . .” He suddenly snapped his mouth shut, and I could hear his teeth click in the echoing silence. My ears throbbed from Ferka’s shouting. Sighing, Ferka shook his head ruefully, and smiled, almost chuckling, at me. “Have I confused you terribly, my friend?” I managed to smile back. “You confused me when I first met you. So. Nothing much has changed. I don’t mind.” Ferka laid his violin down on the bedspread, stepped forward, and placed his hands on my shoulders. Sludge dripped off our clothes and pooled around our feet, mine protected by mud-crusted boots, Ferka’s bare and half-frozen. He stared at me and I struggled not to drown in those fathomless eyes—a shimmering blue, like the surface of a lake. “Whose are you, my friend?” Ferka’s voice was soft. “You cannot say you are with the Nazis and say you are with me. Bonifaz”—his grip tightened on my shoulders—“I’m hungry enough to eat my shoes. And I haven’t seen a good road or a decent meal since I was young. This devouring of my people, it has to stop. Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m stupid, and maybe this song, this violin—all that I’ve done to help—maybe it won’t be enough. But may my blood spill and my name be forgotten if I don’t at least try. If I cannot succeed, there is a sweet sleep at the end of this long road.” he paused, sucking in air through his teeth, ribcage showing through his shirt. “Bonifaz, my friend. Kaski san? Whose are you?” My reply was a whisper. “I am my own, Ferka. No one else’s. But I’ll keep waiting for the moon to rise.” Ferka smiled. “My friend, the moon has risen.”

“But may my blood

spill and my name be forgotten if I don’t at least try.”

Ferka

erka stood in the middle of the storm, in the center of the camp, his violin on his shoulder and his body as tense as the bow in his hand. I held my breath. On the first note, the wind changed direction sharply and nearly whipped all the onlookers off their feet. The rain swirled around the violinist, moving to the tempo of the beautiful song. Calloused fingers moved furiously on the strings, muscled arm threw the bow across the instrument—yet Ferka was immovable and remained steady, statuelike, as the storm attacked. The camp had gathered as witnesses. The guards’ smug amusement faded as they watched the hurricane-like storm shift and slow. The clouds began to thin. The prisoners’ eyes, wide with hope, fixed on the violinist. As the sunlight crept closer and closer to the wall of the camp, I could feel the excitement and disbelief rippling through the crowd. If I was honest with myself, I wasn’t surprised, really, to discover that Ferka could control a storm. After all, I’d seen the promise in my friend’s eyes—the same promise given in the song he played: “The moon has risen. The fair day has come. Freedom has come.” He lowered the violin from his shoulder. The only movement now came from the drops of rainwater falling from the rooftops onto the sodden earth. I was startled to realize that my friend was no longer moving, even though the enchanting melody still echoed in my head. The song swirled around the commons, around each person, like a charge or current—centered on Ferka, making him appear to crackle with electricity, to seem almost possessed. The blue eyes glowed, feral, as their owner bowed to Waldhar, and the voice rang with confident authority as its owner spoke: “Open the gates, Waldhar. Let them go.” Waldhar laughed. “Why should I do what you tell me to, gypsy?” I saw a flash of unearthly fury flair up in Ferka’s eyes as he let out a strangled yell, starting towards Waldhar, clenched fist rising up—brandishing his violin. Even as he caught himself, stumbling into stillness once more, I found myself stepping forward, speaking out of turn, motivated by the sight of my fellow officers reaching for their guns. “You gave your word, Kamerad Waldhar. On your honor. I shouldn’t think a promise like that could be ignored.” My superior officer turned to look at me, and his sneer sent dread coursing through me. “What motivates such a declaration, Klemens? Hmm? . . . You know, I find it interesting, Klemens, how the reports of other officers mention his various bouts of small misdemeanors, and the subsequent punishments. Yet he seems to always be a model prisoner when you’re supervising. Why is that, hmm?” My chest felt tight. “I couldn’t say, kamerad. Perhaps they have not noticed his habit of taking responsibility for other prisoners’ poor conduct, as I have.” Waldhar’s eyes narrowed. “Really, kamerad?” I nodded curtly. “Ja, kamerad. Perhaps I never report punishing him because I never have had to. I make it a point to punish the correct prisoner.”

Leading Edge

Waldhar kept pressing me. “And what about that violin of his? Kamerad Armin tells me you’ve been keeping it in your quarters. If I didn’t know better, Klemens, I’d say you’ve been doing him favors. Perhaps this lack of punishment is part of the deal.” “You are mistaken, kamerad.” I kept my response curt and respectful, even as I started to sweat. Waldhar’s sneer grew as he turned back to look at Ferka, now trapped between two kapos. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’m not. But our dear little Übersetzer has been getting a bit above himself, I think. Letting his temper get the better of him.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “He needs a good cooling off, wouldn’t you say, Klemens?” I opened my mouth to disagree, but Waldhar continued speaking, nodding to the kapos restraining Ferka. “Go throw him in the storage refrigerators for a few hours. That should take some of the arrogance out of him.” I felt terror well up inside me, fear for my friend. And with it came anger, all the anger and hatred I’d tamped down and hidden inside me for so long. They began to drag Ferka away, and as his feet were forced out from under him, I felt something snap inside me. “You bastard!” I yelled. “You do whatever you like, don’t you? You soulless . . . heartless . . . I hope you suffer a meesa meshina, an ugly death!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to run. But there was nowhere to run to now. . . Because the song was over, finished, and there was nothing left to protect me. There was nothing except the disgusted looks of the other Nazi officers, since I’d let my anger get the better of me—let my Yiddish tongue lose. I’d wrapped a noose around my own neck. Waldhar’s eyes were hard. “Kamerad Armin, Kamerad Klemens is confined to quarters. Make sure he stays there.” As Armin roughly yanked my arms behind my back, I was aware of Ferka’s gaze— filled more with concern for me than with concern for himself. It was the same look I’d seen in my mother’s eyes as she’d boarded the train from Berlin. A strange sort of grief blossomed within my chest, and agonized sobs vaulted into my dry mouth. I stumbled when Armin pushed me, unbidden tears making my chest heave. There was a yell on the other side of the commons. I spun around and saw both kapos sprawled on the ground, as if they’d been thrown. Ferka pointed his bow at Waldhar threateningly. The air swirled and shifted around him, almost whispering, causing his shirt to billow and snap. His lips were drawn back over his teeth in a terrifying imitation of a smile, and his eyes were narrowed and blazing. Every ripple of muscle was suddenly defined beneath sodden clothes, and Ferka, all at once, seemed to fill the very air. His cold voice cut through the still, damp air like a razor—pressing against the bones of my chest. “There are worse things on this earth, Mein Herr, than disobeying your Führer.”

I’d wrapped a noose

around my own neck.

Ferka

An hour or so later, Armin had stopped by to gloat—gleefully telling me that Ferka

was no longer an asset, and was to be hung first thing in the morning. As I lay on my bed, still fully dressed, I thought of my mother, of my father, of my brothers, of the old man I’d shot in my head, of Ferka . . . My eyes stung from the salt water still running down my face; I could barely breathe, I could barely see, but I couldn’t halt my tears. My body ached with the distressing agony of my own stupidity. I eventually succumbed to exhaustion, though I slept fitfully. I dreamt that Ferka managed to escape; that he entered my room, only briefly, as if he was making sure I was all right, before disappearing as silently as he’d entered.

I woke up suddenly, my heart thudding in my chest. It was dark outside the window,

and the pitch-black vacuum had sucked the light out of the room. I found the light switch by feel alone, unable to even see my own hand in front of my face. As I turned the light on I became aware of the faint sound of a violin, somewhere far off. Somewhere outside. I grabbed my boots, yanked them on my feet, and pulled on my coat as I raced out of my room. I ran down the hallway and out into the commons. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The pale blue moonlight created threatening shadows that reached for me as I continued to run, frequently stumbling, across the empty commons. I headed for the supply buildings, past the empty guard towers. When I finally got to the refrigerated storage container, unbolted the door, and threw it open, I was shocked to find it empty. Ferka was gone. I jogged back to the commons, unwilling to look for him in the prisoner barracks. I could hear the music even more clearly—it was exquisitely beautiful, swirling around me, and I felt a compelling urge to follow the sound. I discovered that the main gate was thrown open, the lock ruined, and the muddy road was filled with recent shoe prints. I stopped when I saw them, frowning. There was something strange about the whole situation, something that made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. I turned around and ran to the armory. After unlocking the door with the keys Armin had forgotten to take away from me, I grabbed a handgun and several clips. I loaded the gun, cocked it, and cautiously stepped through the gate. I then followed the footprints around the wall of the camp, and down to the river, my breath forming specters before my eyes. I stopped just where the trail of shoe prints disappeared into the river, aware, suddenly, that the music had stopped. In eerie silence, the water raced by, thundering against the rocks. I looked around, searching for some clue or hint as to what was going on.

Leading Edge

I spotted something dark in the shimmering, icy rapids that sloshed among the rocks. I reached down to pull it out and held the dripping object up. It was a cap. An officer’s cap, with the skull insignia of the SS-Totenkopfverbände. But the black band was thicker, twice as thick as the band on my own cap. It had to be Waldhar’s. It had to be; no other officer in the camp wore that uniform. All at once the memory of the sound of that haunting violin pressed against my ears and made my head throb. The footprints led to the river, implying that whoever had come down to the river, had gone into it. I looked at the water—there was no way anyone would have survived if they’d gone into those rapids. That meant that Waldhar was . . . and I had been following the same path, headed to the river myself . . . Suddenly irrationally terrified, I dropped the hat, letting it splash back into the water. I turned and sprinted back to my quarters. My hands shook as I yanked the door shut and shot the bolt across the door. I left the light on and threw myself, coat, boots, and all, under my blankets. Waldhar was dead. Ferka was gone. How was I supposed to get through the rest of the war in one piece if Ferka was gone? My boots caught on the framework of my bed, and I grabbed at them, annoyed. I yanked them off, and threw them under my bed violently. But they didn’t hit the wall. There wasn’t a thunk—there was a clattering, a skidding of another object beneath my mattress. I hung my head over the side of my bed and nearly laughed out loud in relief. The violin case. Ferka had left it there, and he would never have done that unless he was planning to come back. At least, I dearly hoped so. I grabbed the handle, pulled it out, and brushed off the mud my boots had left on it. I held onto it desperately with one hand, even as I fell back asleep, afraid that it would evaporate into the night like its owner.

I was awakened by a splintering crash—followed by loud, joyous cheering that made

my tired head throb. Still clutching the violin case, I stumbled outside into the commons. It was packed with cheering prisoners. There were no guards, no men in Nazi uniform. There were only prisoners, headed for the still-open gates. I turned around and, for the first time, looked at the hallway of the officers’ quarters. Mine was the only door that had been shut—the others were thrown open, the keys, for some, still in their locks. Frowning, I turned back to the commons, and went down the steps. The ground was still soaked, but without my boots, I didn’t slip like I normally did. Some of the prisoners glanced at me as I weaved my way towards the gates, perhaps concerned I was planning to lock them in again. I wasn’t going to attempt to create any sort of order all by myself, and I certainly wasn’t going to try and stop the exodus. I wanted to leave with them. Get the hell out.

Ferka

But I froze once I got to the front gates. There were men outside them, directing the prisoners, guiding them in different directions. But they weren’t guards; they weren’t Nazis. They appeared to be gypsies. And there, sitting on the edge of the guard tower and overseeing all the commotion, was Ferka. He had changed out of his tattered uniform and now wore a thick, brown coat and a red and yellow scarf. His dark hair twisted in the morning breeze, and his eyes glittered from the light of the rising sun. Those dancing eyes then landed on me, standing at the base of the tower, still clutching the battered violin case. “Bonifaz, my friend,” Ferka called down, “it is a beautiful day now, is it not? Join me up here where a man can breathe.” I climbed up the ladder and perched on the ledge, wrapping my free arm around the nearest post. “I thought you’d left. Run off in the middle of the night. That you’d killed Waldhar and run off. You did kill Waldhar, didn’t you? I found his hat in the river . . .” Ferka nodded, not looking at me. “And the other guards?” Ferka nodded again. “I don’t care, you know. I’m not upset. I was only terrified when I thought you’d left.” I handed him the violin case. “Until I found this under my bed. You wouldn’t leave without that, would you?” Smiling, he shook his head. “I left it so you would know I was planning on returning . . . Which reminds me, I don’t suppose you want to come with us now?” “With who? You?” He nodded. “Me,” he said, and gestured to the other gypsies handing out supplies to the emaciated men and women, “and my men. The Allies are in the south; that’s where we’ve been taking the freed prisoners. But until they fight their way further north there are still plenty of others who need help.” He looked at me. “It’s not an easy task we’ve undertaken, nor is it safe. But I would like you to join us. After all, my friend, not many would put up with me and my elliptical plans to the extent you have. I’m grateful to you, Bonifaz Klemens.” “And I owe you my gratitude as well, Ferka Loiza. I would still be in Hitler’s clutches if it weren’t for you.” Ferka smiled. “So you’ll come with me?” I looked out towards the nearby mountains and the beautiful colors of the sunrise. I thought of my family, of how I’d gone through all of this to try and keep them safe. Would it be possible to keep them safe if I joined a group of rebels? Possibly. But could I continue pretending to be a Nazi? Could I continue pretending to support a cause I loathed? If I was honest with myself—and this time I was—the answer was no. No I couldn’t. “The shadow moves as the sun commands.” I smiled. “And, anyway, becoming a gypsy will be an adventure.” I nudged Ferka in the ribs. “And I could do with some adventure after all the boring goings-on here.”

But there are those, like myself, who know the truth.

