Week 4: 25,641 words (~90 pages)

Chapter 1

From the back door of the diner, all you could see were two glowing orbs like pupil-less eyes. The sounds fed into the darker thoughts, the way dust funneled through the alley tearing air to a buzz, and don’t forget that growl of the engine. What great beast lurked in the dusty shroud?

It had a jaunty whistle, though.

“A radio? In a car?” Margaret asked for not the first time. “Don’t that distract you?”

The bootlegger sat in the forest green pickup without a word. All ready for the coming storm, he had on goggles pulled off the Red Baron’s body but the boy was too young for that. In nice clothes—nice and dirty—with a bandanna over his mouth and nose. Hard to say if he was enjoying the broadcast, but she wasn’t. She was busy sweating, hefting a 5-gallon jug from the back. She paid $50 a jug, knowing half was water. It wouldn’t have been this heavy otherwise, heavy, but not this heavy, and a gentleman might’ve offered to unload it for her—heck even a good businessman would’ve offered, but this boy from Appleseed didn’t need to be a gentleman or a good businessman. He had a good business. Could charge what he wanted. Help how he wanted. Listen to whatever show he wanted.

She went back under the tarpaulin.

Box of tools.

A spare tire.

“There’s only one jug back here.” She went around the cab to knock on the door. “Hey, I paid for two and there’s only one back here.”

The boy looked down on her saying nothing.

“Now I’m a good customer but I won’t continue to be with this kind of service.”

“Tell the sheriff,” he said and the engine revved up to head out at speeds too dangerous for a town the size of Tphloknaktsa, Oklahoma.

Never heard of it?

Look on the map.

Still can’t find it?

What you need to do is get a map from 1862 before the Homestead Act then look at a map from anywhere in the 1920s and you see that little speck you thought was a printing error? That’s Tphloknaktsa.

But family, this story takes place in 1935 and don’t you dare look on a map after that because it won’t be there.

~

“Who’s winning?” Margaret asked as she came in the diner. Not a one in here offered assistance with the jug, either, but that was all the better. From the kitchen, hidden by a half wall and a curtain, she quietly turned on the tap, hoping their banter covered the sound.

“Sheff,” Adelaide, one of the farmhands, said. “As usual.”

“Ah, you’re only here for the drink.”

“And the smile of Ms. Tully. But how’s it--” Adelaide heard something.

“Just washing up.” She came out from the kitchen with a towel in hand. “Y’all may be cheats and scoundrels, but this here is a respectable establishment. Now who’s parched?”

The hands went up.

The glasses went round.

The faces got red.

The pot got bigger.

Margaret even won a hand, being the only clearheaded one. She wasn’t trying to peek but it was hard when the banker yawned with his Hearts over head.

The quarters and dimes got passed around, but one stack kept growing.

Adelaide said, “Maybe you oughta come work the fields, Sheff.”

The general store owner had a good hand coming up, he just felt it in his bones, like he knew the rain was coming any day. “I’ll knock a dollar off all y’all’s tabs. What do you say?”

The harbinger wind howled round and banged the Dutch shutters against the siding.

“You’re out,” the sheriff growled.

“Can be a dollar each and y’all just spot me a dollar collective.”

“Walk it off.”

“You’ll see! I just know I almost—”

“Go home, Willy!”

“Now wait just a damned second! I had the best hand last time but you just—you said—you—you!” He rose up out of his chair so quick the thing tipped back onto the hardwood with a thunderous clatter.

The table went quiet. No running the tap at this juncture.

When Margaret came running out the kitchen past the coat rack, she witnessed the sheriff slowly rise up. He didn’t have his star on him tonight. Probably for the best because where the star went, the revolver followed.

A friendly game of Texas Hold’em was set to turn into a not so friendly game of fisticuffs.

Margaret said, “Now, Willy, why don’t you check your coat pocket? You’re always stuffing your winnings in there. And Sheff, what you doing bullying this boy? How about another drink? I was just turning the stove on, too, for a late night snack if y’all looking to soak up the gut rot.”

Willy desperately rummaged in his coat pockets at the rack, careful to take only his coat and take it far from the others, lest they think something untoward was happening.

A few hands went up for drinks and a few more for sandwiches.

Two hands went up in celebration. “You were right, Ms. Tully! I’m a darn fool. I always stuff my winnings or change in my pocket and play with it as I’m heading home. Lets me savor that victory. Watch me win back all I lost with just this lucky dollar. Sheff, a sandwich on me? No hard feelings. Two more sandwiches, Ms. Tully.”

The bacon and eggs joined the smoke in the air and then all the sandwiches came out toasted. Sheff took two and said, “Thank ya, Willy. No hard feelings.” There wasn’t another leftover for him.

“Fifty-one,” Margaret muttered into her accounting book, writing in red.

~

Margaret carried away the glasses and plates into the back.

“Can we help, Ms. Tully?” Willy asked with five dollars stuffed in his pockets and his hat in hand.

“Yes, Willy, you can help by going.”

The glassy-eyed lot of them said their thank yous and goodbyes and Margaret Tully took to cleaning. First the dishes. Rinse, wash, dry, and place them in the cabinet and seal it.

As she turned away from the sink window, just a screen of dark dust out there that even the White Way couldn’t do more than cast silhouettes, one such silhouette approached the window.

The shadow watched through the glass as she cleared the table.

“Save all them crumbs for Abner,” she said in her mocking tone. She brushed them down into a sieve, knowing it unnecessary but still worrying what dust might do to her baby’s baby, and the dust that fell out—if it were sugar, it’d be enough for the sweetest cake. She worried what this dust might be doing to all them.

Then last and probably least, she grabbed her broom and dust pan.

No matter how she stuffed cloths and towels under the doors and around the windows, dust got in. Even the church with its vestibule entrance had a thick layer of dust whenever you opened the hymn book. No power greater than Gods’ but perhaps there were other matters to attend.

It’d all be back in the morning but there was some dignity in leaving a place tidy. She gathered up a nice little pile then listened for the wind. Today, the leeward side was the window above the sink.

She set the dust pan on the floor.

Then unlocked the window.

Then she bent down for her dust pan.

And when she rose to toss out the day’s filth…

She sneezed and it went all in the sink.

She just sort of stared a moment. “Messy Margaret strikes again.”

~

The window got closed and locked as did the door behind her and once outside with a scarf pulled over her mouth, she circled the building to latch the shutters. They did their part, however small, in keeping the dust out. And silhouettes.

If she were new in this one-horse town, it’d be easy to get lost on a night like now. The storm was in full force. Maybe she could’ve waited it out. They never lasted long. But it wasn’t the big one. And she liked getting home before the witching hour.

As she followed those too high orbs lighting a vague way down Main Street, she couldn’t hear herself think. A gale force wind sent nipping particulates across her cheeks and she turned away as she trudged on.

And at first, she thought her mind must be playing tricks on her. A bit of Midnight Madness striking a weary mind. But her eyes kept on it, trying to focus, trying to filter out the smokescreen, until she was certain:

Someone was following her.

“Howdy, neighbor!” she called.

But she did not stop.

She released her clutch upon her scarf to wave. “We best be getting home before this really picks up.”

Her voice could be getting carried two towns over for all she knew. And perhaps the same was true for the silhouette.

She continued down the street, her pace faster now.

“Gotta get out of this storm!” she tried again.

Faster still.

Losing her breath, catching a mouthful of dust instead.

Soon she was at her gate. It wasn’t more than a block away from the diner. Everyone knew her house. Everyone knew she had sugar or recipes or a hammer. Everyone knew, unlike everyone else, she kept her doors locked.

How many times had that saved her?

Not now.

She had her key in hand before she ever stepped on the wooden porch. It really needed replacing and she meant to last year before it got cold but maybe this year, maybe this summer, and the pattern boards would sit tight together.

Her eyes never left the figure behind her. They were just across the street now. She hoped they’d pass.

Perhaps if she had prayed…

She fumbled for the lock but aiming without looking is bad business.

She felt the hole with her thumb but when she tried lining it up, her hands trembled too fiercely and she missed, lost her grip on the keys, and they fell. Onto the porch with boards that did not touch.

Still her eyes stayed locked on the figure nearly at the gate. If he--and she was sure they were a he now--opened that gate, she’d scream. She’d scream the whole way. She’d scream whatever happened.

But like the lock, it’s bad business feeling for keys without looking. Especially on a deck with space between the boards. The moment she felt the metal of the key, she nudged it just enough to fall through to the dirt beneath.

She had to look.

The keys had disappeared into the abyss where no light reached.

No more looking.

No more waiting.

Just screaming.

Bang, bang, bang!

“SARAH!” she screamed. “Uncle Pete! Unlock this right now.”

Bang, bang, bang!

A look back.

Where was he?

She heard a lock undo.

He was coming through the gate.

“Gonna wake the neighborhood like that.”

The front door opened and Margaret Tully charged in, knocking the book out of her teenage daughter’s hand.

“Who walked you ho—? Uncle Pete? He’s long…” At 17, Sarah was taller than her Mama and a good deal sturdier, too, but a mother on a mission can’t be stopped. Before Sarah could finish a thought, Mama slammed the door shut with all its chains and locks fully engaged. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, but she got her answers when Mama returned with Uncle Pete’s shotgun (Gods rest his soul).

She aimed at the door.

They waited several minutes. Long enough Sarah almost said something but thought better of it.

Then Mama lowered the gun.

She didn’t put it away, but she did remove her finger.

“No one came by tonight?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

They waited several minutes more and this time Sarah did say something.

“My only suitor was Abner.” She waited for Mama’s response. “I didn’t let him in though.”

Mama breathed finally. “I brought him a present.”

“Any apple cores?”

“Two.”

“He’ll love them.”

Mama had come in charging but trembling. Now her nerves were still. Sarah had the opposite reaction. She trembled as reality set in, her eyes scanning the window for anything but getting nothing. Mama put the gun away and instead put her arms around Sarah.

It was just them in this big house these days. Only a month since Gran passed and already a lot of things happened: the two had gotten closer, the schoolhouse closed, they started dragging themselves to church, and soon a lot more would.

Mama looked out the window a bit longer. Even a flashlight wouldn’t cut through. Best wait till morning to get the key she dropped. She felt braver with a babe to protect, but not to the point of foolishness.

“Now what are you doing up reading past midnight? That’s how your eyes fall out.”

“Waiting on you,” Sarah shot back. “The Board of Education sent a note. New teacher’s coming next week.”

“I guess we can take tomorrow to rest.”

“No church?”

“No church. But don’t go celebrating! Celebrating is a sin!”

Sarah stifled her smile until she was in Mama’s arms again and then let it spread wide. She hated that creepy old pastor.

~

Chapter 2

In 1862, Congress passed what was known as the Homestead Act, signed by Lincoln on May 20. In 1863, the first settler took to living on and improving their land. Soon 3 million would follow with 1.6 million officially obtaining necessary documents for the 160 acres of nearly-free land. Nearly-free because there was a small registration fee, and the price of tools and materials to build a new house, and the fact that this was already Native land, some legally given to tribes after they’d been forced to move once before.

But to the ignorant, predominantly white settlers taking advantage of this, none of that mattered.

Do you know how long it takes to walk the length of 160 acres?

90 minutes without dillydallying.

Do you know how long it takes to tear up the grasslands, plow, plant, tend, and reap 160 acres?

A whole lot longer, family.

And these inexperienced farmers laid claims without a single thought to that and many found out a whole lot longer was in fact too long and parceled out acres here and there until the size was manageable and being neighborly with houses on either side was feasible after a hard day’s work.

With so many farmers, ranchers, miners, speculators, and the rest, they needed infrastructure. They cobbled it together like they cobbled together their houses. They weren’t the first to discover it but certainly they acted though they were.

For example, it didn’t make sense for so many farmers to head out to the City to sell their crops. That was time not spent growing their crop. So they set up somebody’s son to sell all the farmers’ crop in the City and then come back and pay them 90% of the earnings. And while he was out there, bring back some supplies for the farmers.

They later realized this was a store.

Then Farmer Fred started putting up fencing and his neighbor Farmed Ted argued Fred had intentionally lay claim to Ted’s land. Neither had any way to prove their stolen land was their own, but the collective commissioned the smith make a star and they pinned that to the ugliest, meanest man who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone. He locked up folks just for whistling at too high a pitch.

They called him Sheff.

Then farmers started catching sick and a guy pretty good with a horse was put in charge of all hoarse throats. They wouldn’t be named such if they weren’t connected. They started calling him Doc and people thought he must be or they wouldn’t call him that. He did alright, as well as anyone should’ve expected, but eventually he got old and an apprentice replaced him who could actually read and the population boomed.

And with the farmers multiplying, there were a lot of children running around unable to read and that was no good because a church was coming next. So they set up the St. Thomas Aquinas church for the old pastor that seemed like he’d come as naturally as the town. He was ancient, as all pious folks were, and his long, gaunt fingers traced the words as he read them. His voice shivered and quake and he promised these wet years would continue so long as they kept up the intensive farming.

“Rain follows the plow,” were his words and the words of old wisdom.

And 60 years later, 60 years after Tphloknaktsa was the official name for their little collective turned town, the curse came collecting.

It was, as many things are, the curse of ignorance.

Stolen land.

Poor farming.

The death of natural diversity.

All for a quick buck.

And little in Tphloknaktsa was set up in antagonism toward ignorance.

That little was Ms. Catherine Tully’s schoolhouse who passed 60 years later, just short of 100, an age no one would question her fate, and soon a terrible dust storm five miles high would smite the folks for their ignorance.

~

Chapter 3

The day had been pretty clear.

The coolness of March was giving way to April and little dust wafted through the air without a breeze so everyone could go about their business with their bandannas around their neck or perhaps stuffed in their pockets. Some of the ruder men used them in place of a handkerchief, but when the inevitable storm came, you knew they didn’t change them before putting them on.

But all in all, today it was easy to forget about their troubles: the drought, the economy, all the goodbyes to folk chasing a better life in California. Those faded into the background like a cricket’s song and however briefly, the idyllic days had returned.

Then Willy came running into the diner.

“You forget your hat, Willy?” Margaret asked.

“You gotta come look!”

A Cadillac on an old country road in the days after a dust storm announces itself like a war.

The curious from the diner joined the curious already in the town square and soon a crowd formed almost higher than Willy could count without pulling off his socks, all to peer down Main Street at the cloud forming the horizon.

It approached until the haze faded and the red dot at the center grew larger until you saw there was green trim and it was in fact a car growling down the road and not some Otherworldly beast that had its sights set on Tphloknaktsa. The folks there always were worrying about that.

“That’s a bootlegger’s car.”

“Think it’s the boy from Appleseed?”

“He drives a truck,” Margaret said. Then added, “Don’t he?”

Willy gulped. “What do they want with us?”

Sheff was the last to join the crowd, if you didn’t count Sarah who only peeked up from her book and out from her shed at the conversation around the vehicle.

But when the crowd moved to the parking spots the Cadillac occupied in front of the general store, Sarah stayed on the bench in her shed and closed the door.

“Howdy, sir,” the sheriff said as a man in black stepped out of the car.

This stranger was not aged, perhaps in his early 30s, but there was something old about the twinkle in his eyes. The way he took in the rapidly expanded landscape, building a mental map of the town, comparing it with one already in his mind, erasing the most modern buildings, and looking, scanning, searching for some landmark to orient himself. Even in this town with low-lying buildings and their wide yards, the skyline hindered his view.

Not once did his gaze dip to the man addressing him, nor the crowd surrounding him. He was unconcerned with these folks. But they were concerned with him.

His clothes were as nice as his car. Black with crimson and green trim, and trim those clothes were on his slender body. His head stuck out above the crowd and if any folks ran up at this moment, they’d know exactly who everyone was gawking at and why. While his tight buttoned collar did a good job of hiding, it didn’t do a perfect job and just below, there were deep scars.

When his eyes eventually did condescend to meet the crowd, he regarded them wordlessly. The sort of wisdom of a man that knew to think before he spoke, the sort of wisdom of a man to who you listened when he spoke, and if he didn’t speak and instead started doing something, it must be important. So when his eyes settled on the sheriff’s badge and suddenly he stooped to reach back inside for the passenger seat, the town collectively held their breath and the sheriff readied his anger in place of his revolver, but the stranger was just grabbing his wide brimmed hat.

The crowd breathed once more.

Finally, he said, “Which one of you local yokels want to show me to the schoolhouse?”

There was disdain in his voice.

“Yokels?”

“Calling us ignorant.”

“Ignorant?”

“Uneducated, Willy. Illiterate. Idiots. Bumpkins. Fools. Stupid, stupid!”

Two murmurs at opposite ends ran through the crowd.

“The new teacher?”

“In that car? No… What do they pay teachers elsewhere?”

“City fools think reading people superior to feeding people!”

Both conversations found their way to either ear of the sheriff.

“Pardon, friend, but might I ask your name and business? I seen this sort of transportation and I know what company it follows. And what company it attracts. This here is a Christian society and we don’t mind keeping the schoolhouse closed.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied slowly. “But the Board of Education does. And I can already see I have a lot of work to do here. And a lot to undo. Don’t worry. The car won’t bite. If you’re understandably green, I’ll take you for a spin sometime, Sheff.”

The sheriff didn’t much care for the accusations in that answer. “Your name, boy.”

“Call me Ishmael.”

Margaret could see the rising tension as red filled up the sheriff’s face. “That’s certainly a unique name, sir. You’ve had a long trip, I imagine. Perhaps someone could show you to the schoolhouse to get you acquainted.”

“I’d be touched if you did.”

She raised her hands to say not her, just now realizing she still held a pen and notepad with someone’s order half-written. “I’ve got my diner to tend to. But—SARAH!” she yelled suddenly.

Her eyes trained over his shoulder and it made him turn his head to see a tall, lean, slapped together, wooden shed with a pitched roof and occupancy for one. The door stayed shut a minute. As if the occupant, this Sarah, was finishing up her business. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of putting such infrastructure in the center of the town square.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My daughter is not otherwise occupied and she’ll be one of your students, one of the best and brightest you’ll ever see.”

He doubted that but did not say. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make introductions and y’all can return to your little lives.”

“Little lives?” someone muttered.

He marched across the brown grass to meet his star pupil. She had a book in hand. The Secret of the Old Clock Tower.

“I respect you rising above your environment and learning to read, but I cannot ignore the locale. A latrine?”

Sarah’s head cocked in confusion. Her eyes found the crowd still watching, though her mother had gone back inside. Perhaps if the windows had been cleaned, she’d see Mama watching through the window as well. But when she searched for answers over her shoulder, she realized. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is a reading shed. One of the farm boys put it up. There’s a door so it keeps the dust out and when the wind comes, it don’t turn the page on me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I assure you it does all that and more!” she said, wondering how this newcomer could argue with her. Men in this town always thought they knew everything and apparently men in other towns thought the same.

“It looks like an outhouse.”

“No, it don’t!”

“Doesn’t.”

“Glad you see reason.”

“Your grammar. If you’re the exemplary student, I worry about the rest of the crop. How’d your poor, previous teacher survive so long?”

“Don’t speak ill of Gran.”

The stranger caught his tongue. And softened it.

“Your gran was the previous teacher? Ms. Tully? Ms. Catherine Tully? Making you Sarah Tully?”

“First true thing you said. And maybe I didn’t take to every lesson but she taught me just fine to not let myself be bullied by some--”

“By some fool from out of town. Let me start over. I apologize for my initial tone. My prejudice of country folk maybe extended unfairly onto you. I’m sorry, Sarah Tully.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been insulted by an adult or by a boy or even by a man belittling her on purpose or because of how he was raised, but it might’ve been the first time she remembered one correcting himself.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

She let out a laugh. “Ha! That for true? Or did your folks just fancy Moby Dick?”

“You’ve read it?”

“Gran made me.”

“My wife’s favorite book, even before it found its place in the canon.”

“Your wife don’t—doesn’t name you.”

“Maybe that’s why she liked me, though.”

“A flimsy foundation for a marriage.”

“Maybe that’s why she isn’t here.”

It was Sarah’s to soften her tone. “Sorry, sir, for whatever happened with her. My daddy’s gone, too. Sir… Ishmael, Mr. Ishmael? What did my mother send you to me for?”

He gathered himself with a big breath. “I want to see the schoolhouse and perhaps meet your classmates to arrange the start of classes once more. I’ll take you in my Cadillac.”

They returned to the crowd. It had dispersed enough to perhaps be called a company instead, but the sheriff watched with a suspicious eye. He could love and accept all, as the Good Book told him, but he didn’t have to trust them.

When the new teacher pulled out of the parking spaces, before he put the car in drive, he had to ask his burning question.

“So your mother owns the diner?”

She nodded.

He had to be sure.

“And her name’s Tully, too?”

“’Course.”

“Margaret Tully?”

“You got a good memory, sir.”

“I do now. I do.”

He drove off down the street, following her guidance. Sarah assumed he wasn’t used to the dust yet, heck even she wasn’t, because as a smile crept over his face, a tear formed in his eye.

~

Chapter 4

In 1967, our nation closed its last one-room schoolhouse, but in 1930s rural America, they ruled America. The Church of St. Thomas Aquinas set up Tphloknaktsa’s to give children and adults the opportunity of reading the Good Book themselves. Did that violate a separation of church and state? No, because in those early barbaric days, the state had no involvement in the schools and it wasn’t until 1909 that Boards of Education were nationally instituted.

By then, Ms. Tully Sr. had already separated church and school.

~

Sarah was meant to be directing her new teacher to the schoolhouse, but she got lost in the leather seats and knobs. Instinct told her to play with them all and he didn’t say nothing when she did. He kind of watched. Not supervised. Not cautioning. Observed. That sort of look like at Christmas time when you’re trying to memorize the look on Mama’s face as she opens your gift.

Sarah stopped playing. But didn’t stop thinking about playing. She had never been in a car like this before. A few pickup trucks and farm equipment, of course, but nothing that reeked of luxury. She didn’t like it.

But when they arrived at the schoolhouse, she hesitated to step out.

Maybe she liked that it was different.

“How did you know where—?”

He cut her off. “It has a recognizable shape. Clearly not a house or business. Clearly not the church. I got lucky.”

“Unlucky if you wound up in Tphloknaktsa.”

The teacher went to inspect his workplace. He’d be spending a lot of time in here, except in summers, of course, and it was almost summer. An odd time for the Board to send a new teacher, if you asked her, but adults rarely did. Regulations are regulations, however nonsense.

The walls were painted white last summer. Sarah had helped. Gran had supervised. Some desks dated back to before she was born, but whenever one broke, it got replaced, and since they didn’t all break on the same day, an array of history was on display. Various names carved into the desks, some with hearts round them. Rude words. Crude pictures. The roof was all new as a tornado came by and ripped it off three years back—a scary time in Tphloknaktsa but now, the folks might welcome a tornado if it took all the dust with it and dumped it on Appleseed.

When Sarah chased him in, she heard escape from his lips, “It’s not the same.”

“Same? Same as what?”

“Not as I expected.”

“Reading too much Little House on the Prairie?” Sarah had a gnawing suspicion inside her.

The newcomer rifled through the desk drawers, but though he found names, notes, and even drafts of letters for parents that got a second, gentler attempt, nothing seemed to satisfy his curious itch. “There must be something,” he muttered.

“What’s it you’re searching for?”

He ignored her because one drawer was locked.

It did not open with a jiggle and he went once more through the drawers looking for its key.

She would not help until he proved himself. “Say, Mister, where are you from?”

He moved onto the library, a single bookcase in the corner with texts on all manner of subjects: math, grammar, history, geography, a dictionary, and the rest novels of varying quality.

“Paris.”

“France? You don’t got no accent like in books.”

“Do you like books?” he asked suddenly.

“I don’t know.” The personal question sent defensive blush to her cheeks and accompanying shyness. Both slowly dissipated. “That’s like saying ‘Do you like people?’ However many thousands of folks on this planet, I’m bound to like some. They’re full of new perspectives and insights and stories but at the heart of them all, a struggle so shared it must be human.”

“Paris, Illinois.”

Paris at that time would’ve been close to 10,000 folks. 10,000 folks don’t get you taught in Geography class.

Sarah grabbed her grandmother’s—well, his pointing stick and slapped the map. “Point to it on the map, Ishmael.” Then she dropped her impression and added, “Sir.”

Without so much as looking up, he jabbed empty green land. Without a label and without knowing better, Sarah doubted he’d be anywhere in the right vicinity of Paris, Illinois, but with a bit more insight, her jaw would’ve dropped.

Instead she shrugged.

His investigation turned up nothing, but frustration.

“Tell me about your gran.”

~

The pastor arrived in time to see the schoolhouse be assembled.

“You gathered some fine workers, Father,” Ms. Catherine said.

She’d seen him creep toward them since the roof started being patched and it took his ancient legs a long while to carry him. He might’ve once been a tall man, but he had since curled over with age and his features existed behind a thick white beard and even thicker eyebrows. What was lost on his head seemed glued to his face.

“They’re proud folks, but they know to submit.”

“Soon they’ll be reading all the verses on their own,” she said.

It wasn’t long before the children had their letters memorized and some of the youngest picked up words quickest and helped their elder kin to sound out each word and after no more than six months, every child had a book in hand and affection in heart.

The men, on the other hand, arrived before dusk and left before dark and six months in, they had affection in their heart but Trent Walker led the way on pride in stupidity.

Ms. Catherine asked him to come to the board and spell his name.

“X,” he scrawled in chalk.

He turned to the class. “It’s good enough for any contract!”

The class knew his daddy was the sheriff.

The class knew he’d probably be, too, some day.

The class knew to laugh.

Ms. Catherine knew, too, but didn’t. “I don’t mind a learner needing extra time, but I do mind folks who squander my time. What are you here for if not to learn?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Catherine, I am. I’m here to learn.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Cross my heart.”

“Then I’m sorry for doubting—”

“Here to learn about you.” He bumped up against her shoulders with a dopey grin and the class knew to laugh.

After class, Trent tried to apologize without an audience. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll show you I can be an ass, but that deep down I am trying, and maybe you’ll see something special in me too, like I see in you.”

“I have no romantic interests, Trent. Please ask your son for help on those ABCs.”

There was one man, Herman Bartleby, that did not attend classes, but he was in the church after service running his finger over words, repeating what the pastor had said. The words the pastor had said and the words Herman touched were not the same words but an illiterate man had no concept of that.

“Herman, my roof is leaking something awful since the last storm. Could you—?”

“Of course, Ms. Catherine. Today?”

“It’s a day of rest,” she said.

“But tomorrow the children will be in. And there’s rain a-coming.”

“You raise a good point. Shall we head there together?”

And as he fixed the roof, she’d read for him stories. He liked stories. Who doesn’t like stories? Even Trent liked stories, so long as they were his or he could see himself as the lead.

But as she read, as she often had to, she stopped to cough. Herman hopped off the roof without even using the ladder and ran inside to catch her as she collapsed to her knees, trying to extricate the phlegm with only her lungs. He patted her back, a little roughly, to help and eventually she recovered but the reading finished for the day.

Soon the roof was fixed, but she’d enjoyed his company so she asked for help with the windows. They didn’t open. He’d work during morning classes and listen in. The man was simple and unassuming and he took to learning the stories quickly as many do when given opportunity and patience.

“The Bible is a bit unfriendly to beginners. Heck, it’s unfriendly for even me. This one is a bit better,” she said after class.

And with what he picked up both listening and watching, he read better within than Trent with a lifetime of opportunity. But within a week, the windows all opened to let in a breeze for summer and he’d finished another book, twice actually to really understand it.

“Herman, you tricked me!” she declared.

“I haven’t! See?” He demonstrated how easy it was to open each window.

“You’ve been here spending time with me pretending you can’t read just so I’ll read them to you. That’s your dirty trick.”

“No, no, I just know the sounds you taught me, and I don’t have much else to do when sleep won’t come so I just light a candle and practice.”

Then the door didn’t hang even. So he took to that, but he was too good with his hands and that took only a day to look at it and a day to get proper parts made. And in that time he finished another book.

“You’re always welcome at classes, Herman.”

“You’d welcome a wolf, but Trent wouldn’t welcome a sheep unless he planned on eating it.”