Leading Edge

Ferka chuckled, and his eyes sparkled as he reached up to my jacket collar and ripped the insignia off it. With a laugh, I hit Ferka’s hand, sending the scraps of fabric dancing down into the crowd below. As we laughed together, Ferka wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “It’s a wonderful feeling to be free again, is it not, Bonifaz?” “It is, Ferka, it most certainly is.”

ome say he is a menace, a rebel, a threat. Others say he is a hero, an Arthurian knight, or perhaps a sorcerer. There are even those who say he is nothing but a legend; another fairy tale to pass on to the next generation. But, there are those, like myself, who know the truth. I know he exists; I know he is real. I have seen him with my own eyes and heard his song with my own ears. What the stories say is true—his song does give strength to the weak, joy to the hopeless, and, yes, perhaps even life to the dying. There are others: former prisoners, Roma, and myself—a former Nazi guard. We are men who follow him, travel with him, spy for him, steal for him, and fight for him. Many of us would gladly die for him. But he is the legend—the reason for the songs. I’ve snuck food to expectant mothers, delivered letters from loved ones to dying men, and smuggled weapons to organized groups of prisoners. I’ve written warnings to other prison guards. I’ve helped empty ammunition warehouses. I’ve cut fences, broken windows, and dug tunnels. I’ve dodged more bullets and trudged down more roads than I’d ever believed possible. And I do it all at Ferka’s side. My best friend wasn’t lying when he said this would be a hard and dangerous life. But, to me, it’s worth it. I can now fight for those forced to flee, those herded like livestock, and those trapped by their fellow countrymen. Perhaps it still isn’t much, but it is dosta. It is enough. It keeps his song alive. ·

Brandon Sanderson started here.

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Guidelines: To be considered for this contest your chapters must abide by the same standards we hold for our published short stories. This means they must be in the sci-fi/fantasy/speculative fiction genre pass our standards for content—this means no excessive or graphic violence, explicit sexual references, or pervasive amounts of profanity be unpublished at the time of submission be limited to 10,000 words or fewer For submission guidelines page for formatting questions and other issues, mail submissions to: Leading Edge Magazine 4087 JKB Provo, UT 84602 or email your story as a .doc or .rtf file to editor@leadingedgemagazine.com And visit our website at leadingedgemagazine.com for any other information.

Deadline: September 30, 2012

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Do you have a novel you want to get “out there”? Do you have a great idea that you need a reason to get started on? For Issue 63 of Leading Edge Magazine we are pleased to announce a brand new Best First Chapter Contest! The most intriguing, engaging, wellwritten first chapter to a longer sci-fi or fantasy work will be published alongside our regular short stories. The rest of the novel doesn’t even have to be written yet—but it should make us want it to be!

When the Aliens Came By Timons Esaias When the aliens came we could not explain why we wore ties and what lapels could possibly be for or why our young wore their clothes too loose and our old too tight. It was embarrassing. Nor could we tell why we favor male children when females preserve the species. Nor defend our economy of scacity when all we need can be produced. But the whole thing with the ties; thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what really stuck in their craw. A race, they said, that goes forth willingly with nooses already at their necks, is a slave race And now it is so.

Illustrated by Keriann Horlacher

Illustrated by Jared Boggess

In the Shadow of Scythe Matt Moore

Archie placed the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and pulled

the trigger. He was rewarded with the click of a finely tuned weapon. Across the cramped apartment’s small kitchen table, the younger man with a weightlifter’s body whom he knew as Timothy looked up, a 9mm bullet in his latexgloved hand. Sweat shined in the stubble on his shaved head. “It’s good?” “Yeah,” Archie replied, his guts twisting. He told himself he’d just pointed an unloaded sniper rifle at a spot on the wall, but that didn’t hold back three-year-old memories of lining up dying, desperate people in a rifle sight as they stormed the perimeter. Timothy took a swig from his water bottle and resumed snapping rounds into ammunition clips. Between the two men lay the suitcase, custom-made to carry the rifle, two Heckler & Koch MP5s that Archie had already checked, a dozen clips for the submachine guns, and boxes of 9mm shells. Archie used the bottom edge of his already soaked T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face. He blamed the cramp in his belly on the heat and tang of gun oil hanging in the air. But opening a window meant trading hot, close air for the warm, humid air of evening. Besides, they’d been warned that even twelve floors above the city’s streets, Daniel Deanne heard things. Archie didn’t doubt it. But at least this job was done. In another hour, the guns Archie had arranged for Timothy to buy would be out of Archie’s hands. As he began to break down the rifle, cleaning each component before fitting it into its slot in the suitcase, the weight of the moment settled on him: this weapon might kill Daniel Deanne. And we used to be friends, Archie thought. Timothy looked up. “Say what?” He’d spoken aloud. The pressure to tell what he’d done—to finally come clean— built. The haunted look in Timothy’s eyes told Archie the younger man had his own demons. Maybe he’d understand. “Me and Daniel. Eight years ago—” Timothy’s cell phone chimed. He pulled the device from his jeans. “Got the address for the transfer,” he said, looking at the screen. His brow creased. “Meeting someone new.”

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Suspicion, born from both experience and animal fear, made the hair on Archie’s neck stand straight. “Why?” Archie asked. Timothy shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Doesn’t say. We should motor.” He loaded the guns, clips, and remaining ammunition into an oversized gym bag. Archie finished breaking down the rifle and closed the case. From its battered leather exterior, no one would know what it held. He and Timothy tossed empty ammo boxes, rags used to clean the weapons and their latex gloves into a garbage bag. Timothy put the water bottle to his lips and, for a moment, his hard features were replaced by the gaunt, lined face of the old man in the Venezuelan countryside. The hot, coppery smell of blood stung Archie’s nose. He blinked and Timothy’s face returned. Timothy picked up the gym bag. “Ready?” “Yeah.” After one last check that they’d left no sign of what they’d done, Archie grabbed the trash bag and the rifle’s case. Timothy killed the lights and locked the door behind them, and they moved down the dingy hall. At the elevators, a full-color glossy poster had been taped above the buttons. It showed a working-class woman leaving her apartment. Visible through the doorway, the light over the stove had been left on. Behind the woman, Daniel—curly, unkempt steel-grey hair, a smirk framed by a goatee, a green cotton shirt tucked into blue jeans—leaned against the wall. The caption asked: “Is everything off ? Daniel knows. Do it for Daniel.” The symbol for Daniel’s One Faith, One World campaign—a green circle circumscribing a 1—made it clear who’d produced the glossy. Archie squeezed the handle of the suitcase, thinking of its contents. He’d seen that smirk before, face-to-face. On the ground floor, they went out the back to the alley where Archie tossed the garbage bag into an overflowing dumpster. Reaching the street, they talked about the play-offs, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes to maintain surveillance of their surroundings. They turned a corner to find four young men wearing green Daniel’s Disciples vests giving a cabbie a hard time. One of them slammed both fists onto the car’s trunk in time to a chant of “No-idl-ing! No-idl-ing!” while the three others took turns shoving the heavyset man around. Glare from street lights glinted off the One Faith bracelets on their right wrists. Archie didn’t break stride. The cabbie shoved back, knocking the closest Disciple on his rear. Within seconds, the other three were on the cabbie. In his peripheral vision, Archie saw Timothy’s head turn. Archie asked, “You going to do something about this?” Around them, others watched. Some cheered the Disciples on, taking up the “No idl-ing!” chant. “Would you help if I did?” Timothy replied.

“No idl-ing! No idl-ing!” ab

In the Shadow of Scythe

“Help!” The cabbie begged, hands outstretched as Archie and Timothy passed. “Please—” A punch to his guts silenced him. He dropped to his knees. Archie kept his eyes straight ahead. “Not part of the plan.” Behind him, fists and boots thudded against flesh. Then the crunch of metal paneling, the tinkle of breaking glass. “You’ve heard the saying about what happens when good men don’t do nothing?” “I’m doing something.” They reached Archie’s car—an old, gas-guzzling Japanese hatchback—and loaded the gym bag and suitcase into the trunk. “Yeah, and in an hour you can say you’ve done something.” Timothy got in the car, slamming the door. Archie said nothing as he got in the driver’s seat, started the car, and headed for the drop-off. After a few blocks, Timothy asked: “What’d you mean before, man? You and Deanne were friends?” The encounter with the Disciples had left Archie shaken. He realized just how foolish it had been to consider telling Timothy anything. If the younger man were caught, what he knew would make it back to Daniel and Archie would be as good as dead. Still, Archie felt Timothy had earned a small truth. “We worked together.” But the confession brought no relief. Archie was talking to a man ready to forfeit his life. “Thought you didn’t want us to know nothing about you.” “Nothing that could identify me. I’m sure Daniel has plenty of former friends.” “Ain’t many who’re still alive.” Archie remained silent, conceding the point. He kept his eyes on the road and mirrors, looking for a tail.

They parked next to the blue PureRun sedan at the far end of the mostly empty parking

lot and exited the car. A middle-aged woman got out of the PureRun, wearing one of those “Salvation” T-shirts with a stylized version of Daniel’s face rendered in green, beige, and blue. She stood with her hands on her hips, a posture that allowed easy access to a pistol, no doubt tucked into the small of her back. Timothy approached the woman while Archie put his foot on the bumper and retied his shoelace, keeping watch. They were alone and unobserved except for a passing cyclist riding a pedal-converted Harley. He gave Archie and his car a dirty look. “You the guys to see about light bulbs?” the woman asked, scratching her left temple. Timothy smiled and tilted his head to the right. “Only if they’re Daniel Deanne approved.” The woman held up both hands, palm up, and shrugged. “They aren’t.” She opened the trunk. Archie gave Timothy a look to see if he’d caught it. Timothy lowered his head slightly—he’d noticed. The final countersign was to hold your hands up and say “They ain’t.”

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Archie raised his eyebrows—this was Timothy’s contact, his call. “Fellas?” the woman asked, hands back on her hips. Archie calculated how quickly he could go for the Beretta tucked into his waistband, how to get behind his car for cover. Timothy opened the trunk and hefted out the gym bag. “Grab the suitcase?” “Sure,” the woman replied, transferring the case to the trunk. The exchange complete, she drove off. “Something’s wrong, man,” Timothy said. “I need to call Pious.”

Archie waited in the driver’s seat, watching the road. In the rearview mirror, Timothy

stood in the shadows behind the convenience store, phone to his ear. Across the street, signs reading “Future Site of Leopold Towers by PureBuild” and “35-Story Luxury Condos—All Solar Power—Deanne Approved!” covered the front doors and vestibules of buildings—buildings that had once been celebrated examples of the city’s architecture before Daniel changed the face of urban planning and design. Movement caught Archie’s eye. Behind him, Timothy dropped his phone and stomped on it, then got in the car. He rolled up his window and waited for Archie to do the same. “Pious wants us at the safe house.” Archie started the car. “That’s not the plan.” “Plan’s changed. Pious said people are getting taken down. Wants to bring you in.” “Into what?” Archie pulled onto the street. “What do you think, man?” Archie went cold. “Why didn’t Pious tell me this?” “Can only use those phones for so long. But you can call him. Even give you the number.” Archie replayed the last few moments—the words, tone of voice, body language. Nothing made him suspect a trap. But that was the problem. Pious and Timothy really wanted him to join their insurgency against Daniel Deanne. Just two more things and he was done. “Did you mention the drop?” “Yeah. Guy who was supposed to be there disappeared. Gone. Pious described the chick he sent. Same one we met. Had little time to memorize the signals.” “Did he mention when I’m getting paid?” So far, Archie had only received a third of what he’d been promised. “Not my job. But go to the house. Talk to Pious.” “Tell Pious I expect to hear from him soon. Where can I drop you?” Timothy’s shoulders drooped. “Anywhere, man.” Two blocks later, Archie pulled over. A large crowd of tattooed young people stood in front of a building with extinguished neon lights announcing it as a dance club. Timothy could easily disappear. Just one more muscle boy. Archie extended his hand. “Good luck, Timothy.” Timothy shook. “God bless you, Saul.”

In the Shadow of Scythe

Archie nodded at the code name Pious had given him. “Hey, no idling!” a young man yelled, a knock-off One Faith bracelet on his right wrist. A few others shouted their agreement—men with the same imitation bracelets, women with fake One Faith headbands. Timothy got out, his size silencing the hecklers. Archie pulled away, feeling a twinge of regret. He couldn’t say he liked Timothy or would call him a friend, but he’d been a solid partner—never late, never out of place, never unfocused. But he’d finished the job. Timothy’s safety wasn’t Archie’s responsibility anymore. Getting on the highway, Archie kept an eye on the rearview mirror and tuned into the local news station. The anchor gushed about the gala where in two days Daniel would reveal his proposal for a unified world currency. Daniel claimed it would allow developing countries to buy green technology. Technology to be purchased from one of Daniel’s companies—PureRun, PureBuild, PureGrow. He took a different exit than the previous night, watching a pair of headlights follow him down the ramp. Archie turned left. The other car—a lime green PureRun SUV—went right. Probably nothing, but he took his time winding through the slum that had been a middle-class suburb only a few years ago. Tents and makeshift shacks filled the parks and playgrounds. Refugees from condemned downtown buildings that couldn’t meet Deanne standards sat on sidewalks and benches with nothing to do and nowhere to go while gangs of Disciples patrolled among them. As Archie pulled into his apartment building’s underground parking garage, the anchor’s admiration of Daniel faded to static. In the elevator lobby, a notice bearing the One Faith logo was taped to the wall, stating that to reduce electricity, residents who lived below the sixth floor must take the stairs. Anyone who caught a neighbor using the elevator inappropriately was to report them to building management. “Do it for Daniel,” the notice concluded. Archie considered ripping it down, but he didn’t know if he was on camera. He climbed to the third floor, checked that the paperclip he’d closed between the jam and the door hadn’t moved, and entered his small studio apartment. Like in the apartment he’d left, the day’s heat lay trapped in the still air. He threw open a window, scanning the people on the electric tram platform between him and the building across

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the street. No one paid him any attention. Below, he noted a cyclist locking a pedalconverted Harley to a light post across the street, then sitting on the steps of the closest building. There were plenty of pedal-converted Harleys around the city, symbols of true commitment to Daniel’s One Faith, but Archie mentally noted the coincidence with the man at the drop. After putting a fan in the window, Archie peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it onto the pile of laundry spilling from his closet. He turned on his computer and went to the fridge. Finding only moldy pizza and a half-empty bottle of ketchup, he returned to his computer, which glowed with the desktop picture of Daniel during the “our great moment of history” speech. Face impassioned, eyes skyward, hands held up with fingers splayed, he’d given it three days after the near-Earth object 2017 KT1208 had fallen from the sky. In seconds, it had incinerated tens of thousands in northern Venezuela’s Orinoco Belt—the heart of the country’s oil production—left a twelvemile-wide crater, and sent enough ash into the sky to block out the sun for three days. Seismographs around the world had recorded the impact, which the media had dubbed “Scythe” for the Grim Reaper’s weapon of choice. Others—like Pious—called it “Star Wormwood,” the great star of Revelation 8:10 that would fall to earth during the End Times. Just one more element Pious and his group had forced into their belief that Daniel was the Anti-Christ. Archie had just arrived in Venezuela as part of a relief effort when Daniel had given the speech. He’d never known about it until he’d returned five months later. Even now, the picture stung with the same anger, bitterness, and guilt of when he’d first learned how things had changed while he’d become an efficient killer in the South American jungle. The picture reminded him that if he hadn’t been a coward all those years ago, the speech—and everything that followed—never would have happened. At last, he’d done something about it. Done. Just like Timothy had said. So why didn’t he feel some sense of accomplishment? Because Pious and his group would be caught—or worse—before they could use the guns. Just another failed rebellion. But men like Pious and Timothy believed dying while opposing Daniel got them to the front of the line at the Pearly Gates. Yet paying his bill didn’t seem to be something Pious believed in, so Archie needed a new job. A message from Mai, the project manager at NuCleen, told him she had nothing new. No word either on Esteban, the project manager she’d replaced when he’d gone missing. He logged into two anonymous email accounts he used for less legitimate work and opened a message from B@NK 0F N!G3R. The mishmash of random words and characters, meaningless to anyone who didn’t know the cipher, instructed Archie to meet Pious tomorrow morning at 9:30. It gave an address and instructions for how to knock on the back door. Maybe Pious had the money. Archie deleted the message and headed for the shower.