It didn’t matter how she persisted, what she promised, even kicking Trent out, an empty threat since Sheriff Walker would not accept that--Herman wouldn’t attend.

But she had nothing else for him.

Four weeks of tasks and he’d done such a good job that nothing new needed fixing. Sure, she’d see him around and maybe in church, but it wasn’t the same as everyday and in the privacy before students arrived or after they left. There’d be no more quiet moments when it was just them.

“I could teach you!” she said. “You helped me so much.”

“But Ms. Catherine, you have classes in the morning till afternoon and then the grown-ups come after supper. When would you fit me in?”

“At night, Herman. Come by my place. I’ll fit you in.”

~

Friday night, Herman arrived at the Tully house in his Sunday best with a book she loaned him from the library. Ms. Catherine’s plan was that they’d head out to church in his Sunday best, slightly wrinkled.

However, she had to turn him away. “I’m sorry, Herman. I promise next time.”

From the porch, he saw the pastor seated in her parlor before she closed the curtains with a somber expression.

~

The sudden request caught her off guard. But Sarah prided herself on being quick on her feet. “I don’t know what you want to know but everyone liked her. Sometime around January, a boy was giving her lip because he didn’t want to chop wood but it was his turn! I did it just the day before. Gran did it on the weekend! But you know how boys are, thinking they’re already grown, and so he shoots up cussing out of his chair and grabs the ax and says, ‘You wanna see how good I am at chopping?’ It all happened so fast all we could do was stare. We all knew he wasn’t talking about wood at that point. Gran asked, ‘What do you want to happen next?’ and he took a second to think before settling down and going to chop wood.” Sarah took a second to settle herself. “I think if you locked a lion in with her, she’d come out queen of the jungle.”

“Tigers live in the jungle. Lions are the savanna.”

She doubted very much Georgia had an lions but sometimes it was best not to argue with a teacher. “You know a lot about the world. It must be bigger and better than old Tphloknaktsa.”

“We are but specks in a big world and the world itself is a speck within the cosmos, Sarah, but be warned: the world outside is different with layers of polish over diseased viscera. We must build our own shelters to withstand the storms.”

Locals said similar. That this here was the Gods’ great bounty. An oasis in a drought of faith. Whatever extend beyond our borders was vile, wretched, and corrupting, but the way he said it, maybe because it came from the horse’s mouth, she believed it and that did not quell her yearning, nor did she think he wanted to. This was a teacher preparing her honestly.

He asked, “Chopping wood at her age? No one ever thought to let the old gal retire?”

“They don’t exactly ask my opinions on such things.”

“Tell them anyway.”

“Gran said the same…”

He’d spent that whole story searching with no fruits. Nothing on the door frame. Nothing under Gran’s desk or the students’. When he opened the sash window, he frowned deeper than elsewhere, testing its smooth track and finding trouble in its fresh coat of paint.

His goal was clear when he returned to the desk.

He gave it so violent a tug the whole thing moved and white scratches appeared near the feet.

Gone or not, his or not, this was her Gran’s desk that he abused. “Sir, please, the littlest of respect for her property.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I need in that drawer. Where’s the ax?”

Her eyes went wide and she held her breath with an internal struggle, before she stepped outside to the chopping stump. The ax was in Abner’s barn. But she reached under the stump and came back in with a handful of dirt that held a dull, golden prize: the key.

It fit perfectly in the locked drawer.

With trepidation, Sarah watched him pull it open, not sure why, not sure what inside her gave her these shivers, but certain she could trust them.

Inside was a Bible.

“That’s it?” he said.

“No!”

Sarah couldn’t put her astonishment into words. Parents often came by asking why their child didn’t have more verses memorized and Gran would tell them they were at the wrong place. Whatever the old ways were, Gran had shirked them. She didn’t attend church. She didn’t keep a Bible. She said she feared but did not love.

“Gran was not a pious woman. She kept us out of church each Sunday.”

“As she should. The best defense against sin is education. Immorality and ignorance go hand-in-hand.”

Sarah bit her lip. Was that a common saying? How else could he quote Gran?

~

Chapter 5

The main house on the Bertrand farm housed just three folks but seemed like a mansion. With the original 160 acres of land, there was room for a mansion.

And in his room, Junior, a 16-year-old boy with roughly shorn hair and more freckles than stars in the sky pulled on his overalls. Years helping out his pa on the farm did nothing to build out his short frame. He was as thin today as he’d ever been. He could turn hay, hold a bull, drive in fence posts, shovel manure, carry pails of milk, but not a task created muscle.

Maybe, in comparison to his stocky father and the other farmhands of all genders, he felt a little out of place.

He put his hand on the Bible the pastor gifted him yesterday.

New for Junior, but annotated with passages underlined and bookmarks and a separate piece of paper stuffed in the front. A note. Three words that rang truer to him than any cowbell.

“Consider the cloth.”

His pa’s heavy footstep roused him from woolgathering and he met the older man at the steps. His pa was short, too, but even half-retired after an injury took full use of his leg, the man was strong.

Junior’s face was bright as he greeted him. “Feeling well today?”

“Well enough for another sunrise. Don’t you worry. Your old man still has some years of toil left in him.”

A knock came at the door. At this hour, it must be one of the workers.

“Can I help you down the stairs anyway?”

Bertrand Sr. lifted his arm to accept the boy’s shoulder and they made their way down the steps together until about halfway down, his pa said, “But once when my toil is gone, the bounty we’ve created here will be yours until your child’s ready for it.”

At the bottom of the steps, his pa broke away to answer the door on his own, leaving Junior with his thoughts. He grimaced.

At the door was an old worker, Adelaide. She’d been here many years. A bit of a sour temper, but managed the farmhands well, working as a liaison between them and Mr. Bertrand.

“A fever? Harry’s welcome to a day off with all the usual meals,” he told her. “But fields don’t grow if we don’t tend them. If fields don’t grow, we can’t keep on so many hands.”

~

Chapter 6

The teacher drove at speeds faster than any of the Gods’ creations past the farmland in a man-made machine, but began to coast with his eyes in the sky as he saw a bird dropping mist upon the crops. A loud, noisy bird. It had an unsettling rhythm. The chop of air. The buzz of unmoving wings. Like a bug too big.

His fascination almost laid his goals to rest then and there till Sarah screamed and he jerked the steering before he found the ditch.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s been a long day’s drive. Perhaps this should be our last stop.”

Sarah’s curious itch kept getting the better of her. The teacher had stuffed Gran’s Bible into his Gladstone bag. She tried to peer inside. That bag might be her biggest clue to who this newcomer was and how he seemed aware of things he should not be aware of. But when he set it in the back with her, when his eyes weren’t on her, she found the bag locked with no means of opening. The combination could’ve been hundreds of possibilities, she reckoned, and there was no point raising his suspicion of her at this point.

They ventured out to the Bertrand farm. A rarity in the town because the 160 acres had not been parceled off. The Bertrands, dating back to 1880, had been good upstanding folk coming from a farm in Iowa to farm in Oklahoma. It was like they spoke to the land. And the land spoke back.

Just a decade prior to the Dust Bowl, other farmers scented their town like bread and popcorn as they burnt surplus hoping to drive up the prices, but the country had too much in store to care. At least they were warm without needing expensive coal. There was even talk of joining the Farm Strike until the National Guard began rounding up mob leaders who threatened the judges evicting farmers and the dairy trucks on deliveries.

Meanwhile, Bertrand Sr. did his part to support this town’s finances and bellies.

So Sarah directed the teacher there. “Several classmates work the farms with their parents. A good place to spread the word.”

Now that they approached, she added a caveat. “Remember, these folks value respect. They know they’ve earned theirs, but they don’t know if you’ve earned yours.”

“How do I know they’ve earned theirs?”

They arrived without an answer.

The workers played poker on their breaks. This wasn’t the high stakes game at the diner where a week’s wages might be on the table. This was a game of pennies and you knew someone meant business if a nickel got thrown in. Just something to pass the quiet time while eating a sandwich.

As the Cadillac pulled up, they regarded it as they might any other car then returned to their game. Once the teacher stepped out, alone, suddenly break time was over and it was back to work.

He hailed them. “What’s on the agenda for today, folks?”

The five here had not more than a quality shared among them: Young, old, black, white, male, female. Two exceptions: place of employ and disinterest in strangers.

“How old might you two be?” he asked the youngest.

“Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying so skedaddle before you look a fool,” said Adelaide while another grabbed a wooden maul.

“I do not fear looking a fool, I do not fear not fitting in, I do not fear the violence of the ignorant. I only fear that such a cycle will repeat itself once more,” the teacher said. “School starts once more tomorrow.”

“Violence?” That got them all in good spirits at his expense. “A maul ain’t made for violence, friend. It’s made for service. And we got fence posts to replace. Come back tomorrow and maybe they’ll be free.”

“Hand it over.”

He waited for the maul.

“I’ll assist so no one’s too tired for reading tomorrow. Everyone’s welcome but it’s mandatory for minors.”

“Only farmers here.”

This crew saw little in the teacher to respect but if he was offering his services, maybe they’d find a place for him. After all, he wouldn’t be teaching much without any students so it was good to have a fall back.

Adelaide spat. “You can hold the posts.”

Sarah watched from the car, deafened by the distance and the windows, as to exactly what was transpiring but her new teacher lugging a cart full of fence posts while marching beside an armed woman did not sit right with her.

Still, were he to survive in this county, he needed to prove himself to its people.

And to Sarah.

And Junior was there. A boy kind enough to build her a reading shed in the town square was a boy to be trusted.

~

Tall though he was, to steady the post in place he needed to hug it as another swung the maul near his head to drive it in. The older workers offered up Junior to stand on the cart full of posts and swing with the brunt of his power but when he hesitated, that Adelaide took over to show him how it was done. She swung and if the teacher got hit, he shouldn’t have been there. He did not get hit, though it came near, and he did not flinch.

Instead, he spoke up after the second post. “Perhaps work would go quicker if we switched spots.”

“I been doing this half my years, and you think you can do better than me?”

“No disrespect intended, but I’ve seen how you can do it. You haven’t seen how I can.”

She burned her gaze into his eyes but if the threat of a crushed skull couldn’t do it, why did she think a stare would faze him? Begrudgingly, she handed off the maul.

With a deep breath, the teacher watched the crop duster from before as it landed down the way on a dirt strip. The plane seemed to be the first thing to unsettle him today. But who wasn’t afraid of flying?

He draped his coat over the side of the cart. Then without the button on his sleeve, he rolled them up fine. And lastly, his undone collar revealed pinched, glossy skin running down his collarbone and deeper into his shirt. Where the scars stopped was impossible to say.

Crack

The worker’s eyes went big as she pulled further away. Just an extra inch to save her.

The teacher’s arc had violence within it but following the first swing came an identical second. A third. A fourth. Power surged from his astride position up through the hips into the shoulder and at the crest, his hand slid down the shaft.

Crack!

For the next post, the trajectory did not change but the speed did. He’d found his rhythm. Nothing would stop him but completion. His eyes trained on that post as if he was not seeing a wood as his target but some vendetta.

CRACK!

Deeper the fence post sank into the dirt.

“HEY!” Adelaide’s anger rolled over itself in her voice.

The teacher stopped his swing.

“You did that on purpose!”

“You’re an insightful one. I did.”

The admission flabbergasted her. In all her days, never did she expect someone to admit it!

“Indeed, I hit that fence post on purpose.”

“You know what a caved skull does to a smart mouth?”

“You there, boy,” he called to the thin lad from before who had been watching as wide-eyed as her. “Was that last swing any different?”

Junior started to stammer before coming to grips. “No, sir. I mean, I didn’t notice anything off about it.”

“You weren’t worried until someone shouted?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it me shouting when that maul came near my ear?”

“No, sir…” Guilt seeped into his voice and he averted his eye from Adelaide.

If her death stare didn’t work on the teacher, it’d work on the boy whether he looked or not. She scrambled up the cart to snatch that maul from the man. Her huffing and puffing and the wild look in her eyes--he knew what the thought bouncing around that head of hers.

“Consider your first strike because retaliation requires no hesitation.”

Before this came to a head, an older man hobbled toward them from the barn. The cane he used for support was enough but just the same, Junior went running to his pa.

“We saw you up there!” There was an uncanny likeness. Needing a few more inches and a few more pounds, surely, but the strong nose was the same. “One day, you’ll show me a roll, won’t you?”

“At dinner, sure. We get a new hand?”

“A teacher,” Adelaide scoffed.

“And why’s there derision in your voice?” Bertrand Sr. was a stout man. The wiry graying hair in his beard held all manner of dust but it didn’t bother him.

“Is this green bean what we want the next generation turning into?”

“Separating our farmers from our scholars got us into this drought. We need farmers teaching and we need learners plowing.”

“The babes can’t plow if they’re locked in school.”

“Yes, I understand, this farm certainly can’t survive without babes, can it, Adelaide?” He regarded her with a cold tone. Then he turned his attention to the teacher finally. “Sir, the name’s Russel Bertrand Sr. And this here’s Junior, or Russ if you take to him. He’s got 16 years in him and he knows his reading fine, but his arithmetic could use work. Do you know much about the agricultural sciences?”

The teacher began buttoning up his collar and sleeves once more, but left the coat folded over his arm. It was too warm for such dressings after exertion.

“I’ll help him.”

“And what should he call you?”

“Ishmael will do. ‘Sir’ if it’s too odd.”

“Ishmael will do. A name should command the full usage of the tongue if it’s to be worthy of respect.”

~

About this time, Sarah had some business to attend to.

She crept out of the car, keeping a watchful eye on the folks arguing. The maul seemed no longer a concern with Mr. Bertrand in control. But she required the smallest amount of discretion here and when no one was looking, she went around the barn.

There was a sweaty farmhand on the other side. Certainly it was getting warm, yes, he hammered away at the new strip of siding with nails in his mouth, but the sweat pouring from him seemed in excess to her.

Whatever his particular ailment was, it was none of her business. She was only thankful that she could slink by with heavy footfalls without drawing his attention but when he stopped pounding, she stopped walking.

He muttered something to himself as he took a new nail.

Sarah’s eyebrow cocked.

Family, that wasn’t English. Nor Spanish. Nor any other language she’d heard here or there. But the world was large and she tried not to think it strange enough to stop her mission.

It’d been a long day and how much longer was untold. She knew the Bertrand farm. She knew Russ. She knew where the outhouse was, though she much preferred to go in-house.

And as she exited, she heard a scream unlike any she thought possible by a human.

The agony seemed to ferment in his belly before erupting out in boiling, gaseous pleas for Grace but those prayers fell on deafened ears and Sarah was the first on the scene.

She did not see what happened first to split his leg in uneven twain but the man already had the jean scrunched up revealing a foot hanging on by one flap of ankle skin. At first, she looked away, repulsed as any might by the bone and the gore and things only doctor’s should know exist, but it was her duty to help this man how she might.

She began screaming, too, as she raced to him.

Then stopped racing but kept screaming.

The teacher was the next on the scene, his pace quickened further by Sarah’s distress. He brandished the maul and did not drop it.

“Snakes!” she repeated from the ground.

His eyes scanned for any near but he saw none.

Another farmhand took over handling the injured, but Junior left his father’s side to take to Sarah with more care than the teacher. “What do you mean, Sarah Tully? Did you get bit by a snake? You didn’t hear a rattle, did you?” He yanked at her shoe to see her leg.

“No! Snakes!” and she hissed the final letter like one herself.

“You got bit by multiple?” When he revealed her leg, not a mark was found.

“Not me!”

The boy looked perplexed at the scene, at the blood, at the man in the distance that had little hope for his life, let alone for his leg. “I don’t think a snake bite or even many could do that.”

Mr. Bertrand, however, pieced together an account of the events that satisfied him. “That fool Harry probably stepped into a nest and when he felt one climb up a pant-leg, he took to striking his own foot. Junior, how do we protect our legs?”

“Pants in boots,” the boy said, checking his own.

“No, that…” Sarah started to stammer. She stood of her own accord, shaking off her friend. That was nonsense. Illogical. It wasn’t what she saw. It was wrong!

“Y’all should head out,” Mr. Bertrand said. “Take the boy with you. Work is done for the day while we tend to the injured. I’ll tell the other workers to send their kids tomorrow.”

“That’s not what—!” Sarah yelled but the teacher cut her off.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of them.”

She kept fighting to say her piece as the teacher ushered her away. Mr. Bertrand had no interest in changing his mind and Russ thought she’d caught madness from the situation, giving her little mind but much sympathy.

She did not quiet until the teacher looked her in the eye and said, “I believe you.”

They marched to the car and in the backseat, she felt her own legs. She had never seen inside a leg before, but she had legs. There were no vacant pockets in her flesh. The fool Harry, as Mr. Bertrand had put it, hadn’t stepped in a nest of snakes. The nest of snakes had slithered out of him.

She tucked her pants into her boots.

“Russ, how bad is it to get bit?” she whispered.

“Not too bad if it’s not a rattler. You hardly feel the bite until later, but the bite ain’t the problem. The infection is.”

She pulled her sleeve down. She’d had a fever before. No problem.

“They say if you get bit, always keep the snake.”

We put our dogs down for the same offense, but you keep the snake? she thought. Too late anyway.

~

Chapter 7

On occasion, the teacher glanced in his rear-view mirror to catch the girl’s eyes but her thoughts were out the window miles away. She had more to say, certainly, but she wasn’t saying it.

Junior, on the other hand, wouldn’t quit yammering. “I ain’t never seen an accident like that.”

“And I hope we never have to again,” Sarah muttered.

“Even when my pa got his leg crushed by Mr. E, it certainly didn’t cleave off like that. You ever see the insides of a person, Sarah Tully?”

“I have now!”

The teacher’s eyes darted to the mirror as her voice rose a little.

“What was it like?”

“Junior, I don’t particular like the memory nor dwelling in it.”

He grabbed at his leg, flexing his foot to see how the muscles moved and digging his fingers in deep to get a sense how big the bone was within his calf. “I can certainly feel there’s meat inside and surely we’re not so different from beasts, but—”

The car skidded to a stop so suddenly there was impact against the seat behind the teacher. He whipped around with impatient fury in his eyes. “Boy! Do you not hear what’s she saying? She’s asking you ever so politely, ‘Enough!’”

Sarah rubbed her head. “Sir, what in tarnation was that? Do you want to send me home bruised? Gran tolerated no whooping and neither will Mama.”

The air was thick and uncomfortable and it wasn’t just the dust. He searched for an apology but then his eyes locked on where Divine chance had set to place this disagreement.

Just down the way was the largest building in town. A few modern businesses had been constructed of brick, but wood houses ruled this land. Brick? Wood? This was made of neither for this was no house. This was no modern business. This here with the two Gothic spires was the Church of St. Thomas Aquinas.

Each spire was like some terrible and ancient creature had hammered a spike from under the crust, then liked it so much they did again. Folks here saw the stain glass with its 12 symmetrical circles and reckoned it a clock though there were no hands and no numbers. The actual clocks on all four sides were wrong. Wrong in different ways, mind you. One read 6:10, the next 3:11, the next 1:15, and finally 10:14. None moved. The clock never once corrected itself or stubbornly continued on its path. They simply sat as a reminder. Something to set your eyes upon and forever keep in your heart.

To an outsider, it must’ve been odd having a Gothic cathedral in town large enough to hide the population during a storm, but for those raised here, it was no different than being born with webbed fingers. If it didn’t cause problems, it was just how it always was and an assault on it was as an assault on the town.

After enough silence, Junior found his words again. “I just pray Mr. Styles will make it.”

“Enough!”

“Don’t yell at him.”

Junior’s eyes fell to the floor. Just rolled into town and already dusty. But what stuck out as odd to him was the Gladstone. The bag certainly wasn’t big enough to fit all his belongings unless very little belonged to him. Junior thought about stuffing his entire life into this and maybe, if he only needed a single spare set of clothes and the Bible, then sure, it’d all fit. But when he found the bag locked, and with the teacher already angered, he set it down.

“Say, Mr. Ishmael, what might you want us for today? I understand Sarah was showing you around, but surely I’m—”

The car roared to life, cutting the boy short, only to slow as they approached the church’s lot.

There was a girl holding a ball.

“Who is she?” the teacher asked Sarah.

“Never seen her to my knowledge.”

Her penetrating eyes met the teacher’s and soon the two were locked on one another.

Junior spoke up. “Maybe if you attended church every so often. That’s the vicar’s daughter.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty, Russ.”

“Tell me about the vicar.”

“A rough fellow, but the path to salvation is a windy one, they say, so I know it’s not my place to judge. He blew into town just this year with a bindle and his daughter, but the pastor welcomed him in to the legion.”

“Then why don’t she come to class?”

Junior shrugged suddenly out of answers. “Maybe the church is all she needs to be one of them acolytes like her daddy. He moved up the ranks so quick you’d think he’d been born in that church.”

“You’re right, Sarah. Why doesn’t she? Let’s offer an invitation.”

His words were hospitable enough, but his tone--she knew a lie when she heard it. And as the car revved up once more with awesome power just to go several feet, she kept her eyes on the girl who had never once looked away. A steady gaze like that… What had she seen?

~

“Hello, girl. What’s your name?”

Junior hadn’t known that either.

And after some waiting, neither did the teacher.

Certainly she was younger than the others, perhaps 10 if his estimation was generous, and the sort of rail thin of a picky child with unaccommodating parents. Her hair cut was rough. Definitely her daddy’s doing. But the feature that would forever stick in the teacher’s minds was those eyes. Hypnotically wide, dark, and unblinking.

Sarah and Junior stepped out to try their hand. Every child knew the silence adults expected when they were near, so perhaps some words from an older sibling-type might coax her into speaking.

“You can call me Sarah if you like. That’s a nice ball you got.”

Nothing.

“They call me Junior, but I can’t get them to stop. Sins of the father, right? What should we call you, honeybunch?”

A stare.

The two companions turned toward one another but the teacher could not look away from this porcelain doll. No child should be in such clean clothes, not even at a church.

“Can I help you, neighbors?” a voice called from the door. The vicar wore a white dalmatic trimmed with gold that matched his tooth as he smiled. “Come here, Amelia.”

Seeing the low, out-stretched hand, the girl trotted off to take her place beside him. There was an almost imperceptible quiver.

The teacher tore his focus from the girl. Then to Sarah’s surprise, his words were coated in honey. “Well hello! Don’t know if word reached you, but you got a new teacher in town. We’ll be opening up tomorrow. Amelia’s your daughter? You can send her round 9:00 or earlier if you got other business.”

Was this his first time cracking a smile? Sarah did not like it.

“She’s learning her verses fine here, but it’s been a pleasure, sir.”

The smile on either of them really.

“We’re happy to accommodate all subjects. Mr. Bertrand asked that his boy be taught the Earth sciences. We can certainly round that out with Heavenly scripture, too.”

“You think you’re more insightful than the Church?”

“I do.”

“Excuse you?”

While children scrapped with tooth and nail and all manner of tugging on hair, Junior had heard his parents argue enough in front of him to know these were fighting words. “Perhaps we should wait in the car, Sarah.”

“Perhaps you all should,” the vicar declared. “We’ll see you again sooner or later.”

Junior already had his hand on the door and Sarah was reaching for the teacher’s suspenders when an ancient voice bellowed from the back of the cathedral.

“Wait,” it croaked.

The vicar’s gold—toothed smile twitched as he steadied his breathing.

“Bring them to me.”

~

Baited breath bellowed from the ribbed vaulted ceilings as the party followed their chaperon past kaleidoscope stained glass windows. Wide though the structure was, it felt claustrophobic with tall candelabras dotted by the the pier-raised pointed arches, and the vicar caught Junior staring instead of watching where he wandered.

“I know the artwork’s morbidly fascinating, but be assured that they are cautionary tales of sin and little more.”

Certainly the windows were a sight, but no story jumped out of the broken rainbow in its glassy prison to catch the boy’s attention. He’d seen them before. He’d seen them just yesterday.

But what he hadn’t noticed was the sound.

Perhaps it was the organ music playing, the bustle of neighbors congregating with one purpose, the holy hum of hymns, or the pastor’s raspy sermons, but he had not heard this sound yesterday.

The buzzing.

The clerestory windows were large and clear and sunlight filtered through best it could.

However, the triforium windows were much smaller with tight artwork full of nooks for critters to build nests. But those nests didn’t appear without material. Wasps for example went skittering to the nearest tree, or wooden construct, to chew up and build a pulpy nest. Bees used wax made of oils from pollen. It might be noticed if wasps came chewing on the pews. And bees had no interest in the dead, pale flowers that decorated the crimson carpet running the length of the aisle.

“Need help with the cleaning?” Junior yelled, digging a pinky in his ear.

The vicar whipped around at the implication. “I tend to it myself.”

As a holy man, his patience was short.

The 2nd floor walkway approached the windows enough that surely he would’ve seen any nests in there, so it must simply be the distance and the detail playing tricks on Junior. As a kid, he always dreamed of watching a sermon from there. And maybe continuing on to the spires on either side to ring the bell. But for not the first time, he failed to find the tucked away stairs.

Vicar Emile led the four of them to the raised pulpit. Each Sunday, Junior and most of the town gathered in, finding seats with family and friends, murmuring polite talk about the weather and the week before silence snatched the crowd and everyone rose to watch the ancient pastor hobble up the steps. The youngest became antsy midway. Mothers mouthed to their babes, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” but they dared not speak it. Even the elderly, though not the same ancient, found their legs incapable of enduring the anticipation and they’d take the arm of someone near because at this moment, to sit was to sin. The vicar always offered an arm to the pastor but was always refused.

Today, the pulpit was empty.

Given the pastor’s top speed up the stairs, Junior tried to imagine where the leader called from so loudly and how far he could get in the time it took to enter.

Rather than lead them to the antechambers on either side, the vicar ascended the steps. Sarah, with her upbringing, saw nothing sacred in these steps, and Amelia followed, but Junior hesitated.

There was a room behind the pulpit, but what lay beyond was shrouded in teenage mystery. There was no Earthly way of knowing without taking up the cloth. One day he might know.

“Come now, you two,” Vicar Emile called.

Behind Junior, he now noticed, the teacher also hesitated, but his reverence was not toward the stairs.

Instead, the stranger stared at the shadows on the 2nd floor walkway.

Perhaps he, too, fancied ringing the bells, and a brief bit of imagination had Junior swinging from the rope of one and the teacher swinging from the other and outside, Sarah listening, and from all three faces beamed wide smiles. And as he painted each smile in his mind, Sarah’s, then his own, he shuddered at the toothy maw that might appear if stranger’s somber expression broke.

The teacher ushered him up the stairs with blasphemous disregard.

What had he seen? Junior wondered.

~

The light of the windows did not reach the hunched pastor standing before a large wooden double doors. Oil lamps provided a dim view of the uneven walls. No decoration. No beauty. Just imperfect human craftsmanship for the House of Gods. Brazen youth fleet of foot might stumble on the floor. Though, that was not why Sarah walked slowly.

The others had lagged behind, leaving the girls alone before the pastor.

She’d rarely seen him.

Maybe a few times as a child when her father had insisted on attending, usually Christmas and Easter or when money was tight. Then again after Gran passed. Between those times was at least a decade.

At the start of someone’s life, 10 years is a lot. You start being able to do nothing but cry, learn to babble and crawl, walk and talk, lose all your teeth, grow them back.

And it seemed to Sarah that 10 years should always be a lot. 7 to 17 had changed her significantly. Surely Gran, too, though so gradually that without a photograph you wouldn’t realize. Aged, thin, the smoke of a smoldering fire. That was Gran day in and day out. She had crystallized in Sarah’s memory.

The pastor, though, had the disadvantage of years without notice.

Do people stop aging at a point?

And what was that point? Because Gran, however slowly, still aged up to nearly 100.

While Sarah was lost in thought, Emily had gently taken her hand, and the little girl’s tremor only fed discomfort.

“An unfamiliar face,” he groaned. “Girl, why have we not met before?”

The teacher fell in behind her. “Nice to see you, Pastor.”

See? Sarah thought. Not meet or make his acquaintance or—

“Your father?” the pastor asked and the absurdity caused a chuckle that raised to a laugh and she could not stop herself, cackling in hysteria between these two men.

“Sorry, your holiness, sir, my father long left this town. I’m Catherine Tully’s granddaughter.”