In the Shadow of Scythe

The blackened landscape changed into the dark apartment. Shrieks of pain transformed

“This”—he jabbed a

into the electric tram rattling by outside, its lights flickering against the bare walls. Archie shot up, catching his breath. Random after-images flashed across his mind— —filthy townspeople fighting their way through concertina wire, automatic weapons fire mowing them down, his rifle finishing the ones who got too close— —buzzards circling, waiting for the screams to fade so they could land and feed— —the old man, eyes forever wide in surprise, just wanting something to drink— —Daniel behind the podium, hands moving to emphasize every point: the corruption of the Venezuelan government, billions earned from fossil fuels, and its record of ignoring international standards on pollution reduction. He’d gone on for an hour without a script, enthralling the crowd of reporters gathered on the steps of PureRun’s headquarters. The sunlight had played off the silver in his curly hair and goatee, a green shirt and blue jeans instead of a suit, as he demanded verification that humanitarian aid was really going to help those affected. Or, he had suggested, was it being put toward rebuilding oil production? On and on—not winded, not sweating, never a non sequitur or digression. Passionate but never angry, forcefully laying out his rationale for halting all international aid without resorting to hyperbole or dogma. Until his conclusion: “This”—he’d jabbed a finger downward—“is our great moment in history. Here we will see if those backwards thinkers who rape this planet for profit can sustain their actions or if they will collapse into the fires of history! Let Venezuela go it alone!” The applause had been thunderous. Daniel had already been well known for his companies and environmental activism, but the speech had put him on the front page of every major newspaper, the lead story of every network and main image of every news site. Some had agreed with him, calling him a hero for speaking truth to a corrupt government. Finally, they had cheered, someone had brought scope to the environmental movement—the price of thousands of lives now to save billions later. Others had reviled him, calling him callous beyond measure. Yet Daniel sought out his detractors, demanding interviews. One by one, while advocating his belief that personal, spiritual, and environmental salvation were one, Daniel had won over his critics. Hollywood stars and music icons had sought out his wisdom, professing devotion to his One Faith following one-on-one meetings behind closed doors. Millions had attended rallies led by Disciples across the country and around the world. Originally just organized groups of concerned citizens pushing for environmental responsibility at the grassroots level, the Disciples had become Daniel’s emissaries, espousing the One Faith belief that they would be the ones to save future generations. They would do it to save the world. They would do it for Daniel.

finger downward—“is our great moment of history.”

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Only a week after the speech, the president had realized he could not stand against the growing populist tide—to say nothing of contradicting one of his major contributors—and had urged other world leaders to halt aid to Venezuela. They had agreed, Archie would learn, having no real concept of just how horrible the situation was or would become. Archie envied them their ignorance.

As Archie had become a more efficient killer, Daniel had called on governments to pass legislation restricting industry and transportation and mandating adoption of new technologies—technologies only available from his companies—to counteract environmental damage. By the time Archie had arrived home, Daniel’s Disciples were recruiting in twelve countries. Daniel’s companies received exclusive government contracts. Random highway checkpoints seized old cars. Homeowners received fines because an infrared scan revealed insufficient insulation. A year after that, people lived in fear that neighbors were snitching on their recycling habits or that Disciples would feel a porch light had been left on too long. People from

In the Shadow of Scythe

all walks of life bought One Faith bracelets and headbands to show their devotion to Daniel’s faith of spiritual salvation through environmental purification. And just last year, Esteban and others like him began to vanish because they published research proving Daniel’s technology wasn’t as efficient as he claimed. It all came back to the speech, Archie had concluded. Without it, waves of workers and supplies would have followed him, bringing stability. Hundreds of thousands in Venezuela might have been saved. People wouldn’t live in fear. And Archie might still be the idealistic engineer who wanted to do his small part in making the world a better place. He thought about his Beretta. How it felt in his mouth—its oily taste, the impossibly hard barrel unyielding against his teeth. Words from Jimenez, the man who’d kept him alive in the jungle, came to him: “Do what it takes to survive today. Wake up tomorrow. Repeat.” He’d said it when they’d stopped for the night after shooting their way out of the base and making it to the hills above the valley. Some of them had been sobbing uncontrollably, others vomiting. Others, like Archie, had just stared blankly into the ink-black darkness. There’d been eleven of them that night. Only four made it back home. They’d survived by being cold and by doing what needed to be done, killing their way through each challenge to live long enough to commit another unspeakable act of violence. The urge to call—to finally confess—struck Archie. He’d never said a word during those five months crossing to Colombia, afraid the others would turn on him. But through the fog of sleep Archie remembered Jimenez had ignored his own advice and eaten his gun six months ago. At least, that was the official explanation. “Hey, let go!” “Shut up and get on the ground!” The commotion drew Archie to the window. Across from him, a cop spun a teenager face-first to the surface of the tram station. “You think that crap is funny?” The cop kneeled on the kid’s back, cuffing him. “Yeah,” the kid shot back. “And pretty accurate.” The cop hauled the teen to his feet, turning him toward an oversized plasticenclosed advertisement for Daniel’s PureGrow crops. Devil horns adorned Daniel’s head. “Defacing Daniel is paramount to terrorism!” “ ‘Paramount,’ right,” the teen said. “Careful you don’t scuff your jackboots.” The cop’s reply was lost as he marched the kid down to street level. Below, the Harley has been replaced by an overloaded shopping cart. A shape lay curled up in the nearby corner of the stairs and building. Other than that, the street was empty. Archie got back into bed, knowing sleep was a long way off.

A cluster of Disciples milled on the next block. Archie watched them, waiting for the light to change.

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The morning talk shows buzzed about the massive sweep of eco-terrorists the night before, including two NuCleen executives, a congressman from Wyoming and an Australian MP. “It’s not an overreaction,” the attorney general explained. “A strong environmental policy is the cornerstone of a strong national security policy.” Daniel had said the same thing—verbatim—seven years ago during his speech at the Democratic National Convention. The light turned green. Passing, the Disciples jeered at him. A bottle shattered on the passenger window. Buying a PureRun would attract less attention, Archie knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A few streets later, Archie found the address. A chain-link fence stretched across the front of the crumbling white stucco house’s yard. A tall wooden fence topped with razor wire lined the other three sides. Bars covered the windows and front door. Archie kept going, circling the block. Houses here were midsized, most with fences ringing three or four sides of the property. Metal bars or plywood sheets covered doors and windows. Yellow grass grown long and wild hinted at which homes were vacant. Older homes, Archie concluded. Too recent to be grandfathered against Deanne regulations, but old enough to make retrofits too expensive. Easier to just abandon them. He parked at the curb, chambering a round and clicking off the safety before getting out. A pair of white-haired retirees a few houses down watched him silently from their front porch. Other than them, the street was deserted. Archie entered a gate at the mouth of the narrow driveway and followed it to the backyard. He mounted three steps to a rickety porch, faced the metal backdoor and knocked using the rhythm described in the email. The door opened a crack, wide enough for two gun barrels to emerge: one at head level, one at his knees. He’d had guns pointed at him before, but it wasn’t something he’d ever gotten used to. He kept his panic in check, gauging if he could make it off the porch and out of range before they could get a bead on him and knowing he couldn’t. “The Bank of Niger asked me to come.” The door opened wider and he stepped inside. Before his eyes adjusted to the darkness, hands seized him, spinning him against a wall. A gun barrel pressed into his back just below his left shoulder blade, aimed at his heart, pinning him in place. “Hands up.” Archie obeyed. Hands frisked him, found the pistol, and clicked on the safety. After a few moments, the voice said, “Turn around.” Archie turned, hands still raised, and water splashed his face. “Do you renounce Satan, his servant Daniel Deanne, and all their works?” Archie blinked water from his eyes. In the sunlight bleeding through cracked window shades, he could make out a short, wiry man with a crew cut and fatigues. He grasped a flask in one hand and stood off-balance on a prosthetic leg. Flanking him were two men armed with MP5 submachine guns. Archie said, “What—” The three tensed. The two men—teenagers, really—brought their guns up. Archie put his hands out. “Whoa, wait—”

In the Shadow of Scythe

“The answer they are looking for, Saul, is ‘I do renounce them in the name of Jesus Christ.’ ” Pious stood in a doorway, dressed in black and wearing his clerical collar. “I do renounce them in the name of Jesus Christ,” Archie repeated. “ ’S okay, guys,” the first man said, touching the two boys’ shoulders. They lowered their weapons and returned to chairs by the back door. Turning to Pious, the man said: “He’s clean.” “Thank you, Boniface,” Pious replied, stepping into the kitchen. The skin under his eyes was puffy; a few days’ stubble clung to his face. The short man limped to Archie, the hinge of his prosthetic leg squeaking, and handed back the pistol. Archie faced the priest-turned-renegade. “The arrests last night making you jittery?” “Yes,” Pious replied. “I fear the Two Witnesses were arrested. They will not survive long against the Dragon.” Archie braced himself for more of Pious’s ramblings. How Daniel’s full name— Daniel Derick Deanne—clearly mapped to Revelation 13:18 and its telling of a man whose name would be “666.” Or how the bracelets and headbands bearing the One Faith logo indicated the Mark of the Beast. Instead, he led Archie through a narrow doorway into a room that should have been a dining room. Instead, computer equipment covered tables and shelves. Young men and women typed furiously. One monitor showed a web page being built, a red headline screaming, “Global warming is not man-made, but God’s punishment. Revelation 16:9!” Another stated, “First the Flood, Now the Fire.” Archie scanned for Timothy’s face, but didn’t see him. The two men passed into a smaller, windowless room that contained a desk and chair against one wall, an old battered couch opposite. Pious shut the door and sat in the chair. “Timothy was also arrested last night.” A cold lump settled in Archie’s belly. “Pious, I’m sorry.” He sat on the couch, its springs squeaking. Archie replayed the previous evening in his mind, wondering if he’d missed something. “I do not blame you, Saul. I am sure it is not your fault. I have always known that Daniel has many spies, many ways of gathering information. Thus far, I have been confident he has not become aware of my plans. Otherwise, he would not attend the gala tomorrow.” “I don’t want to know details, Pious.” Archie wiped a forearm across his forehead. “I know too much already.” “I understand, Saul, but Timothy did know.” He remained still as he spoke, as if immune to the dry, suffocating heat. “I fear that Daniel will discover our plans, not just for the gala, but how organized we are. That we have infiltrated his organization. Timothy is strong and faithful, but no one can resist Daniel.” Archie couldn’t disagree. He didn’t believe Pious’s stories that Daniel personally interrogated prisoners, extracting answers as he shredded their souls, but he wondered

Pious leaned toward

Archie. “And I want you to take his place.”

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about rumors of former Gitmo interrogators working their trade under the auspices of the Environmental Protection Agency. If Timothy was being water boarded, Archie hoped the interrogators weren’t looking to know if the guy who sold guns to Timothy had once known Daniel. “Pious, I’m sorry about Timothy, but what does this have to do with me? Do you have my money?” “Timothy was to be the shooter in my plan to assassinate Daniel.” Archie held up a hand. “I don’t—” Pious leaned toward Archie. “And I want you to take his place.” Archie shot up. “Wait a second. I did my bit. I’m done.” “Why are you helping us, Saul?” Pious asked, looking up at Archie. “We’ve barely paid you what we promised, so it’s not for the money. You do not share our belief that Daniel is a Beast of Revelation, turning all away from faith in Our Lord to his ‘One Faith’ of the power of man. You waited while Timothy called me last night when, with your part of the arrangement complete, you could have left. And why did you come here today?” “Because you owe me.” “Nothing more? Money is your sole motivation?” “I have to eat, Pious.” “Timothy told me you began to confess something to him about knowing Daniel. Are you trying to make up for something, Saul?” Archie ignored the pressure in his chest. “Do you have my money or not?” “There is more than just survival, Saul. You must live for something.” “Tomorrow. I survive today, wake up tomorrow, and repeat.” Pious remained seated and still. “Timothy held similar beliefs. He was trapped in Venezuela after Wormwood fell. At the time, he was a high school student doing volunteer work. Out of twenty-five students and five chaperones, only he survived. He described the young man he had been and how much of himself he had to sacrifice to endure that horrible place.” Pious finally stood. “From what I know of you, I suspect you have endured similar things, which is why I paired Timothy with you. I knew you would grow to trust him and hopefully assist him in his mission.” “Find another shooter, Pious.” Archie turned for the door. “I have none. I lost my best people in last night’s arrests. I have been in contact with allies willing to help, but they have no one who could be here in time. Those who are left to me are children who have never held a gun.” “Not my problem.” “Something I have not heard you say is that you have no experience in doing this. Are you a sniper, Saul? Is that how you knew which rifle would be best for our mission?” The room shrank, the heat unbearable. The clockwork efficiency of lining up a head in the sight, squeezing the trigger, and finding another target assaulted him. “Keep the money. I don’t want to see you again.” He grabbed the door handle, slippery in his hand. “If Timothy’s assassination attempt failed,” Pious continued, “my fallback plan was a frontal assault on the museum. Most of my people may die, and plenty of innocents as well, but after this attempt, security around Daniel may become impenetrable, and the

In the Shadow of Scythe

blow we were dealt by the arrests might mean this is our only chance. Walk away, and I will have no choice but to move up the attack to when Daniel’s motorcade arrives. Can you live with that kind of blood on your hands?” “It’s not on my hands. You have the guns. Do what you want.” Archie walked toward the rear of the house, listening for but not hearing Pious following him. In the kitchen, the man Pious had called Boniface pushed himself to his feet. “You leaving? I thought—” “Let me out.” Boniface frowned, then motioned to one of the boys to unlock the door. “God be with you, Saul,” Boniface said as Archie stepped outside into the searing midmorning sun. Archie headed for his car, Pious’s words replaying in his mind. Gunfire and screaming— pained, panicked, threatening—filled his head. It had been a day like this—brutally hot. About eight hundred more, dying from dehydration and toxicity, had arrived during the night to join the thousand surrounding the small base where Archie and the other volunteers had been stationed. With water for hundreds of miles surrounding the impact site contaminated by an unknown toxin brought by the meteor, those people had had no hope except the base’s water supply. But the two portable purifying units barely produced enough for the compound’s one hundred people. Two days ago, they’d heard the second wave of the relieve effort, which would have brought a dozen more purifiers, wasn’t coming. And they were on their own. Faced with the growing crowd, the commanding officer had had the gate locked, telling the people to disperse or risk him using force. With nowhere else to go, they remained—baking in the sun, pleading to be let in. Archie didn’t know who shot first. But when the gunfire began, Jimenez had rounded up the volunteers and brought them to a building at the center of the base. They had huddled there, terrified as gunfire chattered, bullets thudding against concrete walls. As the day’s heat pressed in, Jimenez had explained he really wasn’t an engineer. He was CIA, trying to foster a rebellion against the government. And he would keep them safe if they did what he told them. When night fell, Jimenez darted out into the compound, returning with guns and ammunition. He passed them out to the volunteers, explaining how to use them. Sheer chance resulted in Archie getting a rifle instead of a submachine gun. No one slept. Before dawn, with half the soldiers dead, Jimenez started taking the volunteers from the safety of the building into the compound. They had to take the soldiers’ place, he explained. He positioned Archie on the roof of a two-story building. Just after sunrise, a burst of automatic weapons fire cut the silence. Another burst answered. In moments, the air was alive. Archie crouched behind an air vent. Jimenez appeared next to him. “Find a target!” he screamed. Archie inched to the peak of the roof and looked down at locals trying to make it through rolls of concertina wire to the fence. Some carried guns, others machetes or clubs.

Leading Edge

A pistol pressed into the back of his skull. “Find a target,” Jimenez repeated. “If you won’t shoot, you’re a liability.” Archie brought the rifle up. Heart hammering but hands steady, he centered the sight on a man in a red shirt firing a bolt-action rifle. “Pull the trigger.” Archie obeyed, the crack of the rifle lost in the firefight. The red-shirted man fell, limp and lifeless. “Nice shot!” Archie shut his eyes, tears welling, guts twisting. “It’s you or them,” Jimenez whispered in an eerie, quiet tone. “It isn’t murder. They forced this. You aren’t a monster. Your guilt proves that. Now do it again, but this time . . . ” Jimenez maneuvered Archie’s fingers to change his grip on the trigger and guard. Over the next ten minutes of Jimenez’s tutoring, Archie killed seven people. When the perimeter fence finally gave way under the sheer pressure of bodies pressing against it, it was no longer about water. Jimenez had already gathered what was left of the supplies and passed them out. Leading the charge of surviving volunteers—a third of those who’d arrived only one day ago—they shot their way through the wave of villagers and headed into the mountains.

Archie reached his car to find a One Faith logo spray-painted on its hood. Down the

street, a pair of Disciples yelled at the old couple, still on their porch. Archie unlocked the car, got in, and screamed, slamming his hand on the steering wheel.

n the elevator lobby of the parking garage, someone had scrawled “Thanks for the shaft” on the notice about limited elevator use. Archie climbed the stairs to the third floor. After checking that the paperclip was in place, he activated his computer. Didn’t matter if Mai had a new contract or someone was looking for a few semiautomatic pistols—his bank account was running low. He took a moment to curse Pious, then scanned his inbox, finding nothing. Jobs used to come easier. When he’d returned from South America, a friend had put him in contact with Esteban, a project manager at NuCleen. Esteban had lined up a few contracts with NuCleen, but sensing Archie’s feelings toward Daniel, Esteban had put Archie in contact with groups doing underground research to challenge Daniel’s claims. They’d been loosely organized, often splintering at the slightest hint they’d been discovered. Though interested in the research, Archie found himself disgusted with the timid engineers. More and more, he associated with the tough, reliable men and women who worked as security. A lot of them wanted guns. And Archie needed money.

In the Shadow of Scythe

Through Jimenez, he located people who could get him weapons. Many of them had that eerie calmness about them and recognized a kinship with Archie. Archie learned what he could from them. About guns and ammunition. How to spot a trap or a tail. Staying calm and evaluating a dangerous situation. But the central piece of wisdom, the code to live by, was this: don’t get involved. It was good advice. Most of his clients wound up dead. Self-styled revolutionaries looking to replace Daniel, or black market profiteers selling air conditioners or portable gas-powered generators—they’d either implode, get sold out, or find their safe houses raided by police. Or burned down by Disciples. Their decisions, Archie told himself. Just like it was Pious’s decision to storm the gala. Then why did he feel like a coward? Because, Archie had to admit—crazy as the man’s motivation was—Pious’s fight was his fight. No one in years had wanted to take the fight directly to Daniel. He’d known from the beginning why they wanted that rifle. Scores of ghosts he’d lined up in his gunsight haunted his sleep. Again, Archie thought of the Beretta, the taste of it in his mouth, his thumb on the trigger.

But the central piece of

wisdom, the code to live by, was this: don't get involved.

“I did not expect to see you again.” Pious extended a hand toward the couch.

Archie sat. “I’ve changed my mind.” Pious nodded, eyes betraying nothing. “May I ask why?” Archie had intend to tell him no, but with the invitation offered, it burst from him. How he’d just received his master’s degree when he’d started with Daniel’s team, working on a hybrid fuel cell. Back then, Daniel had been just another team leader at another car company. When Archie had discovered that Daniel’s efficiency calculations for the cell were inaccurate and that it was no more efficient than others on the market, he’d informed Daniel during a staff meeting. He’d been so proud, thinking he’d prevented a major embarrassment. That smirk had grown on Daniel’s face. “Archibald, the numbers don’t matter. How much pollution the car produces isn’t the issue. Getting people to adopt our product— getting them think what we want them to think—is. Then we can make changes. Then the people will follow where we tell them to go.” The rest of the team had nodded, looking at Daniel like he was preaching gospel. A year later, Archie was let go just before Daniel left to form PureRun and the rest of the team became his first Disciples.

Leading Edge

For the next three years, he’d gotten by on contracts while Daniel’s influence expanded, but when a charity had asked for volunteers with engineering experience to go to Venezuela to reestablish infrastructure following Scythe’s impact, he’d gone to do some good. But Daniel’s speech had halted the help that should have followed him. Five months later, he’d emerged from the jungles a killer. “And all I had to do,” Archie concluded, feeling empty and drained, “was tell the Junior VP of R&D. He never liked Daniel. Thought he had too much salesman in him. If I’d told him, Daniel would’ve been fired. Discredited. Then no PureRun, no speech, no Disciples. “But I was afraid for my job. My job. And a year later, that VP’s private plane went down in the New Mexico desert.” “And your experience in Venezuela would have been one of charity, not violence, making you a better man.” Pious’s words rubbed raw a deep wound, but Archie stayed quiet. The priest laid a hand on Archie’s shoulder. “There was no way to stop Daniel. He was preordained. Wormwood gave him his power and his sign. God put you in his way for a reason, and kept you alive after Wormwood fell to harden your resolve and show you a path.” Pious made the sign of the cross over Archie. “I consider what you have told me to be a confession, Saul. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” “Doesn’t make me feel better.” “Take whatever advantage you can.” Pious pushed his chair aside and knelt. He fit his fingers into a small groove in the floorboards and lifted a two-by-two trap door, revealing a wooden box in a cavity beneath. He lifted the box, setting it on the desk. “My plans.”

Archie extended his pass to the security guard. From the cuff of his green uniform

hung a One Faith bracelet. Just like the one Archie wore. After running the pass through a scanner, the guard motioned toward the metal detector. With a nod from the guard at the detector, Archie stepped through the machine. It beeped and the guard motioned for Archie to wait before running a wand up one of Archie’s legs and down the other. Other guards appeared, suddenly interested in Archie. The wand hummed when it passed over Archie’s waist. Archie let a guilty grin grow and pulled up his cummerbund to reveal a massive belt buckle embossed with the One Faith logo. The guards barked laughter and waved him on to the double set of doors, wishing him a pleasant evening. Inside, the museum’s atrium buzzed with the conversations of the guests as they milled under massive green banners reading “One Faith, One World, One Currency.” He circled the huge room, one of hundreds of men in tuxedos, looking for his contact—a redheaded server with the nametag “Jacob.” Faces he’d seen on television and computer screens breezed past him, drinks in hand—a governor, a famous actress,

In the Shadow of Scythe

an award-winning singer. One Faith bracelets adorned their right wrists, or headbands their foreheads. Daniel’s true believers. Archie willed himself to be calm and alert. To be aware of eyes following his movements or faces that seemed constantly nearby. Commotion near the main entrance caught his attention. Through the gaps between heads and shoulders, he spotted Daniel—smiling, shaking hands, pecking women on the cheek—wearing a forest green tuxedo and flanked by a security detail. Archie turned and moved away from Daniel as the crowd pressed forward. He rounded a large man wearing a kilt, sidestepped a blonde in a jade dress, collided with Daniel, and froze. A Cheshire Cat grin grew on Daniel’s face. “Archibald!” He extended a hand. Archie, caught off guard, shook. Daniel pumped his hand while his handlers gave Archie a once-over. “So how’ve you been? Where are you working now?” “Contract with NuCleen,” Archie lied. Daniel’s grin grew. “Trying to take me down?” Archie froze, something inside him whispering that Daniel knew everything. He ignored it and returned the smile. “You’re not the type to be afraid of competition.” “I pity my competition. I wish they would see the light and join me.” Past Daniel, Archie caught sight of a redheaded man carrying a tray of champagne. “You know, Archibald, I am sorry how things ended between us. I could use someone like you. Someone not afraid to speak their mind. A special advisor, as it were, answerable only to me. However,” Daniel took a step closer, “I’d need to know who the liars are at NuCleen spreading misinformation about my products. You know the company will fold in a month. Why not join me?” Archie held Daniel’s gaze, nodding. “I’ll think about it.” Daniel smirked. “All I can ask.” He glanced past Archie and waved. “Give me a call sometime. Let’s catch up. For now, please excuse me.” Daniel turned and was swallowed up by the adoring crowd. Archie waited until the security detail had moved off before maneuvering toward the server. The server turned and Archie noted a mole beneath his right eye, causing the hairs on Archie’s neck to stand. He’d seen the server before. More words from Jimenez: move—never pause when you’re trying to place someone. Archie casually took a flute of champagne, noting the golden nametag reading “Jacob” pinned to one lapel and a One Faith button to the other. “Excuse me,” Archie began, “but I think the men’s room might be out of order.” The server, Jacob, extended a white-gloved hand. “If you go through this door, the staff restroom is on the third level.” Archie noticed the door down a narrow service hallway, thanked the man, and left the flute on a table. He cut his way through the crowd and opened the door onto a plain, off-white stairwell. Climbing, Archie tried to place Jacob. He made Archie think not of Daniel, but of Pious. He mentally scanned through faces at the safe house, but that didn’t feel right. Exiting into a narrow, equally plain hallway, he thought of his excursions

Leading Edge

with Timothy, and that felt closer. A group of housekeepers chatted down the hall, but paid him no mind as he passed several doors before finding the bathroom, still no closer to placing Jacob. He stepped into a tiny room, barely large enough for a toilet and small closet. Archie shut the door, threw the deadbolt, and removed from under his large belt buckle a key, which he used to unlock the closet. On a shelf, he found a fanny pack. On the floor he saw the custom-made, battered leather suitcase he thought he’d seen the last of two days ago. The memory clicked into place: the cyclist at the mall. Though his helmet had covered his hair, Archie hadn’t missed the mole under his eye. Probably the same cyclist who’d stopped across the street later that night. So Jacob had been watching him. But who’d sent him: Pious or Daniel? Archie looked in the mirror, giving himself a chance to back out, but the tanned, lined face of the old man stared back. The village had looked deserted. They’d watched it for an hour, soaked in sweat and oppressive humidity, before moving in. The old man had come out of a hut, a rifle in one hand. He’d been gaunt with dehydration and malnutrition, his threadbare clothing covered in what could have been mud or blood. He’d stumbled toward Archie, free hand reaching for the full water bottle on Archie’s belt. Archie had drawn the combat knife he’d taken from a solider he’d killed two days ago and plunged it into the man’s neck. The man hadn’t made a sound as he collapsed, eyes wide, free hand held to his gushing wound. Archie had watched him die. He’d killed almost a hundred men by then, but always from a distance. He’d never smelled hot, coppery blood as it sprayed from a wound. He’d felt nothing. Just empty. Like now. Archie turned away from his reflection. He opened the fanny pack, which contained white cotton gloves, several keys with fobs identifying them by letter, a One Faith button, and a hotel nametag inscribed with “Paul.” After tearing off the bracelet, Archie pinned the nametag and button in place before donning the gloves, grabbing the case, and leaving the room. He followed the route through the building he’d memorized the night before, moving purposefully through halls and up staircases, suitcase in hand, never hesitating as he used his keys to gain access to restricted areas. Staff didn’t pay any attention, because, with the gloves, button, and nametag, he looked like one of them. Unlocking and opening the last door released Daniel’s amplified voice. “—nations of the world, developing nations especially, need access to this technology.” Archie stepped onto a narrow catwalk that lined the curved rear wall of the auditorium, high above the crowd. He climbed a ladder to a platform supporting a row of huge, oven-hot lights. His entire body broke into a sweat.