“Ahh, the Tullies. You do not attend at her guidance.”

“Well, ever since…” She trailed off. Of course he knew of her passing. “My mother’s been making an effort, but we sit in back.”

“Seems your mother is not all fool then.”

The subtle implication left Sarah’s mouth a gape as though she’d been slapped.

“That leaves you, boy. What is your business here?”

Sarah listened keenly as well.

The teacher eyed the old man. His liturgical clothes were as pale as his skin. However many hairs he had as a lad, he now had equal number of wrinkles. His eyes were glass beads of cataract beneath sinking bald brows. And yet the hair covering his mouth was long, white, and full. Tall though he was, the cloth hung on him like he had an older brother.

“Why did you call us here?” the teacher asked. His polite tone was back but it was cracking with this feverish energy tossing in its cage, eager to free itself to the chaos of the world.

The doors, the wooden double doors studded with iron and a black band running horizontally, towered above even the teacher. The Cadillac could’ve fit through. And how many labored to carry these massive creations in here?

But the pastor reached back with a single hand and the door swung open, dragging along the stone.

Sarah took a breath.

Clear air.

Another. What an awesome miracle. She could breathe!

No dust getting swept by the perfectly fit doors.

The tears in her eyes were not speckled with microscopic flecks, but there was something sour on that wind.

“Join me for an early supper,” he told them as the air cleared of creaking, too.

“Russ,” the teacher said. “That bag you were playing with in the car? Fetch it for me. Now.”

Before the boy could jump at the chance to help, the pastor said, “It can wait.”

“Go on, Junior.” The teacher’s voice quivered.

“Emile, the doors.”

“Russel!”

And at the pastor’s command, the doors they’d unknowingly passed through to this chamber were sealed and with the gust of wind that followed, the torches went out, leaving the hall in darkness but for the dim candle light upon a table set for a feast. The sound of a key in a lock.

“I guess it can wait, sir. Is it some remedy you needed or…?”

The teacher, a fiery silhouette now, passed by the children into the dark room.

~

The smell caught Sarah.

Perhaps there was no dust in the air, but something had died in a corner.

Amelia sat first, the other children on the opposite of her with cloches, pots, and candles between them, and the teacher at the foot of the table.

As he sat, he did something amiss, though. Each candle had burned near the end of its life. They were flat pucks of wax. He extinguished the tallest then drew it into his shirt. She did not peg him for a petty thief. An impatient, arrogant outsider but a thief, too? Gran must be rolling in her grave.

Junior also sniffed the air but he had no visceral reaction to the odor. Instead it inspired him to lean close to the table, eager to peek beneath the lid, but he caught himself as the pastor’s shoes shuffled along the stone.

“Smells great, sir. What are we having?” He slapped a pest unseen in the shadows.

Sarah did not think she was so picky as to wretch at what others considered a delight. Her eyes caught the teacher’s but he either did not notice her in the low, flickering candlelight or had too much cause to watch the pastor.

Chair legs scraped against the stone.

As the pastor drew it back, Sarah’s eyes adjusted enough to see a spiral stairwell down into darkness. Strange whispers emanated. A storm cellar, she told herself, but still the whispers. She listened.

Instead, she heard the pastor. “Sir, would you like to say grace before the meal?”

“No,” the teacher said.

“I can do it,” Junior said.

“A good sheep.”

“Oh Heavens above, hear your servant’s plea.

From the desire of self, Deliver these fools,

From the desire of esteem, Deliver these ingrates,

From the desire of belonging, Deliver these exiles,

From the desire of safety, Deliver these cowards,

From the desire of need, Deliver these mortals,

For within You, I shall welcome Death,

As Death welcomes me to You.”

This was not a prayer Sarah knew and her eyes searched the table for other reactions. The pastor’s chin lifted toward the heavens, an expression of divine bliss, while the teacher lowered his. The shadow on his face hid whether his eyes were closed or not. And without other dissenters, Sarah felt like a blasphemer for doubting the words and she scrambled for explication. A strange translation from Latin. Context within the holy text. But all she came up with was ignorance on her part and her head bowed, too, in shame.

To end, beaming at his good memory, Junior said, “Amen.”

He raised his head to receive praise from the pastor, who offered a solitary nod, all the pastor needed to give to widen that boy’s smile more. Then Junior’s hands went for the knob on the bell-shaped dome nearest him, and after a second nod of approval, he lifted it up.

The smell that hit Sarah.

Whatever had died was not in the corner, but on the plate.

Shriveled, browned fruit slices with a rug of mold along the grapes.

“Pastor, I think…”

Junior popped a grape in his mouth with delight, then revealed more dishes.

A congealed stew with colonies of dull blue bacteria.

Her eyes went frantically wide as Junior ladled a bowl, passed it to the pastor, then another to her, another to the teacher and finally his own. Hers had a roach.

He stopped. Good, his eyes adjusted. Soon he’ll grow sick at the thought of the rotten grape in his belly, but no, no, no, he stopped, but only to ask, “Is there a bread knife, sir?”

The teacher did not pass it down, but instead cut a piece for Junior, smothered with rancid butter.

“Mr. Ishmael, sir, maybe you should…”

He gave her a soft smile and passed the bread down, but continued to grip the knife.

“Why is a non-believer in my inner sanctum?” the pastor asked suddenly amid Junior’s chomping.

A tense silence hung in the air.

Then with a lightness to his tone, like a joke, “I think he’s talking to you, Sarah.”

“I believe!” she said, but added in a whisper, “I think.”

“Me too,” Junior chimed in though the choir boy was not in question.

“Then we all agree,” the teacher said. “There is Something out there. The cosmos borne of nothing? No. Close your eyes and feel that eternity is assured. But not some old man in the clouds, Pastor, whatever your aspirations. Hooves that gleam like polished brass. Hybrids akin to creatures in the deepest depths covering hands and faces with a godly amount of wings. Now your flock are in darkness, as you have led them, but to see these venomous desert snakes will burn your eyes blind. Ignorance and insight are two sides of a coin and we must walk that thin edge between. What is out there is terrible, Something to be feared, and what they want from us is beyond mortal reckoning. So I believe, but I do not love.”

Junior, caught up in the teacher’s rising voice, shouted back, “Don’t you think that’s a bit rude, sir? I don’t mean to talk back but we were invited here and you say heretical things?”

“A pig squealing before the slaughter.”

Junior started speaking back, but Sarah interrupted. “Who are you?” she screamed. “How do you quote Gran? Were you a student? Did you know her? What are you doing here and why are you lying about replacing her?”

The teacher went quiet at the accusation.

“Replacing?” The pastor’s lips curled up beneath that beard. His teeth were either missing or dead turned a bluish color. And the glass cataract over his eye was like a full moon that glowed ominously in the dark. “Tell me, girl, did she retire?”

“Sir?”

“Your grandmother. Ms. Catherine Tully. Why does she need a replacement?”

“Well, retirement, yes, sort of.”

“Say it plainly!” he barked as his patience wore thin.

“She died.”

A maniacal cackle escaped his lips. From the depths of his dusty lungs, the laughter roiled, growing upon itself, each echo growing in volume rather than diminish, disturbing even Junior, until it seemed the voices of several heads, several people, several beasts, all mingled among one another to create madmen’s mirth.

Sarah’s quivering uncertainty only grew as the laughter faded into the dark stairwell behind him as one candle flame went out.

Then the teacher was out of his seat.

The medieval doors banged with the force of a bull.

Another candle winked out of existence.

His hand gripped the pastor by his holy collar.

The doors rattled on their weakening hinges.

Junior restrained the other arm, though, and the final flicker of light glinted off the serrated knife.

The vicar’s daughter stared silent.

“What do you think you’re--”

A giant of a man kicked the doors flat. This tall, gaunt creature dragged a bag behind as it lumbered toward them. He? It. Draped in tattered cloth that revealed a chest full of markings, terrible deeds painted on desecrated gray skin. And the room was briefly bathed in darkness as the teacher spun round to knock the table over and with it, the final candle.

But that persistent little flame did not die. It found new fuel upon landing. The tablecloth went up. Then the table itself. Then the echoing laughter returned as the teacher dragged Sarah by the wrist away from the door and the ever approaching Bag Man into the darkness of the stairwell.

~

Chapter 8

Round and round they went. Tiny, cramped steps under a dark ceiling so low the teacher hunched. The rope anchored to the wall guided him down, but Sarah was being yanked by supernatural caution and it’d be accurate to say she stumbled down five flights of stairs.

Though she’d done little more than tried to survive, her skin glistened with sweat despite the cold air. Her breath was vapor. But she could not see without a speck of light showing.

Still, she sensed the spiral stairs had opened to a large room.

The teacher’s heavy breath next to her turned to indiscriminate cursing. “You cack-crusted caitiff!” he screamed back up. Between panting, he said, “There was no time to grab her, too.”

The confession died in the dark.

In its place, the rush of footsteps, more careful yet less stable than his own. Sarah thought they’d rush off once more but where to in this darkness? The ability to navigate her house at midnight often resulted in banged shins or stubbed toes and that was with a mental map of the place. Here? Somewhere she never suspected existing? Whatever that thing busting down giant wooden doors was was less of a threat than dying lost down here.

The teacher must’ve known the same. He did not rush off. He did not move.

He called, “That you, Junior?”

“It’s me, sir!” His voice quavered.

“That’s a good lad. Come on down. Just you?”

“Yes, sir!” he reported, thinking it good news.

“Dammit!”

The footsteps stopped.

“Take your time.”

“’Take your time?’” Sarah repeated flabbergasted. “That thing will kill him. Don’t have to be faster than the bear, just faster your friends, huh? Is that it? Hurry, Russ!”

“That thing is Death, to be sure,” the teacher murmured. “But Death is slow, patient, and relentless. There is no rush because eventually, it will come for us all. So careful with your steps, boy.”

She seethed. If Junior had time to be careful, they had time to hash this out. “Who are you?”

“I told you.”

“You lied!”

“Only its cousin: half-truths.” There was heavy breathing between them both. He softened his tone to say, “If we survive till morning, you may hear it all.”

Junior bumped into her as he descended. She caught herself on an odd wall. Tightly packed knobs with holes between and every so often something larger, rounded at parts with contours, two circular holes and a triangular divot.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“The ossuary.”

“The… what now?” Junior didn’t read much.

Sarah took her hand from the wall. “It’s better if you don’t know yet.”

“The catacombs where bones are kept. We need to move.”

Junior froze in place and Sarah knew ignorance in this case had been the better option.

“If you don’t want yours counted among them, keep your left hand on the wall.” The teacher began assaulting both in the dark, knowing each only by their structure and clothes, searching for their limbs. He placed Junior’s hand on a bone.

The farm boy wasn’t a fool.

“Whatever happens, keep your hand on the wall and follow my voice.”

“Russ,” Sarah said gently. “Here.” She took his trembling hand in her own. She could feel the dead walls for him. Together, the friends steadied one another.

Her fear?

The whispers that emanated from these depths.

She heard them as everyone caught their breath.

They fell into the background as the huff and wheezing of a slumbering beast.

~

“Still there?” Junior called.

“Yes.”

Initial progress was slow. When he said, “Follow my voice,” they assumed that’d be a regular breadcrumb but the birds had picked it clean. More often they bumped into him at a turn.

They wandered the labyrinth in an agony of despair. Steps instead of light gave them some indicator of time passing, but even then, in the silence, thoughts crept up on them. Was that Junior’s breath behind her? The teacher’s steps ahead? Were they headed up or down? Was there even an end? Another exit? Was all this wandering just to loop back around while the Bag Man lost itself within the maze? What was going on at the Church?

Sarah found her fingers in a nose triangle, but she was getting used to touching death. “Teacher, what was with the food?”

Russ answered instead. “He wanted to lull us into a false sense of security. But what feud do you have with the pastor? I hope he escaped, too. If it weren’t for that giant, I’d’ve stayed up there and called the sheff.”

“Traps are best broken by the ruse of folly. To approach the trapper, you must approach the trap. Same is true of the bugs, the window, the girl.”

“Bugs?” Sarah hated bugs.

“The vicar said something about windows, too, but they were just stained glass, right, Sarah Tully?”

“I think.”

“In time, you’ll open your eyes,” the teacher said and continued through the dark.

Occasionally, following the wall led them around two interior corners and Sarah knew they were backtracking. She tried building a mental map of this place, but it was impossible to know how much ground they lost. And her mind was as dark and fuzzy as this basement. It was too cold and she was too hot from exertion. Occasionally, her hand dropped from the wall before quickly finding its place again. For all she knew, they were back at the beginning.

Then, after some steady progress, she crashed into the teacher.

“Another turn?” Junior asked.

The teacher shushed him.

Sarah knew in her heart they’d stumble into the den of that slumbering beast, but no, the snores echoed from elsewhere. Instead it was the heavy plop of footfalls.

“What is it?” Junior called with no guile or restraint.

The Bag Man.

He plodded along behind the wall to their left. Was it her trembling hand or did each step really rattle the bones?

There was no turn behind them.

Ahead?

Were they headed straight to its turn? To follow the left wall was now to march into its path, but to switch to the right was to lose all progress and to follow neither was assured death. What was the safest option? What should they do?

“What—”

Sarah’s hands forgot the wall, forgot Junior’s preference for her hand over that of the dead, and they found his fool mouth.

“Shh!” she cried.

Had it heard? Could it find its way to them on sound alone?

Or perhaps could such sounds lead it astray in the dark?

Her hand found the wall, but she had spun on Junior, and she switched walls, but had she spun halfway round or fully? She reached ahead to find the teacher’s shirt. And she did find some fabric, but the thought crept in: was it him? Was it the impostor she’d known or the impostor chasing them? And suddenly Junior was lost somewhere around her, just stifled breaths in the dark?

“Tea—” She silenced herself. This was all leading that creature to them and for what? Mad panic!

A match struck alight and passed to a small puck of wax revealing the teacher.

“I won’t let anyone hurt my students. Trust me.”

The light.

She spun around to find Junior. And she found the wall they’d been hugging this whole time. What the darkness held ahead she did not know, but for now, she saw enough to feel safe.