He’d felt nothing. Just empty.

In the Shadow of Scythe

“The solution,” Daniel’s voice boomed, “is a single worldwide economy with a single worldwide currency.” Applause broke out. Archie opened the case, revealing the rifle’s components. He assembled it, his shirt and underwear sweat-matted to his skin. He tried to swallow but his mouth had gone bone-dry. On stage, Daniel’s entire body moved as he spoke. “We can no longer wish that the world’s industrialized nations will do what is right. The failures of Kyoto, Copenhagen, and Melbourne prove this.” Approving applause shook the catwalk. Archie loaded the rifle, lay down, and balanced the rifle on its bipod. “Nations who do not utilize green technologies must be forced to comply.” Shutting one eye, Archie looked through the scope.

“But we must be united,” Daniel said, slicing the air with his hand before going still. The applause rose, held for a moment, and faded to expectant silence. Archie blinked sweat from his eyes, centered the crosshairs on Daniel’s head, and let old habits settle in: breathe slow, don’t move, feel your heart rate to shoot between beats.

Leading Edge

“We must have one faith for our one world, with one currency and”—a smirk twisted the corner of Daniel’s mouth—“one strong leader to show the way!” The crowd erupted. Archie squeezed the trigger. The report was lost in the sound of the frenzied crowd, who fell silent when Daniel flew backwards and out of Archie’s sight. Security swarmed the stage, guns drawn and scanning the now-screaming audience. Archie dialed back the scope’s magnification to see more. After several moments of panning the jostling bodies, he spotted Daniel. He lay on his back, limbs twisted, in a rapidly growing pool of blood. What remained of his skull left no doubt it had been a kill shot. An instant later, security guards obscured his view. The satisfaction or triumph Archie had imagined didn’t come, nor regret or guilt. Just the tired emptiness he’d felt as life left the eyes of that old man in the jungle. Pious had instructed Archie to go back the way he’d come, holding the rifle like he was ready to open fire, and wait for security to make him a martyr. Archie didn’t believe in martyrdom, but taking a round between the eyes was better than being caught. But a fall from the catwalk would be quicker and remove any chance of bad aim. He stood and swung a leg over the railing, looking at the sea of roiling bodies below, screaming and pressing for the exits. A moment’s hesitation struck—he might hurt or even kill someone down there. But they were as guilty as Daniel. He swung his other leg over, holding the railing with both hands and leaning into nothingness. Another hesitation struck. He might kill one or two with his fall, but what about the others? They adored Daniel. They worshiped him. They wouldn’t fade away with their Godhead dead. Someone would fill the vacuum. Someone who might be worse. But until that successor emerged, there was a window to fight back, to challenge what Daniel had created and expose him as a fraud. That meant contacting researchers and politicians who’d opposed Daniel. And being ready for the backlash the Disciples were certain to unleash. Another fight was coming. A fight he needed to be involved in. Archie swung back over the railing onto the platform. Leaving the gun since it had served its purpose, he descended the ladder to the catwalk, wondering if he could find Jacob. And if he could trust Jacob like he’d trusted Timothy. Opening the door, a cool breeze brushed Archie’s skin. He stepped into the deserted hallway and headed back the way he had come. ·

Unforgettable: Harrowing Futures, Horrors, and (Dark) Humor Paul McComas Walkabout Publishing (2011) 487 pp, $29.99 USD (Paperback)

anthology bursting at the seams (quite literally—the book clocks in at 487 pages) with short stories, scripts, songs, pictures, and plays, each one devoted to the genres of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction. McComas is a storyteller who is never short of interesting stories to tell. “The Collector,” “Roomie,” and “Unforgettable” are highlights of the book, and he easily pits real-world problems such as work, roommates, and relationships against supernatural, horrific, and sometimes dystopic ideas. He also never holds back in his writing style or in what he shows about his personal life. By the end of the book, the reader really gets a sense of who the author is as he takes you through most of his life as a writer and lover of all things science fiction and horror. From the short story “Planet of the Dates,” where you learn of the author’s penchant for creating classic B-movie horror films as a kid, to his earliest published works such as “Simon Says,” to his latest and probably most anticipated story “Icemare” cowritten with William F. Nolan from the forthcoming novel Logan’s Journey, McComas lets you see the serious author, the silly, aspiring writer, and the shrieking fanboy within him. At times, though, some stories delve too deep into the silly territory and come off as rather dumb. One, cowritten with his wife, titled “Collies in Space” is just a series of dog puns masquerading as a story culminating in a lame punch-line ending. It’s unforgettable, sure, but for all the wrong reasons. “The Most Terrifying Three-Word Dystopian/DarkFantasy/Horror Story Ever Written” is another low point in the book. I won’t give it away, but the whole story is a dated joke even in 2011, when the book was published. Unforgettable is a good read for fans of McComas’s work or die-hard fans of the genre he writes in. His work is a mostly goofy romp through his writing style as he wrote pretty much whatever came to him at the time, but he knows how to craft a story. What Unforgettable excels at is letting the reader get to know the author more, and in that way, it reads as a quasi-memoir or autobiography, which I enjoyed. He’s a man who you’d want to be friends with, who you’d want to get to know, and because of that, his writing style is incredibly easy and a joy to read, even when he’s making Sarah Palin jokes. McComas doesn’t take himself too seriously, and it’s apparent that you shouldn’t take Unforgettable too seriously either.· Caitlin Walls

Book Review

Paul McComas’s anthology is a fun but slightly ridiculous read. It’s an

Einstein’s Brain By E.P. Fisher

What’s left of Einstein’s brain is kept in a jar at the unemployment office. The keys to his eyes are in a safety deposit box at the First National Bank. His ashes, scattered like a handful of stars, are laughing in dark matter. Immortality to him was a fantasy, a fable, and the Bible, a bedtime story. Only mathematics could rival the Psalms & the teachings of Buddha. When time was discovered at the Swiss Patent Office All the clocks in town stopped & watchmakers looked up from their work. Passengers on tram-cars riding a beam of light never arrived. Observers setting off at the same time ended up in another universe. Every question-mark became a black-hole, every thought a parallel world. Alone in his room, with pencil & pad, he turned the sky upside down Scribbling the structure of galaxies on the back of a folded envelope. What we call idle daydreams, he called “thought experiments” Keeping a year of miracles in a file-drawer at the Department of Physics Where ever paper-clip on his desk contained an apocalypse. A man without a country, he left no forwarding address behind. He liked to pretend he was only visiting earth from another planet. His biggest mistake in life was signing his name on a letter to the president. After that, the voice of authority started talking over everyone’s head And even idlers at sidewalk cafes came under suspicion by the FBI.

Illustrated by Keriann Horlacher

He got his best ideas from reading the works of Dostoyevsky And found happiness by making friends with a few small animals. He was the lady’s man at the cocktail party who played the violin— The one at the Zurich railway station holding a bouquet of red flowers; The clown sticking his tongue out at the bottom of Pandora’s box. In the years that followed, the unfathomably bizarre became commonplace. Every insect & star seemed to dance to the same mysterious tune And the fate of the human race hinged on the wings of the honeybee. God’s power was found in every atom, but nowhere in the hearts of men, Proving the improbability of any paradise based on a roll of the dice. The future he imagined at 21 turned out to be a pacifist’s worst nightmare; He gambled his family & married life away for a little Nobel Prize money And conducted lecturers at Cambridge wearing carpet slippers without socks. He loved sailing & kept up a salty correspondence with Marilyn Monroe, Reducing everything to the formula “Boredom Equals Eternity”. I saw him last night splitting hairs in the halo-nimbus of a solar eclipse, His lonely ghost winking back at me from a singing singularity. Imagination curved around his elbow toward a thumbprint in cosmic awe; The moon played hide-n-seek with time & space out in the Milky Way Where the simple wonder in a child’s eyes is our only compass rose!

Leading Edge

Graphic Novel: Adam Hanny

When I was growing up, I used to walk around the playground of my elementary

school by myself. While my friends were playing war, or kickball, or whatever, I would be writing, directing, and narrating my own stories in my head. I’m pretty sure all my friends thought I was a crazy person, but I didn’t care. I was directing a movie about how Mega Man and Samus fought all the characters from Dragon Ball Z and . . . well . . . Let’s just say if it were real, I’d be a billionaire. Ever since then I’ve really enjoyed writing and using drawing as a creative outlet for the characters I would create. It was my real passion for a while, but now I’ve decided to focus on other things, and sadly, I don’t take much time to draw anymore. I’m glad Leading Edge Magazine contacted me and twisted my arm to make me come out with something new. The short-story comic is an introduction to what could have been a comic if I had continued with it. I hope you enjoy it, and maybe I’ll take more time drawing from now on.

Graphic Novel: Adam Hanny

Leading Edge

Graphic Novel: Adam Hanny

Leading Edge

Graphic Novel: Adam Hanny

Leading Edge

Graphic Novel: Adam Hanny

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Chilling Tales: Evil I Did Dwell; Lewd Did I Live Michael Kelly Hades Publications (2011) 224 pp, $14.95 USD (Paperback)

hilling Tales: Evil I Did Dwell; Lewd Did I Live is a collection of horror stories by various Canadian authors. The anthology as a whole is generally about the unexplainable and supernatural things that are meant to send shivers down the spines of readers. The quality of writing among all the stories is superb. The imagery and words used help invoke excitement, imagination, and curiosity. The only flaws I could see had more to do with some of the story lines or characters. In a couple of the stories the characters seemed flat, and I was left wondering what their motivations were. At least one of the stories didn’t seem to have a very clear plot. Even if some of the stories had some thin spots, the style and imagery of the writing always kept me going through the anthology. The horror in the stories is often more of a quiet kind, the kind where you keep thinking about it even a while after reading, which is my favorite kind of horror. It’s not the kind that will have you jumping at every noise but instead the kind that will haunt your thoughts as you walk through the dark. Some parts of the stories aren’t for readers of all ages. There is some mature content in a few of the stories that comes close to being explicit. And from the nature of the stories, I probably wouldn’t recommend it for anyone younger than a teenager. But I would recommend the book to anyone who enjoys horror as well as anyone that enjoys good stories. I don’t read much horror myself, but found this anthology to be difficult to put down or ignore from the moment I began it. · Benjamin Keeley

Book Review

Illustrated by Anna Repp

Suume Elena Yazykova

Eltan looked at his cards and bit the inside of his cheek to keep

from cursing out loud. The three-clawed ice dragon seemed to laugh at him from the glossy surface of the card—paired up with two spirit trees, the blue lizard was a murder to his bet, which wasn’t all that much to begin with. Eltan looked to his right at the burly sheep merchant and realized the Spirits truly hated his guts today. There was an unspoken street rule about hitting the same tavern more than once in two months, and this was why. Glancing at his own hand, the sheep merchant huffed and Eltan hoped it was a good sign. So far, the man seemed not to recognize the scrawny blond youth next to him, but it was a matter of chance if he looked closer. Last week the merchant’s sloppy game cost him a prized sheep, and Eltan was in no hurry to remind him who to blame. Eltan’s scalp still itched from the old spirit leaf he used to change his brown hair to blond, and for the thousandth time he resisted the urge to dig his nails into his head until it bled. “Any last bets?” the dealer called across the table. “Last coins?” The sheep merchant grunted and added three coppers to the pile in the middle of the table. This man was clearly the stupidest man alive, Eltan thought. Well, after himself. “Quarter silver,” Eltan muttered as nonchalantly as he could. Other players murmured, stealing glances at one another. Eltan drew his cards closer to his chest, trying to look smug. This was the last coin he had to his name, after the initial quarter silver he had put down. The last time he won big was two weeks ago, and living in the city wasn’t cheap by anyone’s standard. Especially when one had to buy black market spirit leaves on a regular basis. All the players put down their first cards, and on his turn, Eltan tentatively placed a spirit tree card on top of the pile. The cards were served again, and he snatched his, turning it over. He could’ve moaned. On the white background, the red chimera, wife to fire dragon, grinned her row of pointy teeth. The chimera ate the ice dragon, who in turn ate the spirit trees. Jointly, they amounted to Eltan walking away from the table a very poor man. Giving in to the urge and scratching behind his ear, he decided that would be very bad indeed. Coughing into his fist, he whispered an incantation and wiped the palm on his pants, ignoring a disgusted glance from a barmaid. A Suume spirit leaf was stitched on 97

Leading Edge

the inside of the fabric, right over his thigh, and he felt the familiar cooling sensation as the symbol imprinted itself on his hand. The leaf was at least a month old, which made the transformation symbol, a crisp circle, faint and weak. He kept it for emergency transformations such as this. A fresh leaf could turn the man sitting next to him into a goat, but the one he had would do. Leaning back so his card companions would not see the silver sheen of his hand, he ran his thumb over the ice dragon card, imagining another beast. The image didn’t change, but the blue scales of the ice dragon rippled, both brightening and darkening. Red spread from the middle of the image outward until all the lines were red as poppies. The fire dragon, a beast of the Third Reality, glared back at Eltan. As the dealer called additional bets, Eltan faked a pained face, and heard coins tatter across the table as others doubled theirs. A city youth come to play with the men on the Outskirts, son of a silk merchant, no less; that’s what his tongue and his clothes told them, and they were willing to take the bait. “Any other bets?” the dealer called, looking at Eltan. Eltan colored in response, earning contemptuous half-smiles from his neighbors, and shook his head. “Lay out your game.” “Ice dragon and snow lady.” “Mad dog eats snow lady.” “Earth troll eats mad dog. Paired green savage. Green savage eats ice dragon.” “Lava keeper eats earth troll, eats ice dragon. Paired volcano sprite. Sprite eats savage,” the sheep merchant proclaimed, laying down his cards after the others. The stares across the table were on Eltan as he fidgeted with his cards. Slowly, as if unsure if he was making the right move, Eltan laid down his cards. “Fire dragon eats sprite. Paired red chimera. Chimera eats troll.” The silence around the table was so dense it could’ve been bottled and sold. Eltan made himself smile sheepishly and shrug. “I guess that means I win.” He reached for his winnings, sweeping his arm across the table. The sheep merchant stood up, rattling the table with his sizable stomach. “Another game,” he bellowed, glaring at Eltan, who muttered half-audible excuses and stuffed the coins into his pockets. The door was just beyond the table, and Eltan headed for it, his head down, his heart beating in his throat. “Oi,” came from behind him. “Oi, lad.” The merchant’s giant hand landed on Eltan’s shoulder. “Where you in such a hurry to?” Eltan looked up at his face from under his bleached bangs. The merchant’s face was slightly pink, his eyes narrowed. “Wait . . . don’t I know you from somewhere?” The man’s sausage-like finger pointed at his nose. Three years of living on the streets had taught Eltan to run when he heard this phrase. Fast. He tried to free his shoulder from the merchant’s grasp, but the sausage fingers held like metal pincers. “Heeey,” a voice drawled from the table. “I ain’t never seen no fire dragon with them three claws.” The merchant’s face turned an unpleasant shade of purple. Eltan didn’t wait for the man to add two and two together but kicked him square in the groin. The man gasped and the grip on Eltan’s shoulder loosened. That was all Eltan needed. With a practiced twist known to every street urchin that ever lived, he freed himself and ran.

Suume

The air outside stung his cheeks and the night was black. He headed down the street, the drumming of his feet corresponding with that of his heart. The bar patrons yelled and raced after him, at their head the sheep merchant, who moved a lot faster than Eltan would’ve expected. Their shouting, combined with the drumming of their feet, reminded Eltan of a pack of dogs chasing down a hare. He was almost at the wall when he realized he was going the wrong way. The pull of the Anchor played tricks on him, taking him to the last place he should’ve been running toward—the Round Hall, castle of the Caretakers. He paused, losing time and momentum. This was the stupidest thing he’d done in months. Frantically, his eyes searched for guards, but he could see none. Yet. He wavered, cursing his own stupidity and the cruelty of the Spirits. Looking back, he saw that the mob of cheated players was approaching quickly, their angry voices ringing out in the dark. Within seconds, his choice was made. Eltan always handled the danger at hand first. This mindset had helped in the past, and he feverishly hoped that it would so now. Escaping had always been his strongest suit. He sprinted to the wall. His long, calloused fingers grabbed the stones as he began to climb. His boots raked the wall, looking for footing, but the wall was wet from the rain, and he kept slipping and clawing like a cat in a well. Eltan heard footsteps behind him just as his foot found a somewhat dry piece in the wall. With a triumphant roar, the sheep merchant, who had succeeded in getting there first, grabbed at Eltan’s hair, catching a few strands and ripping them out of his head. The tip of Eltan’s boot dug into the dry niche and propelled the light boy upward, but the merchant’s hand snatched again, this time getting the fringe of his coat. Fear and desperation rose in Eltan’s chest. As if it had a will of its own, Eltan’s hand plunged into a hidden pocket inside his shirt and pulled out another spirit leaf, one with the triangle-shaped symbol of Itl. Death. He gasped the incantation and turned towards the man behind. His palm sprung open and the leaf floated out of his hand and landed in the middle of the man’s forehead. The color drained from the merchant’s face and his mouth opened and closed. He stumbled backward, falling into the arms of the other players, who had just caught up. To Eltan the world grew slow and unreal. He saw the men point fingers at him, their faces contorting with fear. His pursuers fell back, their eyes wide enough for him to see the whites.

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“Distorter!” he heard through the confusing mass that seemed to fill everything. “Distorter!” There were other footsteps, coming from a different direction. Eltan was vaguely aware of being grabbed from behind. Turning his head, he saw a troupe of guards, their metal armor shining in the moonlight. They took one look at the man on the ground and reached for the swords on their belts. “Show me your hands,” one of the guards commanded. When Eltan was slow to respond, the guard snatched Eltan’s right hand and straightened the fingers roughly. In the weak light, the palm was silvered, the mark of Itl grey in the middle of it. “Take him to the healers,” the guard commanded, nodding towards the merchant. “You’re coming with us, witchling.” The flat of the sword drove into Eltan’s side, and he screamed, his flesh no longer used to the abuse of the iron. While he gasped and panted in pain, iron shackles were placed on his wrists. When his vision, blurred by tears, had cleared enough to once more see the street, he saw that he and the troupe of guards were alone. The villagers had vacated the street once it was clear that the Caretakers were involved. And no one crossed the rulers of the city, not villagers, not Eltan. He remembered little of the rest of the night, only the burn of iron and the rain that once again started dripping onto the city and getting lost in his hair.

The only thing worse than being thrown in a jail is waking up in one, Eltan thought. He rolled

onto his side and yelped in pain. Lifting his shirt, he inspected the patch of angry red on his side, then his wrists, where the fresh damage from the shackles was already starting to fade. The damage from iron always looked like this. It never bled, just burned and caused excruciating pain. It didn’t look like it was going to scar, though, since the contact was momentary—it wasn’t like continuous exposure. The childhood memory of iron chains made his wrists itch, just where the thin white scars circled them like bracelets from when the Caretakers made him and his sisters wear iron jewelry, knowing full well it prevented the spirit-born from using magic. The cot he was lying on was round, stuffed with itchy, rotted hay. Iron bars circled the cell, even the area where it met the stone wall. Bitterly, he remembered his lush rooms, where Caretakers had made sure he had every luxury of food, drink, and clothing. Leaving him here was an insult, the extent of their power over him thrown in his face. Thinking about his childhood made him remember the wrought iron on his windows— birds and flowers, the design an intricate lace of finger-thick metal. Even beautiful, they were still bars. His room and the rooms of his sisters also came with the benefit of a thin sheet of iron beyond the beautiful clay walls of the room. He always thought it funny, since he was never a strong enough Distorter to break through stone. Only Vive was. Eltan knew he would end up back here, even though he did enjoy telling himself that the disguises and pickpocketing would last forever. Running toward the Anchor was outrageously stupid, and now here he was, trapped like a cockroach in a can of jelly. Like the last three years of his short, eighteen-year life never happened.

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“How does a handsome lad get a jug of wine around here?” he called into the dark that began right past where the circle of light from a lamp over his head ended. “I’m a mean juggler.” His answer was silence, and from the aura of the room, he guessed that he was alone. “Come on, it can’t be that easy to come by entertainment around here,” he called again, half-heartedly. No one answered, and he sat back down, his head between his knees. Even from here, he could feel the pulse and the draw of the Anchor. It was where the spirits anchored themselves to cross realities and the place where the Distorters first received their powers. The guards had dragged him to the middle of the Round Hall, the iron prison where the Caretakers held war captives. Eltan had never been here before. They liked to bring Vive to break the men, and he knew it was because she was so young—and a girl. “My brother, the trickster.” A voice that was just louder than a whisper carried from beyond the dark, making Eltan’s shoulders droop even lower. “I should say I’m glad to see you, but I’m not.” “Vive,” he said. Joy and guilt comingled in his chest. He looked up to see a small hand strike a flint and light an oil lamp. His sister’s face emerged from the dark. No wonder he didn’t sense anyone’s presence—Vive could fool a bloodhound. Her hair had been shaved to a buzz on one side and fell almost to the shoulder on the other. Last time he saw her, her hair had been short, fine, and fuzzy, like the fur of a kitten. She didn’t look much older, just taller and leaner, which wasn’t quite the same thing. Eltan and his sisters carried little resemblance to one another, except for the mouth—the upper lip a bit larger than the lower—and the delicate build that made them seem younger than they really were. The hand holding the lamp was bared to the elbow, exposing the scar around her wrist. Unlike Eltan’s, it was pink and raw, the iron chain only recently gone. Eltan stared at her wrists. Jeweled, they were the hands of a slave. Bare, her hands were the hands of a Distorter. A terrible, unforgiving Distorter, if one believed the rumors on the streets. Eltan didn’t only believe. He had seen his sister make the warlords of the south weep and beg for mercy, seen stone walls melt under her touch. Not many, he thought, knew exactly how nonthreatening she looked outside those stories. Even now, standing no taller than five feet, his younger sister was a thin, grey ghost of his past. He wanted to hold her and whisper comforting things into her ear, like he did when they were children. “I thought you would be long gone from the city, brother, wandering the whole of Second Reality, free as the wind,” she whispered. Setting the lamp on the ground, she knelt and held her hands in front of the bars, a breath away from touching them. “Believe me, I tried.” He laughed quietly. “Like I never tried anything in my life. I couldn’t.” “Why not?” Her question held no judgment, just mild curiosity. He looked at his hands. Without the spirit symbols, they looked ordinary. “You’ve never left the Anchor. You don’t know what it’s like to be so far away. The emptiness.”

Even beautiful,

they were still bars.

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He shook his head. “The trees are silent there. The leaves bear no symbols. The iron is too dense in the ground. It’s no place for a spirit-born.” “You almost killed a man, Eltan,” Vive said. “I figured he wasn’t dead, since I’m not,” he said stiffly. “You’re lucky you didn’t have access to the Anchor,” she said. “Buying spirit leaves from a merchant . . .” For the first time, her eyes twinkled with amusement. “How fresh could you get them, anyway?” Eltan shot her a look. “Two weeks freshest.” “Lucky for your cards partner.” Her tone turned flat. Eltan flared up at that, standing up. “You weren’t there, Vive, he was going to—” “Give you a thrashing for cheating him at cards?” she asked softly. “A little too much to place an Itl on him, don’t you think?” Eltan sat back down. He was the most disobedient of his siblings and, although she was a year younger, it was always Vive who put him back in his place. Old guilt ate at him when he looked at her now. Guilt for leaving his sisters behind when the chance presented itself. He puffed, clenched his fists, and then unclenched them. “Rye?” he asked. “How is Rye?” Vive licked her lips unsurely. “Not good,” she said finally. “Her allergy is getting worse.” Eltan barely heard what she said next. “Caretakers won’t let a Distorter walk without iron, especially one as talented as she. She can live with it, they say, and I guess she can. But she looks pale, sickly all the time. She doesn’t say much, but I can tell she’s in pain.” Rye was the youngest, the smallest, and the weakest. She clung to Eltan, who was five years her elder, following her brother everywhere. Eltan buried his face in his palms and shook quietly. Rye inherited the same allergy to iron as their mother. Their mother didn’t die from the allergy, either, not directly. But Vive, who was strong enough to remember such things, said she withered away, like a potted tree no one watered. It wasn’t unusual. The continuous exposure to iron made the Distorters’ lives short. Eltan and his sisters were the only Distorters in the Round Hall that were still young enough to not be in danger of dying. And if Rye’s body couldn’t adapt, she would not reach adulthood. Vive watched him without saying a word. When he took his hands off his face, his eyes were bloodshot and dry. “You aren’t wearing your bracelets, Vive. They sent you here. Do what you came to do.” Vive pursed her lips, reached into her bodice, and pulled out a leaf. Like every spirit leaf, it was silver, but unlike most leaves Eltan had had to use in the last three years, this one gave off a distinct glow. It had to have been picked up moments before Vive came to him. She turned the leaf in her hand, letting him see the symbol. Suume, the transformation circle—One begins as All, and All begins as One. “You have been proclaimed to be useless as you are now. I am to make you something useful,” she said. Right then, Eltan knew without a doubt that the Caretakers didn’t send

“You have been

proclaimed to be useless as you are now. I am to make you something useful.”

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her to convince him to return. They had other plans. If she’d told him that before she told him news of Rye, the stone of fear would form in his stomach. Now, it made little difference. There was only one way you could “transform” a Distorter. Magic often went awry around spirit-born, and the transformation symbol was no different. It turned a Distorter into a Limp, a creature of great magical power that had no mind or will of its own. Walking vessels of pure power, Limps were used to fuel especially complicated incantations, letting Distorters channel their power of destruction to reach far beyond the walls of the city and smite the enemies of the Caretakers. His siblings and he had one, a no-name walking corpse of a boy they called Witt. Eltan had known the boy when he was still young, an illegitimate child Distorter, a by-blow of one of his long-dead uncles. The boy wasn’t particularly talented, but Caretakers made sure that the child’s magical blood didn’t go to waste. When he wasn’t used for magical energy, fueling the especially hard enchantments, he helped with the chores and played a live doll for Vive and Rye. Briefly, Eltan remembered being cruel to the creature—it was hard to resist abusing such compliance. “Do it, then,” Eltan shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to give usefulness a try.” Vive smirked. “Even if I turned you into a shovel, brother, you would break striking the ground.” She touched the leaf to her lips, and its phosphoric light filled the hollows of her cheeks. “They sent a Senior Distorter to discipline a rogue witchling. They shouldn’t, however, have sent me.” She closed her eyes and whispered an incantation so long and complicated, Eltan had no hope of following what was being said. The world changed. It rippled, crumbled, and fell, stripped of its solidity and buoyancy. Trying not to tremble, he cringed on the inside and waited for his sister’s magic to rob him of his soul and turn him into a creature that only existed, but did not live. There was telltale tingling in his fingers and toes, indicating that a powerful incantation was being spoken in near proximity. Through the rattling in his ears, he heard his sister’s voice. “I will not lose two siblings to their whims,” she said quietly, almost to herself. At her words, Eltan looked at his hands. They seemed just as solid as they always were. Looking at Vive, he saw that her form contorted, as if he was looking at her through a water lens. And then Eltan understood. Vive wasn’t transforming him. She was transforming space around him, opening a path that stretched both above and below. Solid substance opened to her words in the narrow space between the rows of iron bars. It was spectacularly dangerous to meddle with space—she was doing the most foolhardy magic Eltan had ever seen. He squeezed his eyes shut, half-expecting to be blown into a million bloody pieces. “One hour is all you have to get as far from city as possible. Then the space in your cell will turn from a vacuum to a solid. You have to be far gone from the Anchor’s influence by then, or you will be sucked back in. Eltan!” she snapped. His eyes flew open. “Do you understand?” He nodded, too terrified to speak. “You have the hour and no more.” Before the cell and the wall and the bars disappeared, Eltan saw her scream the last part of the incantation. The leaf between her fingers burst into blue flames. The ground under him shifted. “Run!” she screamed one last time, and dissolved.