But as the relief washed over her, it did not matter what was ahead, for just as the door offered no resistance to this gaunt hulk, so too did the walls cave beneath his kick and a foot passed between them, spraying bone chip shrapnels, and Junior, succumbing to mad panic anew, forgot the plan and ran off into the darkness, not a hand on the wall, taking whichever turn he came to.

“Wait!”

She, too, almost followed.

But the teacher gripped her wrist tightly. “Your misguided concern will kill you both.” And they ran the opposite way, a petty puck of light to guide them. And with the rush of movement, soon that died, too.

~

The sweat of her brow stuck swatches of hair to her forehead. She wiped but the sweat did not stop in the frigid catacombs. Her breathing was too hard.

“I want to know why we’re being pursued!” she cried.

The teacher was a ghost. He glided along the floor, kicking up mushrooms and bones, but no amount of distance, speed, effort, fear compromised his composure. “Because you’re still talking.”

His grip rubbed her wrist raw.

She yanked free. “I’m not moving another step until you tell me why.”

Behind them, the Bag Man plodded. They had a few minutes at most if it kept that pace and why should it when she’d given up on stealth. Charge ahead, bust every wall. It knew where they were with supreme precision. This was a game of chicken, and Sarah would not budge.

The footsteps grew louder. There’d been a turn but little did that matter to this ascendant corpse.

“Then the fool of us will die.”

“I could die a fool or live with answers. The choice is yours, teacher!”

He grasped her hands.

She would not go.

He placed her left to the wall.

Then he ran off on his own, making all manners of bestial sounds.

In her right hand, he had placed the candle and a box of matches.

~

She dared not mutter the degrading thoughts she had, but they could be summed up as, Foolish ingrate, left to ponder my own mortality in self-imposed exile and what do I find within my heart? Cowardice.

The steps were so far as were the distractions until they died suddenly.

She told herself, once the Bag Man caught the teacher’s scent, he’d gone silent so as not to actually be found, but perhaps the darker possibility was more likely. His beaten body had been stuffed within the bag to be carried back to the pastor as a prize.

Her toe kicked a hard ledge.

A wall?

She reached out but no.

She stepped over it and found in place of solid floor a bath.

She thrashed for edge but to swim suddenly in the dark, you lost all sense of up, all sense of distinction between air and water, and when buoyancy did carry her up, she didn’t know. She needed a wall. A ledge. That ledge she’d kicked. Any ledge!

Unbeknown to her, as she kicked in the depths, tendrils probed at her shoes. A single touch was all it needed to taste the promise of prey and if she stopped kicking, the suction cups would find purchase.

A strong hand grabbed her as she surfaced.

No!

Any pursuer would not be friend!

She withdrew. She fought. She’d rather drown than wind up another prize in that thing’s bag!

She sank lower toward the tentacles. They didn’t need stillness if they could find her waist.

“Quit splashing, Sarah Tully!”

The familiar naive voice dragged her to an edge.

It did not have the strength alone to pull her free.

That lent credence to an identity.

The Bag Man could’ve pulled her out and whipped her around. The teacher would’ve hauled her out with nary a grunt.

Only Junior would need her to do half the work.

As she went over the side, the tentacles retreated to their patient position.

“Was a trip to the swimming hole really bright right now?”

First thing she did when on solid ground was hug him, though she wound up clocking his face. “How did you find me?”

“That thrashing.”

“It’s pitch black, Russ!”

“By the Gods’ grace then.” He did not tell her he thought his eyes might be adjusting, for it seemed this abyss had nothing, and only the Devil could see down here. However, there was a logic to it. When he had regained his senses, he followed the same left wall, and like a coin flip, he’d been right, confirmed when he came upon the busted wall and scattered remains. “Same way I escaped whoever passed me. They headed the other way and we were both pressed to our walls and they did not seem to notice me. Too small for that creature. Could it be the vicar?”

“Or the teacher.”

She knelt down suddenly searching for the candle and matches. She’d dropped them in the panic. But the only conclusion she came to was they’d fallen into the water. All the teacher’s plans crumbled to blood-stained dust in the presence of her inanity.

“He left you?”

“You hear him taking part in this discussion? He wasn’t just letting me drown!”

“Should’ve expected as much. If the pastor’s at odds with him, he must be a villain.”

She wanted to clear his name then and there, but she needed time to admit her own stubbornness probably doomed him.

And it was almost time when Junior continued with excitement. “We need to turn around.”

“Why?”

“I found a way out.”

~

He guided her back the way he came and when they felt the shattered wall, he dragged her in and picked up the pace. No more wandering. He knew where they were and how to get there.

Junior shoved a rock into the wall and listened for the plop of water. “Look!”

Never did she think she’d be so happy about dirtying a well, but when she peered upward there was the night sky. It might as well have been blazing daylight by comparison. The cosmos painted itself upon oily black and blue with only the suggestion of red, red dust.

Yes, great, a skylight, but they were 60 feet down.

“How do we get up?”

They spoke in whispers. Even their exclamations were little more than a breeze.

“Don’t you remember when we were kids and we’d race to the crown of an oak tree? What’s so different about this?”

Rocks that can be pushed from the other side do not provide the same support as branches. There is not the same grip on smooth stone as there is on bark. And however their eyes might have adjusted, to find holds was a tactile task at night and how sensitive could their shoes be? She did not like this plan.

“Didn’t you nearly die doing that?”

But the alternative…

“We need the teacher first.”

“Why?” Junior had an unfamiliar spit in his voice, like one of the farm dogs had just nipped him at dinner time. “What could we possibly need that cretin for? He’s here to poison the well. The pastor only retaliated with that…”

People see what they want to see, but a leap of logic cannot cross the Grand Canyon. Such moments will cause pause, but as they turn back and see their previous leaps, they cannot fully renege on their beliefs.

He tried another route.

“That man left you!”

“I made him. I said I wasn’t budging until I got answers and whatever secret he’s holding onto, it’s worth dying for but not worth getting someone killed for. Rather than doom us both, he led that thing away.” She was shaking. She did not feel that much shame or guilt but she shook all the same and it picked at Junior’s pity.

He said, “We came in as three; we’ll leave as three.”

~

No matter how big the maze, rats following the same path are bound to run into each other. That was the gamble they continued into the dark with and to win was to find the teacher, but to lose was to find the other.

But Sarah’s fevered mind said if shouting raised the risk, it also raised the chance of victory.

“Mr. Ishmael!” Junior yelled.

“Teacher!”

Their voices reverberated off the walls in a way that brought a clearer image to life. How near they were, how far. Just as that brief candle had renewed hope for Sarah, so too did the noise lessen the solitude. Perhaps she’d have felt different if it was just hers, but to have a friend beside her, going along with the plan, those tears were of happiness, relief, the accumulation of tension finally setting her down gently.

“We found a way out!”

But after each call, they listened for a response, and all they heard were the heavy steps of their pursuer as it dragged a heavy bag.

Perhaps that was their answer.

Wiser children might accept they came in as three but would leave one short, but the Gambler’s Fallacy says that if there’s a 1% chance of finding him with a single call, then a hundred calls means success is assured.

Finally, Sarah stopped at a turn. This was the last turn her heart could handle. She was tired, dirty, sweaty, shivering, and most of all…

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, teacher! Scold me, whoop me, stare at me in disappointment for I have failed you, and I am truly, terribly, with all my heart—”

“Misguided concern will kill us all, child.”

The whisper came from behind a wall.

“Teacher, we found a way out! A well we can climb up with some persistence and—”

Victory was short-lived.

“I, too, have found a way out. The stairs we came down, and at the top is my target.”

Her hand off the wall, she went in search of the source of those lunatic words and when she got her hands on him, she yanked him by his collar. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Take the well. It’s the safer option.”

“He ain’t coming, Sarah.”

“I will not leave this place without either of you.”

“Is it true?” Junior asked. His voice hurt as did his pride. “When I was alone, I found our escape but I did not take it until you were with me. Can you say you’d’ve done the same?”

“I—I—”

“Or are you only concerned with this backbiter and not your lifelong friend? Whatever you say, swear it and I’ll believe it.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But the three of us are here now and why? Why can’t we leave together? Climb out and come back through the front doors as we entered! Come back through the dark for all I care. But wait! I am of my right mind now and I am not leaving without you both.” Her voice grew louder as her breathing grew ragged. “You said you would not let your students die tonight, sir. What if the biggest risk to them is your action now?”

She had him. She knew. He’d soften. He’d relent. He’d escape with them.

“If my guidance falls on deaf ears, that is your decision.”

At a loss for words, she found herself in darkness worse than around her. The brightness of her mind had had something at the edges creeping in but she had not noticed until her vision was a pinpoint and the snakebite in her veins was more than she could bear.

She collapsed.

~

Chapter 9

The only two remaining customers at the diner were the sheriff and his daughter sharing a piece of rhubarb pie with custard. Every week they ordered a different pie for their next daddy-daughter date night.

“How old are ya now, miss?” Margaret asked.

She held fingers on both hands.

Margaret raised her spectacles to her eyes to get a clearer count. “Really? 13 already?”

1 and 3.

“And her birthday’s in a month. Tell the nice lady how old you’ll be then, honey.”

“23? Time flies!”

The adults had a good laugh at bad jokes and the girl only felt the warmth of the evening and not the teasing. The sheriff ordered a sugar cream pie for next week and Margaret was writing it down when Junior came running in.

“Ms. Tully!”

“Catch your breath, boy,” the sheriff said.

“Sheff.”

“Looks like you been playing hard. How’s old Harry?” she asked.

“I don’t—” Big breath. Swallow of thick saliva. Looking at the little girl. “It’s Sarah. She’s come down with a fever.”

The sheriff called after the two, “I’ll turn the stove off. Don’t you worry,” as the door chime tinkled against the glass.

In the Cadillac, Margaret found her daughter soaked with sweat and her clothes damp with some foul-smelling stain. She raved unintelligible phrases about the bag, but Sarah hardly carried a bag and she hadn’t earlier. Her forehead burned Mama’s heart.

“I’m here, baby. Mama’s here,” she cooed.

The teacher watched in the rear view, a mother nursing her daughter, fretting about the worst possibilities, and when she glanced up, her eyes burned with accusations.

He drove them home.

~

On the sofa, Sarah’s words continued like a madman’s cutting through rapid breathing. “Bones, no bones.”

“Your bones are fine, dear.” Margaret moved the girl’s hand to feel her knee. “See? Still there. Now stop your yakking.”

“We need to get her clothes off.”

“Are you a doctor now?” Junior asked.

“Quiet, Junior. He’s right. Go home if you’re shy. She’s dirty, wet, and covered in Gods-knows-what. She’ll need a cold bath to keep the fever down.”

They carried her upstairs, the teacher at her head and the others grabbing a leg, and they set her down gently in the Art Moderne tub. The slop on her sullied the colorful back splash tiles they’d ordered by mail last year. Junior stepped into the hall for this. Just wasn’t right, and truth be told, he was quivering, wondering what it could be, and as the bath water ran, the others found the first hints.

“Ain’t ever seen a limb balloon up like that. Some sort of bite?”

“Bite?” Junior called. “She was asking about snake bites after Harry got hurt.”

With furious footsteps, the teacher rushed into the hall. “Get a sharp knife from the kitchen. Something small but sharp.”

“Well, shoot, sir, if it’s just a rattler, she’ll probably be fine in the morning.”

“And something to catch the pus.”

“She will be fine in the morning, right, Mr. Ishmael?”

“Go now.” After he examined the affected region further, trying to find a bite, but it was all purple on pale skin, two injection ticks would not stand out.

Margaret watched him with keen regard. He was tender to the ill, but his voice cut to Junior’s insecurities. Bad teachers existed, but they often did their best to put on a nurturing persona. Was that all he was?

“Excuse me, sir. Now might not be the right time, but did you serve in the war? A medic or something?”

“You’re right. It’s not the time. This was no rattlesnake bite and we need antivenin.”

“Who are you?” Sarah’s fluttering eyes popped open to clutch his sullied collar. “Just tell me truly!”

“Sir?” Junior was in the doorway with a fruit bowl holding a paring knife

“Arm or bowl, boy?”

“What? No, no, I--”

“She needs you, Russ, or she is going to lose an arm and that won’t be the worst of it. Now hold the bowl. Miss, I’m going make a cross-shaped incision in her arm. The more she moves, the more it’ll hurt so hold her arm steady.”

Margaret held her daughter’s hand and arm and hoped that was better comfort than a smiling, hopeful face, because she couldn’t muster such strength.

“Junior.”

“I’m ready, sir.” The crack in his teenage voice betrayed his heart. But bravery isn’t the lack of fear, but action in spite of it. Perhaps that’s what you want from a man, anyway, hesitation, overwhelming concern, because to act robotically meant you had too much trauma to care anymore.

A wail of anguish cut the still country night and the neighbors knew something was afoot.

~

Junior washed out the kitchen sink.

Upstairs had gone quiet behind the approaching storm. They didn’t need him anymore. And this stuff smelled awful. Especially after he coated it with his own half-digested lunch.

He poured himself a glass of water when he heard heavy steps coming down the stairs and a door open.

He flew after the teacher, making it as far as the porch. He shielded his eyes with his arm, turning away from the wind. “Sir! Wait! Where are you going?”

“To concoct a remedy. Does your farm have animals? Cattle? Horses? Anything big?”

“C-c-cows?”

“That’ll do.” The man did not stop and opened his car door.

“Don’t you need help?”

“All of this is my responsibility.” He hesitated in the driver’s seat. Then he started the engine. “Are you going to help me find a snake in the dark on 160 acres with a dust storm coming? Russ, think about what it is only you can do.”

“What only I can do…? What if that thing comes a-knocking?”

He shrugged. “Don’t answer.”

Junior’s eyes scanned the roads as the Cadillac roared away. It was too dark and dusty to see forever, but every obscured shape at the terminal of his vision could’ve been the Bag Man in pursuit.

“Junior!” Margaret called and he ran up to help her dry, dress, and carry Sarah down the stairs.

~

Up with the sun, asleep with the sun. That was the farm’s way but a few farmhands stayed up chatting, reading by candlelight, or writing home. They weren’t from here but maybe a county or a state over, crossing borders to find something new or flee something old, but all were welcome if they pulled their weight.