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It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t she who dissolved, but he. His body mixed with the vacuum all around him, particles of his skin mingling with the air, stone, and iron that made up the castle walls. He closed his eyes against the nauseating swirling. One begins as All, and All begins as One. As space transformed around him, he understood what it meant. The Caretakers really shouldn’t have sent the most creative and powerful Distorter that ever lived to deal out his punishment. At his sister’s words, he was taken apart and put back together in another place, far from the cell that held him. As solid ground formed beneath his feet once more, Eltan fell into the dirt face first. A moment’s gathering of his wits made him realize that he was alive. Alive and whole, as whole as he could possibly be after being put through a transformational cheese grater. He sat up, spitting up sand, and moved his limbs. They responded, and Eltan exhaled with relief. The night was silent around him, making him wonder exactly how long ago he was caught outside the city. Vive gave him an hour to get out of the city, which meant he needed to get moving. Rising to his feet, he saw that he was just outside of the Round Hall, the Caretakers’ castle-prison. The castle loomed over him, its odd, angular shape reminding him of a monstrous ship. Shielding his eyes, he glanced up at the sky, trying to remember his lessons on telling time by the position of the moon. Then his fingers brushed his forehead, and thick dread filled him to the bone. His fingertips were metal. Hard, cold, and grey, with an unmistakable sheen of pure iron. When putting his body back together, Vive had misspoken a few words, and the matter of the castle had replaced some of his. Terror closed his throat as Eltan searched his face and his body for more alterations, but the rest of him was unchanged. Staring at his hand, he waited for his body to go into shock, but as moments passed, nothing happened. Somehow his sister managed to mix his flesh with metal in a way that provoked no fatal physical response. Relief flooded him. His sister gave him another chance at a life he always wanted— free of the Caretakers, free of the Round Hall and its cruel politics. Free of responsibility to his family. He swallowed his guilt. One hour was all that separated him from becoming a Limp. If the Caretakers succeeded, he would be made a servant to his siblings, and when his siblings died, he would be passed on to the next generation, and so on until even a Limp’s unnaturally long life wore out. He shuddered at the thought, and hating himself down to the very fibers of his being, he walked toward the wall. The pull of the Anchor was so near, his every sense was sharpened, his body full of energy. He could hop the wall easily when he got to it and run with the speed of an arrow until he was out of the city. He could make it within the hour, he knew, make it and leave the city forever. Leave the Anchor forever. The thought made him pause. Without spirit leaves, he was as good as captured. And with the Anchor so close, it would be stupid and wasteful to not make sure that he escaped. He was drawing close to the wall that divided the Anchor from the outskirts. Eltan had to act before he was spotted. Moving as quietly as a breath, Eltan turned on his heels and walked in the opposite direction.

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The Anchor. He couldn’t lie to himself that the leaves were the only reason he had to go. The draw was so powerful, he moved toward it almost unconsciously, his feet barely having time to catch up to his momentum. The Anchor was located at the heart of the city, the sole source of the power of the Distorters and their Caretakers. The city was built around it right after the first Distorter was captured by his enemies and turned into a slave. Still moving quietly, he hid when wall guards sauntered by. After they disappeared out of sight, he ran as quickly as he could. To a casual observer the Anchor was no more than a small park, a green island in the middle of a city. But the Spirits needed greenery and iron-free earth to anchor them to the Second Reality, and the park provided that. Before his escape, Eltan often came to the Anchor to rest and think. It wasn’t until he reached the park that he realized how much he had missed it. Entering the circle of trees that kept a silent watch around the Spirit Glade, Eltan breathed in a lungful of sweet summer air. The autumn that had fallen over the rest of the Second Reality couldn’t claim the Anchor, which held its own passage of time. The night was even quieter here, a blanket of silence hushing whatever distant noise the wind brought from the city. Wasting time was very irresponsible, and Eltan hurried, breaking into a half-run. He had to take his sister’s sacrifice and flee, and he had enough sense to know that it was indeed a sacrifice. Vive would be punished for what she did. Severely. When he was on top of the hill that overlooked the Glade, he couldn’t take it anymore. His face splitting into a grin, he ran down to the middle of the Glade and fell face down, breathing deep. The smell of earth and grass seemed to fill him to the tips of his fingers, so fresh and fragrant it made him dizzy. He hadn’t felt this happy to be anywhere since, well, since he was here last. His eyes teared up as his chest swelled in the feeling of pure ecstasy, and he had to fight to get up and make himself move. He searched around for any spirit leaves that might have been left behind by the last spirit that crossed here, but there were none. The Caretakers had made sure to strip the Anchor of every last one. Old legends spoke of the spirit-born being the descendants of the First, the one who crossed Realities and came back a Distorter. When he was younger, Eltan felt angry at the spirits for giving the sprit-born powers in the first place. The powers had brought them nothing but the scorn and domination of the Caretakers, who were the descendants of those who had first learned how to control the Distorters. Now, the legends didn’t make Eltan angry. They made him feel abandoned. And now, with Vive’s sacrifice fresh in his mind, he felt it more than ever before. He shook his head, wondering what it was about the place that made him so melancholic. It didn’t matter now; he was never coming back. The thought made his insides twist with self-pity. He wanted to fall on the ground and cry like a child. Instead, he turned and walked away from the glade, before the young slaves that patrolled the Anchor for spirit appearances spotted him.

One hour was all

that separated him from becoming a Limp.

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A rustling came from behind him, accompanied by a soft light that was just stronger than the moonlight above his head. He sucked in a breath, stopping dead in his tracks. Blowing a handful of leaves at his back, the wind picked up his hair and the air around him vibrated, becoming less solid. His skin tingled, a good deal like when Vive transformed space. His mouth dry, he turned back to the glade. A small whirlwind sprouted from the ground, an air-twist of leaves and silver light. The leaves bore phosphoric marks of spirit, outlined at the edges by unearthly glow. Then the leaves fell away all at once, their light dimming as they struck the ground, and Eltan peered at the creature that stood in their midst. The spirit was a frail old man, stooped over, a thin beard quivering on his chin, blown by no wind Eltan could feel. He looked entirely human, solid, and that stunned Eltan more than anything else. No one ever saw spirits; they came and went undetected, scattering leaves of the First Reality that got caught up in their wind. Whatever Eltan imagined spirits to look like, he never had never imagined this husk of a man. And he could see him. He was looking at a spirit with his own eyes. “This . . . this is impossible,” he said before he could catch himself. The old man looked up from under his heavy brow, and Eltan could’ve swallowed his tongue. The spirit’s eyes were glowing white-blue, calm and eternally tolerant, as if nothing could ever disturb him. Looking right through Eltan, the old man raised his hand, and the air stirred again, otherworldly wind lashing at his robes and exposing his bony knees. Eltan reached out a hand to him. “No, don’t leave—” “Hey!” a yelp came from behind his back. “You’re not supposed to be here!” Eltan turned and saw a scrawny girl that paused right on top of the hill. She wore the brown robes of a slave, and her voice carried as she shouted, “Guards! Guards!” Like the time he cursed the merchant with the Itl, the world slowed its pace for Eltan. He saw the girl turn back to the Round Hall, running as fast as she could. He looked at his feet. Spirit leaves lay scattered all around him, enough to use, sell, and feed him for months to come. The slave wouldn’t get far. He could catch her and silence her in whatever manner he liked. Then, he could make it out of the city on time, before the space in the cell sucked him back in . . . Out of the corner of his eye, Eltan saw the spirit pale and the leaves rise once more, obscuring the old man as he launched into the Third Reality. Eltan had moments until the girl made the guards aware of his presence. Her brown hair swayed behind her back, and its sight made Eltan’s chest ache. Rye. The name struck him out of nowhere. That’s what she looked like as a girl, skinny with gorgeous brown hair that was fit for a woman thrice her age. The slave girl made it to the top of the hill and disappeared out of sight. Eltan launched himself at the spirit, grabbing with all his strength. His hand snatched something soft and he was falling, falling to the middle of the earth.

He was falling, falling to the middle of the earth.

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When he opened his eyes, the world was white. Faint shapes surrounded him, outlines as small as stones and as large as mountains. He blinked and looked at his hand. He held a piece of robe between his fingers, metal fingertips glinting. It was the old man’s robe. The spirit had jumped realities, taking Eltan with him. “Why are you here?” a voice said. Eltan looked up and saw the old man’s face just inches from his. Here, the spirit’s eyes were a normal, human grey, and they looked at him with perplexed annoyance. Hiccupping in terror, Eltan let go of his robe. Everyone knew that the Third Reality was no place for a human. It was inhabited by dragons, mermaids, and chimeras—only spirits were allowed to dwell here. Looking around wildly, he took a tentative step backwards, fighting the urge to bolt. The spirit looked at him, his eyes going from irritated to impassive. “You’re not human,” the old man said in a way that wasn’t a question. Eltan gaped. “Where are we?” “Neither here, nor there,” the spirit said. “I can’t take you further. You’re not solid, but you’re no spirit either. What are you looking for, Not-Human?” Eltan stared numbly. He shouldn’t have been able to see the spirit in the first place, let alone touch it. This is how the first Distorter must’ve felt when— His heart pounded. “Am I the first to have come here?” The spirit shook his head. “Another has come and gone before you. I told her the same thing I told you: she—” “She?” “Yes,” the spirit replied impatiently. “I told her she didn’t belong outside her Reality, and neither do you.” “The First.” The First, the one that came before others. The legends had it wrong— it was a woman, a girl, likely. The one who started the line of those who bent matter to their will. “She was like you, more spirit than matter. We struck a bargain, she and I. The power over things in her world. In exchange, she returned to her world and left us alone. She thought that it would save her life. If it did, I do not know.” “Save her life. She was dying?” The spirit nodded. “Iron in her—here.” He pointed at his belly. “And there.” He pointed at his chest. He narrowed his eyes at Eltan. “I see her in you.” The spirit pointed at Eltan’s mouth, the mouth that was the same shape as his siblings’. Eltan thought over this desperately. “You gave her power over matter? Bending matter?” Tilting his head to the side, the old man gave him an indulgent smile. “Even so. I gave her control over things she possessed in her world. She left and now you return. What do you wish of me?” Raising his hand to his face, Eltan flexed and unflexed his fingers. Iron. It was iron that enabled him to weigh down the spirit in the Reality jump, just like it did with the First. Iron didn’t let spirits travel Realities. Vive, who had risked her life to mix him with matter and thrust him through space, had made him less human. Unstable matter, that’s what he was, just like the dying First.

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The spirit raised his eyebrows, a silent question on his face: what do you wish in return? “Iron,” Eltan said. “I want power over iron.” The spirit shook his head. “Iron is not mine to give. We cannot Cross it, we cannot give it. It weighs us down. That’s why I can’t take you further.” Hope fluttered and died in Eltan. His hand fell to his side. “But, you already have it,” the spirit said evenly. “Why ask for something you already have?” “This?” Eltan asked nodding at his hand. “This is nothing that will help me.” “What you have, you own,” the spirit said. “And control. Didn’t your First ever tell you that?” “According to you, she had iron, too.” He rubbed his fingertips together, marveling at the feel of cool metal and warm flesh. The two had no business touching, and yet, here he was. The spirit shook his head. “It was in her belly, yes. But it wasn’t a part of her, not the way it’s a part of you.” “You can thank my sister for that,” Eltan murmured with a rueful half-smile. Thinking of Vive filled him with pride and regret. If only she could see the spirit, she would know what to ask. “Go back, Not-Human,” he repeated. “Go back to your human world.” “There’s nowhere for me to go,” Eltan whispered. “I can’t go back to my family. I can’t leave the city . . .” He ground his teeth. “I don’t belong anywhere.” “There is always somewhere to go. If you don’t have a place, make one. ” Eltan’s hand curled into a fist. Now that the initial fear had gone, his thoughts were spinning, turning in his head. His eyes rose to the spirit. “I want to use spirit power without the spirit leaves.” The spirit raised his eyebrows again, and for a few seconds, there was no powerful being in front of Eltan, just a tired old man. “This I cannot give.” He reached out his hand to Eltan. “Leave this place and go back to where you belong.” Eltan ground his teeth. “I will not leave unless you give me something I can use. Against them.” The Caretakers, the ones who used the First as a puppet and made her start a line of slaves that far surpassed the power of their masters. He could only imagine what happened after she was sent back through the Realities. According to the Caretakers, the First was captured when the city was seized over a hundred years ago. Somehow she had saved her own life when she was sent back, though he couldn’t imagine how. Eltan shuddered as he imagined iron piercing his own body. It was a miracle she had even survived. “Go back,” the spirit repeated. “You have no place here.” “I will not.” “You cannot stay here forever.” “I can try.” Eltan’s eyes bore into the face of the old man. The stared at each other, Eltan’s face breathing of youth and determination, and the spirit’s of old

“There is always

somewhere to go. If you don’t have a place, make one.”