Tonight, a trio gathered round a lantern in the dairy barn and talked of pooling their wages. Their voices were low and their shadows, like their hope, danced low and high with the flame.

“You been here as long as Bertrand, Adelaide. You see how he runs his farm. Why can’t we do that?”

“Buy 40 acres and set us up something nice.”

“With rabbits?”

“We can have rabbits.”

And on a country night, the engine could be heard before its light cut through the dust curtain.

“Expecting someone, Adelaide?”

“Don’t think so.”

A farmhand went to the door and when he saw a figure approaching, he opened the door just long enough for them but not enough for more than a handful of dust.

Adelaide’s curious look turned to grimace as she saw the teacher. “Did you bring the boy back?”

The teacher looked around at the barn. There was hay and it smelled of manure. “Where are the cows?”

“Storm’s coming. Put them in—”

“Why?” Adelaide asked. The teacher’s damp shirt had a layer of mud just barely covering red-brown splatters.

“I need a cow or a horse that’s been bitten by a lot of snake in its lifetime. Do you keep records of that?”

“Sir, you have a lot of gumption coming round here while we’re still reeling from the loss of Harry. I ain’t saying that was your fault, but--”

“He died?”

“Prayer tonight. Burial in the morning.”

“Might I offer a prayer?”

And the farmhands might’ve agreed. The teacher might’ve gotten what he needed. Sarah might’ve been fine if it weren’t for Adelaide, if it weren’t for earlier, if it weren’t for the late hour, and if the teacher hadn’t let loose a faint smile.

She said, “Rouse the others. And bring Mr. E.”

~

Margaret was in the kitchen making them something to eat. Sarah would need her strength when she woke up and until then, her caretakers needed their strength as well. And to have her hands busy kept her mind from wandering.

“Ms. Tully!” Junior’s voice rose up from the living room. “Do you have more bandages?”

“Is it bleeding through again? That man cut too deep. Probably wasn’t ever a surgeon or medic or anything like that. Just read about it in some dime novel and thought, ‘I’m a man. I can do anything!’ Let me get them.”

What the teacher had said before leaving stuck in Junior’s head. What could he do? He was a boy. He had no idea what was going on with the church. He’d never had medical training or nothing, only once when he was younger while playing with a throwing knife, trying to flip it and catch it, he cut his arm dearly. No amount of pressure would stop it. He sheepishly showed his pa who didn’t bother trying the same and instead got a knife of his own. A butter knife. And he’d heated it on the stove’s flame until it glowed and the metal got soft. It wasn’t like when the teacher had sterilized the paring knife. His pa wanted it hot and he would not tell Junior why or else he’d have fled. Death was preferable to pain. And the burning hot side of a blade was painful indeed. The noises he made might’ve caused a stampede, and when the boy awoke, the bleeding had stopped, the wound was seared closed, and he had a cauterization scar to forever remind him never to play with knives.

“Maybe we could cauterize it,” Junior suggested.

She looked at his scar then tried to silence that superficial concern approaching her mouth. “Better a marred arm than an empty one. Help me bring her to the kitchen. We’ll use the stove.”

Sarah’s sweating continued and her breathing was shallow and weak, but her words had stopped. They didn’t know if that was good or not.

And as they struggled with her, Margaret had to ask, “What even happened out there?”

Junior took the freshly washed paring knife and compared it to the bandaged wound. His father had used something bigger than needed, but maybe that was better. And what if it didn’t work? How deep did he need to get? If the wound wasn’t just surface level, she could bleed inside. He just stared at the reddening bandage, uncertain how to proceed or if this is what the teacher meant by something only he could do.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. He rested the knife on his patchwork jeans. “Maybe we ought to just sew her up.”

Then he wondered what next his eyes would find and how else he might try to risk her life.

“Russel, there are a lot of answers and I don’t know which is right either, but I know fretting and doing nothing isn’t going to help.”

He knew she was right but he didn’t have the judgment of experience.

“Wizened and wisdom might as well be synonyms, which is just a nice way of saying I’ve had a lot of time to mess up. Even tonight. Let me decide.”

She went upstairs to get her garment bag full of needles and patches.

Her hands trembled as she fed the needle through the string and this strong mama bear whimpered as she peeled away the bandage. “Maybe it’ll stop with more time.”

“Another second fretting is another drop of blood. I’ll do it.”

When the needle passed from one trembling hand to another, Junior found his nerves ease with a deep breath and the focus on urgency. Not about if it was right or wrong, what would happen next. Who cares if it left an ugly scar? At least she’d be alive and if the arm still worked, even better, and if it didn’t, she could blame the teacher but right now he was helping his friend and that gave him strength.

He got the needle in and ran it through enough to tie an anchor point, then he worked his way up like he’d always done when patching clothes, pulling tightly after each loop through, keeping tension on the line, until he was about halfway through.

Then a knock came at the door.

His attention was so focused on the suturing that he didn’t notice, but when he asked Ms. Tully to wipe away the blood so he could see, she called back, “Just a minute!”

~

A hand caught the teacher by the throat.

He bent back the thumb till he could suck in a deep breath and his attacker squealed, but that wasn’t his first choice of defense. His choice was staved off by fingers clawing at his forehead because they didn’t want him biting again.

The kerfuffle was 5 on 1 with old Adelaide watching from a distance in case a murder was on hand. If it was someone she knew, she’d fetch old Mr. E. If it was the teacher, she’d see how magnanimous she was feeling. Shoot, the fight had started with 6 of them but the first thing that madman did was claim a chunk of flesh from Lenny’s forearm and spit it back on the man.

But that was when the workers knew this wasn’t friendly wrestling.

It didn’t matter if someone twice his size held his lanky limb, somehow that string bean overpowered each, but since this wasn’t a friendly match, there was no sense in playing fair.

Headbutts, kicks, scratches, and chokes.

And when they were two to an arm with the heaviest fellow sitting on his legs, they knew he’d go limp soon enough.

But his blood boiled.

His eyes searched.

His mind raced.

That rack of tools.

The ax would cleave limbs. The pitchfork would pierce hearts. The scythe would reap lives.

But there was a familiar weapon.

Blunt, destructive, but would bones could be set easier than limbs reattached.

The maul.

If only he could get free.

Before he could, Adelaide went to the barn door.

This was never 5 on 1 or 6 or 7 including her. From the whipping shroud of black blizzard, the eighth stepped through holding the reins of Mr. E, a dappled longhorn stud with horns that extended over 100 inches. He huffed and scratched and the woman holding him seemed about to let go whether intentional or not.

“He don’t like being woken up so I suggest you settle.”

The teacher’s smile only grew.

“Just what I was looking for.”

~

Junior armed himself and crept around to the doorway, but when he saw it was just the sheriff, he hid the large chef’s knife behind his back. It still had a slice of onion on it.

“Ahh, Junior, how are you, boy? Just wanted to check up on Sarah. Neighbors heard some wailing and thought it best I investigate, you know, with that newcomer around. Like we always say, be welcoming but vigilant.” The sheriff’s eyes scanned Junior. His shirt was covered in blood. He was shaking in his boots. And he had a hand hidden behind his back.

Junior suddenly said, “She’s fine!”

The man showed himself in. No sense letting the dust in. “What do you got there, lad?”

“Sheff, Sarah had a snake bite, a cut and a fever. We’re putting out fire after fire and Russel here was just stitching her arm.”

“That stranger brought awful bad luck with him.”

“If he could influence those snakes, surely we’d welcome him greatly.” Margaret turned to Junior. “Did you get the wound closed?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And the blood stopped?”

“Yes ma’am.”

The sheriff stepped off the foyer rug with dirty shoes and no invitation. As he moved in, Junior moved, too, keeping the knife hidden behind his back.

“Can you enlighten me as to what happened with Sarah?”

“You were there when I heard the news, Sheff.”

“Yes. From Mr. Bertrand here. Boy?” The big man stepped closer.

“I-I-I don’t know. We were on the farm when the teacher came by with Sarah.”

“The teacher again?”

Junior backed up toward a table with photographs of the late Ms. Catherine Tully. If he could be very gentle, he might be able to set the knife down on the tablecloth without a sound. But not with the sheriff in his face. He was shorter than the sheriff, and by his estimation, that man’s eyes could peer over his back and see the glint of metal he’d armed himself with. “This was the first time I met him. He told us school’s opening up again and then everything with Mr. Styles happened and I think Sarah got bit then.”

“He seems at the center of all this.”

“Mr. Styles?”

“The teacher.” Finally, like storm clouds parting and letting the sun shine through, the sheriff stepped away from the boy to peer out the window. The Cadillac was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”

“I can’t say.”

Then straight back to the boy the sheriff charged, a raised voice asking, “Why not?”

Margaret wanted to answers, too, but something about the sheriff’s suspicion did not coincide with her own. “He went to fetch a doctor, I believe. Russel was down here during the more gut-wrenching parts and that was when I suggested the teacher go fetch professional help.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour, maybe.”

“Still not returned? With a bootlegger’s car? It’s an emergency, isn’t it?”

His tone riled something in Margaret. “Yes, and we need to tend to my daughter before she loses an arm, so if there’s nothing else, sir, please leave us to it.”

The sheriff nodded apologetically then started toward the door, and Junior finally found a chance to set the knife down, but it was premature. The sheriff glanced back. “What’s that for, boy?”

“When we heard the knock, I didn’t know who it was. And after tonight, like you always say, be welcoming but vigilant, right?”

He nodded with a smile. “Right.”

Once the door was closed, Junior sighed with relief but that boy always raised his arms before the finish line. Margaret asked, “Can we really trust him?”

“The sheriff?”

“The teacher.”

~

The farmhands had closed the pens on themselves so in the long corridor of hay, the teacher only had to continue forward to walk out into the dust of fog. He could even pet the bull along the way, should he so choose. The bull that paced around.

It was late. It was loud as the storm brewed closer to its climax. It was an unfamiliar situation and animals are creatures of habit--chaos only stirs in them insecurity and that is a short path to aggression.

When the teacher reached for the maul, the farmhands cheered.

“Put on a show, teach!”

“Hit it harder than you did those fence posts!”

And whatever happened now, they were justified.

This armed madman came in asking for a cattle or corpse and he’d get it.

The bull scratched the hay.

Then to the disappointment of the crowd, it turned around to gaze out the double doors. They’d been pinned back and still they rattled at the hinges. Another huff. Then a long, mournful moo that built to a rolling boil of violence that was cut short by a bag slamming the ground.

The animal leaped as much as a 1,200-pound beast could.

It backed closer to the teacher, kicking its hind legs, calling for its herd with battle cries, shaking its massive horns that lowered, ready to charge.

The teacher did not fear the tail-end of a bull.

He feared the gray hand that reached through the dust wall.

The Bag Man ducked under the large doorway to creep inside.

To the farmhands, a large but still human man robed in a matador’s flowing cape had just stepped into the path of a riled-up bull, but that illusion shattered after the bull charged. They yelled. They clapped. They made themselves big trying to save this man but to no avail as the bull reached its top speed ready to gore him.

Before impact, the Bag Man lifted one massive foot and stomped the bull.

The dust and hay kicked up.

The farmhands didn’t know what had happened and started clambering over the gate. They’d be in a mess of trouble if some fellow had just wandered in and gotten pierced. And that was the idea they had in mind so to see reality, it’d take a massive shock.

Then that creature kicked the dazed bull to the side, crashing through the fence of pens, and it single-mindedly looked round for its target.

Though it had claimed victory, the teacher saw the horns had taken their toll. The foot-long gash had torn flesh and robe. You could count the ribs on that thing. And even if you weren’t educated that humans typically had 12 sets of ribs, you’d know there were too many. Much too many. They were not larger ribs proportional to the height. Just many, many ribs stacked on top of one another so it had a certain flexibility as it bent back and bellowed. A putrid scent filled the air. The stench of the ossuary. The stench of pyramids. The stench of Death.

More importantly, the teacher saw its gray skin painted with terrible deeds and a singular theme ran through each: snakes.

And his maddened smile grew larger still.

~

After leaving the Tullies’ house, the sheriff drove down to the doctor’s home. He knocked at the door, waited a short while, then pounded at it, yelling he needed to talk.

Sheriff Walker wasn’t like Sherlock Holmes, a name he heard once from Sarah Tully and asked, “That that traveling merchant?”

No, he was a real cop. His work was bluster and violence and quiet abuse of power.

Every now and then, though, the angry little beaver damming up his thoughts took a day off and as luck would have it a leak sprung and the sheriff had a thought.

Perhaps the teacher had gotten the doctor and returned to the Tullies’.

This wasn’t correct, but it was reasonable.

So in his car he got and drove back, but no Cadillac sat out front.

But a beaver that’ll sleep through sunrise might also sleep an hour more.

Maybe the teacher took Junior back home. His parents must be worried sick.

Sometimes it really is better to be lucky than good, but for the sheriff, that brief glint of fortune would curdle into damnation.

~

The illusion began to shatter one-by-one, kick-by-kick.

First was poor George flying to Mr. E to check on the prized stud, and before he could see the ribcage dented and cracked and the nose leaking blood, he got a foot to the gut and a close-up view of the rafters. His spirit ascended to heaven right then, at least I hope he did not suffer, but his body came tumbling down with a mess of chains used to hold a cow in place. They weren’t often needed. But they were run through a pulley system in the hayloft and rooted into the concrete foundation.

Adelaide saw it consume the soul and grow larger. It be not proud.

And the next folks came out to stop this drunkard.

Surely his violence would quell in the face of numbers.

The three of them got crushed by the bag and the center one died instantly (and its skin lost all color to a mighty and dreadful hue). The others’ vision just went black, but unfortunately, as the Bag Man soldiered toward its target, an unconscious fellow got crushed beneath an unearthly weight.

And Adelaide saw the Truth reveal itself with each dead until she, too, saw Death incarnate.

There was no stopping Death.

All they could do was buy time.

“Not yet can you kill me!” Adelaide shouted with a scythe in hand and while it focused its ire upon the teacher, she went for the heel, and that thing sank to a knee with a wail you might hear in the depths of the seas. The way its agony echoed in her mind, the reverberations in every part of her skull, rattling through her bones into the soft fleshy tissues then tracing her every nerve to its tip sent her standing at attention, every muscle tightened and tearing and wetness formed in her eye as she saw! She saw!