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age and weariness. The spirit blinked and sighed, his shoulders stooping lower. He reached out his hand. Eltan took a step back. “I will not . . .” “Give me your hand,” the spirit said, “if you want to have what I have.” Hesitantly, Eltan reached and placed his smooth metal hand into the wrinkled claw of the old man. Pain, sharp and overwhelming, brought tears to Eltan’s eyes. He gasped, pulled back and found it absolutely impossible to free himself of the old man. The spirit’s eyes were closed and he whispered under his breath, much like Vive did when she distorted. Eltan’s hand was the first thing to go numb, and then the tingling crawled up his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. The shapes around them bleached and then went as black as the darkest night Eltan had ever seen. “No!” he shrieked. “You promised!” There was no answer from the spirit, just the pressure on his hand, the pain, and the blackness. Eltan fell again.

When he opened his eyes, the stars were glistening above his head, and he was alone. He wasn’t standing in the middle of the Spirit Glade, where the spirit had appeared, but on the hill that overlooked it. On the same spot, he realized, from where the slave girl had spotted him earlier. His hands shook, and he was faint and weak. Below him, their armor reflecting moonlight, were the wall guards. They were arguing in raised voices, pointing at the hill where Eltan stood and back at the Glade. The light from their torches cast drastic shadows on the grass, and Eltan noticed that the ground had already been picked clean of the spirit leaves. They couldn’t see him, he realized. The thought brought him none of his usual relief. Somehow, he didn’t care if they could see him. He licked the corners of his lips, trying to digest what had just happened. He had jumped realities. Even though he never got to the Third, it was making him dizzy with wonder. Dizzy and terrified and excited all at once. The combination made him slightly sick, but he couldn’t help grinning. How long had he been gone? The sky was the same obscure black, which meant he couldn’t have been gone for more than half an hour. He had plenty of time to reach the wall if he wanted to, maybe even get far enough to escape the Anchor’s influence. If he hurried, he still had the chance to flee, the chance to save himself. He started to stand up, his hand reaching to the tree behind him for support. A sensation that both burned and cooled his palm, making him stop in a half-crouch. The memory of the spirit grabbing his hand and numbing him to the shoulder made him sit back down, his back against the tree. All of a sudden, he was very afraid. He made himself look at his hand. In the weak light of the stars, he saw an etched symbol on his palm. “Suume,” he whispered. As if waiting for his words, the symbol glowed, like it would on a spirit leaf. Eltan’s mouth dried. Slowly, as if scared the symbol might extinguish at a merest move, he touched a grass blade at his side. The green shoot vibrated, twitched, and started to stretch. It grew longer and thicker, then started to sprout leaves. As the tips of Eltan’s fingers kept touching it, the blade of grass developed a bud that opened

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into a fluffy dandelion. Eltan jerked his hand back, marveling at the flower. Then, biting the inside of his cheek, he whispered faintly. “Itl.” The symbol on his hand glowed, changing shape. He touched the dandelion. The yellow fuzz browned first, and then the flower shriveled, its bright leaves turning black. Eltan fell forward, barely believing his eyes. The plant was dead. He sat back, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The guards marched back up the hill, ignoring Eltan, who stayed in the shadows. Breathing deeply, he barely noticed them pass. What had happened to him? What had the spirit given him? He stared at his palm. In the middle of his hand was a faint red mark of the no-longer-glowing Itl. The significance of the spirit’s gift crushed over him. He could conquer the world. He could have everything he wanted. He could have his freedom. The thought that would’ve made him overjoyed just yesterday now made him melancholic. A heavy weight descended on his shoulders and he didn’t want to get up. Why would he need power and freedom if he had nowhere to go? No place to call his own? Eltan closed his eyes and let the time pass through him, all around him. He licked his dry lips. The spirit had been right—there’s always somewhere to go. He didn’t know who he’d been kidding when he had decided to leave in the first place. He couldn’t leave this; he couldn’t leave them. Not this time. It wouldn’t be long now, he knew, until Vive’s vacuum sucked him back in. The minutes passed, and he let time flow over him, through him. When the tug came, he didn’t fight it. The space around him formed a familiar vacuity, and Eltan felt his body being sucked through air and matter like before. His hour was up. Trying to breathe evenly, Eltan tried to relax while the space transformation happened. This time the space didn’t seem to need to disassemble him like it did the first time. He felt pliable, yet solid, like clay, his particles breaking and reforming with ease. When the world stopped spinning, he breathed in and smelled the familiar stench of rotten hay and stone. The stone floor was beneath him once more, and the lamp above his head glowed yellow, flickering, oil nearly burned out. Vive lay just outside the iron bars, pale as chalk, but her chest rose and fell softly. Eltan breathed out his relief. “Thank the spirits,” he murmured. “Vive,” he called, but she did not stir. He had no plan beyond getting back to her. Now that he was here, he waited for his customary fear to come, but it was nowhere to be found. Something had changed while he was at the Anchor. He wouldn’t let Vive take the fall this time. He was ready to take care of his family. On his own terms. He raised his hand, an inch from touching the iron bars, and started whispering a spell. Once he was done, and the symbol of Suume glowed on his palm, he extended his hand, the metal tips of his fingers brushing the bars. Coldness filled his palm and silvered his hand up to the elbow. There was a moment when he thought that it wouldn’t work, that the spirit had been wrong. How can a spirit-born control iron? The bars creaked and bent, making a space just big enough for a child to climb through. Eltan didn’t need any more than that. Sticking his head out, he twisted his

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body out with ease. The iron was cool where it brushed his cheek—as harmless as any other metal. Vive’s forehead was cold, and he examined her, softly. She had fainted after the incantation, having exhausted herself by using her own energy instead of a Limp’s. “Thom,” Eltan said, feeling the spirit mark of healing cool his palm. He knew its shape—the triangle captured within the circle, Itl within the Suume. Death, transformed. Pink returned to her cheeks and her breath warmed his hand. Stooping, he picked her up. Despite them being almost the same size, she was lighter than he remembered. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow, and Eltan walked to the door. The door was banded iron, massively heavy, and, of course, locked from outside. Grasping Vive with one arm, his metal hand stretched to touch the iron, and his lips moved. There was a gasp and a creak of metal as the door, so massive and impenetrable, crumpled like foil, revealing the courtyard outside of the prison. Eltan, momentarily blinded by the lightening sky, didn’t see the guards fall back, their hands going to their swords. He didn’t need to—he heard them yell and curse. Blinking, Eltan stepped over the debris of the ruined door and held Vive closer to his chest. As his eyes adjusted, he saw an army of guards gathered around him, their armor shining and their swords at the ready. Smiling, he looked down at Vive, wondering whether he should set her down first. No, he decided. He could manage with just one hand. He was done leaving her behind. ·

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C o n t r i b u t o r B i o gr a p h i e s

Duckman Neal Silvester Author

Neal Silvester is a mirror, a sword and shield. He can be reached at neal.salvare@gmail.com. Lou Badillo Artist

L. E. Badillo is a freelance artist and writer whose work can be seen on the covers of Comets and Criminals, the upcoming Schrodinger’s Mouse, at elbad.deviantart.com and cuttingedgekomix.com and in The Shadow of the Unknown.

Friend, Inc. William Fraser Author

William Fraser is a Mainer who settled into the Chicago area by way of Los Angeles.

He’s a confirmed lover of all things science fiction, can’t wait to one day visit Mars, and is completing his first scifi novel, The Waiting List. He dedicates “Friend, Inc.” to his wife, Nanette, and daughter, Evangeline.

Benjamin Bronson Artist

Oh hai, some people call me “Benjamin Bronson”. . . but that’s just my name. When I’m not making art, I’m making awkward advances in society. So now you know my name . . . See what I did there.

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Ferka Mackenzie Parker Author

Mackenzie Parker is a twenty-year-old fiction writer and poet, currently pursuing an English degree at University of Portland. When not listening to her muse, Mackenzie reads, updates her Twitter feed, memorizes random facts, watches British television, and pretends to be witty. Hannah Hillam Artist

Hannah Hillam was born in Provo, UT, and has been drawing since she was two

years old. Currently she is attending Brigham Young University to complete her BFA in illustration. She enjoys learning languages, playing the guitar, and traveling. Her website is hannahs-art.blogspot.com.

Suume Elena Yazykova Author

Elena Yazykova was born in Vyborg, Russia, moving to United States in 2000. As a student, she changed her major five times and now carries a lot of tricks up her sleeve, like swearing in Spanish and hacking into email. This is her first story with Leading Edge.

Anna Repp Artist

Anna Repp is a fantasy illustrator who lives in the north suburb of Chicago with her six-year-old daughter. She works with magazine and book publishers in Australia and the US and has also exhibited in New Zealand as a steampunk artist.

Shadow of the Scythe Matt Moore Author

An Aurora Award nominee, Matt Moore is a horror and science fiction writer living in

Ottawa, Ontario. His short fiction has appeared in print, electronic, and audio markets including On Spec, AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, Cast Macabre, Torn Realities, and the Tesseracts anthologies. His novelette Silverman’s Game was published by Damnation Books in 2010. Working in electronic communications by day, he’s the Communications Director for ChiZine Publications by night. Find more at mattmoorewrites.com.

Jared Boggess Artist

Growing up on a steady diet of Disney movies and comic books, Jared Boggess was

nourished by the wonders of drawing and imagination. It was only natural that this evolved into his gluttonous love for illustration and design. Since graduating from Virginia Commonwealth University in 2010, he has been busy with freelance work for several magazines across the nation as well as cover art for upcoming book releases. Follow his work and connect with him at jaredboggess.com.

Poetry Timons Esaias When the Aliens Came

Timons Esaias is a satirist, poet, and writer of short fiction, living in Pittsburgh. His fiction has appeared in fourteen languages, and his poetry has been translated into Spanish, Swedish, and Chinese. He won the 2005 Asimov’s Readers Award for poetry.

Heather K. Sanchez Blue Eyed Monster

Heather loves literature and art. When she isn’t writing poetry, she enjoys taking care of her labradors, playing the piano, spending time at the beach, and strolling through art museums. She hopes to publish more poetry in the future. E. P. Fisher Einstein’s Brain

E. P. Fisher was a boyhood military brat, touring castles on the Rhine and strolling

down the Champs-Elysees. As a teen, he watched tanks roll through the Heart of Dixie on their way to Ole Miss and rode out the Alaskan earthquake in ’64. After graduating from Reed, he joined the Peace Corps, surviving Idi Amin’s bloody coup. He works with special-needs children as a play therapist and adventure-based counselor. Keriann Horlacher Artist

I’ve been doing art since I was five. I drew mostly fantasy creatures until around junior

high when I started drawing more humanoids. I have two little girls and a wonderful husband. My hobbies are to read, sing, draw, and watch murder mysteries (the best ones include Castle, Bones, and Case Closed). I love video games, anime, and manga.

Writer Guidelinesa

Stories with sex, profanity, excessive violence, or that belittle traditional family values or religion will not be considered. To get a feel for what we will and will not accept, please purchase a sample copy. You can find single issue sales nformation on page 118. Simultaneous submissions will not be considered. All simultaneous submissions will be recycled without reply. Because of our current backlog, expect processing time to be around two to four months. Any questions or comments can be e-mailed to the fiction director at fiction@ leadingedgemagazine.com. Electronic submissions should be sent to fiction@leadingedgemagazine.com All other submissions should be sent to the following address with the appropriate genre in the attention line (fiction director or poetry director): Leading Edge Magazine Attn: [Genre] Director 4087 JKB Provo, UT 84602

Fiction

Poetry

Stories under 10,000 words are preferred, though we will consider stories up to 15,000 words. Because Leading Edge is interested in helping new authors improve, each story is critiqued by at least two members of our staff; these comment sheets are returned to the author with our response. If you do not want your story critiqued, please let us know. Fiction payment is 1 (one) cent per word, $10.00 minimum. Two contributor copies are also provided.

Poetry should reflect both literary value and popular appeal and should deal with science fiction- or fantasy-related themes. Payment is $10.00 for the first 4 (four) pages, $1.50 for each subsequent page of published poetry. Two contributor copies are also provided.

Rights For both fiction and poetry, we purchase First North American serial rights.

Manuscript Preparation Your manuscript should be printed on white paper. Make sure to double-space and use an easy-to-read roman font. Each page should be numbered and have 1-inch margins. The first page of your manuscript should include your name, street address, and e-mail address (if you have one). Include a cover letter with any publishing credits and any other relevant information. Always keep a copy of your manuscript for yourself. The postal system is not perfect, and Leading Edge is not responsible for lost or misdirected manuscripts. Please include a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your manuscript; if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, we have no way of responding to you. If your manuscript is disposable, include a regular envelope with one first-class stamp for submissions within the US, more for international submissions. If you would like your manuscript returned, include a manila envelope with sufficient postage. International submissions must be disposable due to difficulties presented by international postage. Please remember that we return 2-3 comment sheets per submission, so prepare adequately.

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Order Forma

Leading Edge is a semiannual publication, and offers one-year, two-year, and three-year subscriptions. We also offer sample copies for $5.95 and copies of our back issues for their listed price. If you have any questions about availability, contact our circulation director at circulation@leadingedgemagazine.com. Send order form with check or money order to: Leading Edge Magazine Attn: Circulation Director 4087 JKB Provo, UT 84602

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Issues #41 $4.95 Twentieth Anniversary Issue #48 $4.95 Interview with two Writers of the Future winners #49 $4.95 Fiction by a winner of Writers of the Future #50 $4.95 Twenty-fifth Anniversary Issue #52 $5.95 “Outlining,” a how-to by Brandon Sanderson #54 $5.95 “Star Runner” #55 $5.95 “Diamond Sharks” #56 $5.95 “Marked” #57 $5.95 “Mulled with Sky-Souls” #58 $5.95 “Redemption Songs” #59 $5.95 “Sleight of Heart” #60 $5.95 “Floracide” #62 $6.95 “Ferka"

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