Death, too, was not immune to its own perilous journey that ended in the pleasure of rest, but there was more beyond Death, there was worse to fear than Death, and if anything she should welcome its poppy charm before she met its siblings!

It rose once more and pulled back a great slapper.

As its tension broke, ready to release judgment upon her (and she hoped it quick), it was not her death rattle striking a chord in the dairy barn. Instead a chain rattled.

The teacher was not a man to watch.

Nightmares demanded defiant action.

The Bag Man did not understand his wrist had been chained. It tested it again and the barn shook at its very foundation.

When the teacher went to shackle the other wrist, the creature flung venomous claws across his shirt, but no flesh sizzled. And if the wrist would not hold, then a rail-thin neck would do.

It scratched at the teacher, at Adelaide, but they were too far.

Once a king of this domain, now it flailed like a desperate man until its chains tangled themselves about each other and its claws turned to its own neck but Death is many things with many tools available: it is eternal without interference; it is patient; it is relentless, and it is inevitable; it is as willing to pursue the gentle as it is the wicked--and therefore, smart is not among its qualities.

The maul would not clobber Death. Instead the teacher had selected an ax and with all the might bestowed upon him, he swung down upon the kneeling leg. One swing would not chop ancient bone. But a second, a third, he wasted no time until the fossil severed.

From that leg came a familiar sight. If Sarah had been here, she, too, might know it.

Surrounding ancient bone, between pockets of muscle and systems of circulation, snakes now disturbed from the burrow slithered out. Some in a rage, hissing with fangs bared, but others fleeing with information to their charmer.

“What nightmare lurks betwixt our worlds?” cried Adelaide.

Her legs did not work. Her heart fell silent and heavy into a gaping abyss within her gut. All that worked were her eyes. Her eyes gazing upon some fresh horror and her eyes that poured out floods.

Then this stranger said, “I am a man steeped in nightmares, but still I choose to smile.”

At the teacher’s call Adelaide broke from her spell. She fled to the storm to find Mr. Bertrand but before she could leave the door, she turned back at the rattle of the barn. A sturdy piece of architecture now shook and creaked worse than it ever did in the worst tornado as what was once fury became desperation.

The roar of a former soul unwilling to be chained. If the chain would not break, the anchor might.

And as the teacher swung for the other leg, Death should have been strewn up by an arm and neck, crucified as it did so many before, but the weight of Death is a burden a barn cannot bear, and Adelaide watched as the hayloft collapsed onto the two otherworldly foes.

~

When Bertrand met Adelaide outside, he was armed with his hunting rifle and she could not go back. She could not see what carnage she’d wrought by trapping a bull with that man. And Bertrand was left to sift the rubble himself.

He found a half-collapsed barn and the teacher severing the heads of snakes among the body of some he called friends. The moon beamed down on him as he beamed up at it. Three farmhands did not move, but three more did, in dazed and injured ways with groans. And there was a… man? The remains of one. A large torso separated from its head, arms, and legs, and it rested inside of a pail with its innards draining.

What nightmare had he stumbled into. Worse than many things in the war, but he knew there was worse still.

He shook his head then raised his rifle then lowered it.

Had it been a trick of the night? The late hour and the odd sight, the bit of drink he allowed himself, old memories, Adelaide’s ravings?

The gray skinned corpse dissolved to black puddles that seeped into the soil and the teacher was left with a bucket of blood.

The man reached inside to remove a placenta.

And Bertrand watched him leave.

~

Chapter 10

The Sheriff didn’t care about the hour as he pounded on the door of the Bertrands’ house. Given the collapsed barn, the farmer should be up from the commotion. Bertrand Sr. came around the back with his signature limp, sweating profusely and holding a shovel.

“What happened there?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Couldn’t or—”

“I awoke to bury three workers and a longhorn, so I’m not in the mood for baseless accusations. Been trying to get the story out of--”

The sheriff slapped his hand to his heart, but even such theatrics couldn’t stop it from breaking. “Not Mr. E!”

If the sheriff’s heart wasn’t a shriveled raisin, he might’ve cared more about his fellow townsfolks and he might’ve gotten answers in time, but as it were, Bertrand gave no more. Whatever that teacher needed a still for, there had to be a reason better than heartbreak over a bull.

The sheriff closed his car door once more and concentrated real hard but the beaver was back at work. He gave up.

He needed a drink.

~

There was no knock.

The door kicked open.

Junior went running with his knife once more, no onion slice this time, and even Margaret went for Uncle Pete’s shotgun, but as she crossed the doorway to get it, she saw the disheveled man covered in blood, little of which was his own, and in his Gladstone bag, glass vials clinked together as he stepped across the threshold. He was lucky she didn’t keep the gun loaded.

“How is she?”

“Fever broke.”

Junior returned to changing her bandage and the teacher’s eyes went wide at the sutures. Rage filled his eyes but he kept a calm voice. “What happened?”

“You nearly cut to the bone,” Margaret snapped. “Russel here had the bright idea to sew your handiwork shut, and he did a lovely job.”

“You did.” The teacher opened the Gladstone to pull out a syringe: an empty chamber between a three-ringed metal plunger and a long needle. “I’m sorry my zeal put you in such dire straits.”

Junior almost blushed at the compliment. “Shoot, it could happen to anyone. We were all panicked. You did your part; I did mine.”

“I am a man of mistakes but I learn from them.” The teacher slotted a glass vial inside the chamber.

Margaret turned the clear liquid over in her mind. In the flicker of lamplight, it seemed off. It wasn’t like water. It wasn’t perfectly clear. There was a murky yellow tint almost imperceptible, but it gave her pause.

“This will ensure another sunrise, I swear it.”

He rolled up his sleeves. First the left. Then the right. They were so filthy, his fingerprints smudged on the vial and he washed his hands once more. They shook. Margaret watched closely so she noticed but the man, for all his confidence and bluster, for all the trials of tonight, he trembled. The body of a man but maybe somewhere inside all of us there’s that nervous child.

But upon returning to Sarah’s side, his nerves steadied. He found a patch of flesh on her shoulder that he rubbed clean with a towel. Then between thumb and forefinger, he spread taut the skin ready to pierce it when Margaret caught his hand.

“Who are you to be injecting her with anything?”

“This syringe is full of antivenin. When an animal is exposed in low doses, it begins to develops natural defenses. This is a distilled form of those that will give her body a fighting chance.”

“I’m not asking what it is. Let me be plain.” Her hand drew his away from her daughter. “Who are you and why are you here?”

He paused with pursed lips before opening his secrets. “Your mother the schoolmarm was Catherine Tully, born the 24th of April, 1835, correct?”

“What does she have to do with…?”

“She should’ve seen her centennial year.”

“No more riddles!”

“I’m here because she did not go gentle into that good night. And as that creature took your mother, now it yearns for your daughter and this here will save her.” His shoulders heaved with deep breaths as though speaking this much was of great exertion to him. “If you fear its efficacy, watch as I inject it into myself.”

He rolled his sleeves up higher until the band of cloth formed a tourniquet above his elbow. She just barely saw the second of long jagged lines of raised red flesh and she suspected there were more claw marks hidden. And as the veins raised up from the depths, he aimed the hollow needle point.

“Wait.” Margaret let go of her suspicions for now. “Doesn’t she need all of them?”

“I made extra.” He continued to hold the needle tense to his arm.

And again, Margaret’s hand guided his away. “Save them for her.”

~

The sheriff walked into the last remaining woods on the horizon. It was not far past the Bertrand farm. There was a new truck, an old house, and carnage at Appleseed.

It cut his faith in humanity in half and gave it to his ire. Of the three bumpkin brothers, one played nurse using whiskey instead of medicine, another was stupid drunk with a twig bandaged around his legs, and the last scrubbed the still of blood.

“Boys, what in tarnation is happening?!”

“Some lunatic needed our still.”

“Who? Some rival coming into our turf?”

The boys looked to one another and the drunk one laughed.

“Can you make alcohol out of blood?”

The sheriff drew his revolver. “Let’s find out. You know what bleeds a lot? The head!”

That sobered up two of the boys real quick.

“I want answers and I want retribution.”

But the drunk one laughed more with the gun to his temple for he had seen the end once already and survived. He’d seen it in that man’s eyes. That man’s disregard for his own life, let alone that of the trio, and yet here the boy stood (lay) still. “That was a bootlegger’s car but we pride ourselves on a certain air of dignity. A rich history of outlaws: Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Kissin’ Kate Barlow. That devil is something worse. He treads outside the grace of Gods.”

There was no benefit to interrogating a madman, a drunk one at that, and the sheriff put away his revolver.

The schoolhouse was the only place he knew that teacher would wind up and he’d always found those desks easy to sleep at.

~

Chapter 11

After her 12th injection, all they could do was sit for three hours when she’d get 2 more until all 20 were emptied, but shortly after that initial dosage, her forehead dappled with sweat grew hotter under the wet cloth and they could not change it fast enough to keep it cool.

“Show Junior how to do it,” Margaret demanded suddenly. “The injections.”

“Me? Why?”

She ignored the boy and returned from the kitchen in a coat and mask. “You say my mother was killed. She may not have been perfect, but she deserved dignity and that means having her fate known. I’ll dig.”

The teacher said, “A corpse is better left alone.”

“Must I beg for the burden of insight?” Her voice rose above the buffeting wind. Tonight the storm was in full force. Not a soul to be seen out on the streets for who would be fool enough to step into the abyss? It granted no death but it stripped away layer after layer of top soil as it did the same to flesh. “To never know is to be maddened by curiosity!”

“A gentler strain of the illness.”

“Satisfaction be my medication,” and in her words were a prayer that he could not ignore.

~

Chapter 12

Ms. Catherine Tully spent the entirety of her life dedicated to that schoolhouse and it seemed only proper that she’d find eternal rest there. Maybe that makes it a prison, as children have been calling schools since their invention, but logic and sentiment sometimes reach separate valid conclusions.

The sheriff sat in wait in the schoolhouse expecting a conclusion at dawn’s early light and shortly, as he had in so many class so many years before fell asleep at a desk. His snore could be mistaken for a bear.

The Cadillac cut its growl to a whisper lost in the storm. Though the teacher had navigated here on his own, once out of the car, Margaret led the way to the grave holding a shovel.

For one unused to digging, it was hours of work until the blade dinged against a pine box.

“Consider this once more,” the teacher cautioned. He would bear witness to this but he would not be party to it. He bore enough guilt.

And every shovelful after his warning was consideration. As she scraped clean the top half of the box. It was adorned with a holy symbol that her mother would’ve hated but it gave Margaret some vacuous comfort that the soul would be accepted. And every shovelful entrenched her further. This must be done.

The teacher hopped down only once the coffin was revealed. He did nothing to dig out the remains, only held the lantern to dig by, but when it came time for the viewing, he was there to pry open the lid.

He gave one last warning. “There is no turning back if we do this.”

“Is there turning back now? Sunrise approaches and we just bury the coffin, chalking up my sweat and my tears to a spell of hysteria?”

“It is your choice.”

“I commit.”

The teacher helped leverage the shovel into the seam and lift until the nails popped open.

And there she was. 99. Maybe two weeks shy at this point, but no, no, her soul was so much older, so much wiser, and this crude material was in her image but it was not her essence, it was not her luminous being--it was not her, I tell you!

The teacher looked away. Some dust had gotten in his eye.

But Margaret was transfixed.

She brought the lantern closer and wiped away some dark spots on Catherine’s cheek.

But the spots did not rub away. The spots were not dirt. Nor were they blemishes. Her fingers dipped inside. They were… holes? A tight grouping with thick walls between, something akin to the honeycomb pattern of a beehive, too narrow for her smallest finger, and their depth remained a mystery.

“These were not here when she was buried.”

The teacher examined the holes under the light of the lantern then drew back.

“What do you know?” she said.

“Who found she had passed?”

“She was asleep in the schoolhouse one evening and it turned out to be her last. Emile reported it.”

“Who--?”

The timing.

Had the sheriff not awoken with a crick in his neck, had he not wandered outside with a full bladder, had he not seen the lantern light and the teacher’s head poking out of the grave, had Margaret’s concentration been as committed as her heart, she might’ve seen not the glint of the sheriff’s revolver aimed down but instead the egg rise to the top of the hole on her mother’s cheek and erupt with a tiny larva that molted its just born self into a full formed mosquito. The drone near her ear lost itself among the storm.

But it found her cheek and took its first meal and left a gift of its own as the sheriff yelled, “Hands up! Identify yourselves, devils… Margaret?”

He almost lowered his revolver when the teacher stirred.

“No! I can shoot the wings off a mosquito at a hundred yards, blizzard or no, and you want to move on me, friend?” The sheriff fixed his gun on the teacher specifically as he circled around to see what they were doing. “We need to have a little discussion.”

“I know what this looks like, Sheff, but we have a good reason for digging up my mother.”

“I’m sure you do, Margaret, and I’m sure he has his own nefarious purpose. Now if you would join me in the barn just yonder, we can discuss this out of the storm. Let’s pay old Abner a visit.”

~

The barn outside the schoolhouse was nothing comparable to the Bertrand’s collapsed masterpiece. Technically it belonged to the Smiths who had left two years back when the piglet was a runt, and so by unanimous decision, the barn now belonged to the school. As did all of its implements. The Smiths’ ax replaced the schools when the handle started to splinter. The pitchfork was perfect for turning hay, another chore for the students, and the shovel for the least favorite chore.

At its best, the barn could hold six animals and even during the best of years, it didn’t and this was not the best of years. Abner was all they had left. He attended classes and often followed kids home from school. Some said he could read better than the sheriff, which was silly, because the sheriff was a cop; all should be saying such things.

Abner had his choice of pens but he liked the back corner. He was a dark lump tonight. He didn’t snore like a pig. Wet, slurping sounds. Swallow your spittle, Abner! Such is not the time for fawning.

The sheriff addressed Margaret but his gaze and his gun never wavered from the stranger. “We’ve had our share of problems in this town, Lords know, but overall, it’s a slice of paradise, wouldn’t you agree?”

Though the bullet would not come near her, she still felt its threat and gave a rote answer. “Yes, Sheff.”

“But he comes to town and things start happening.” The sheriff’s voice stayed low, just barely audible over the storm. “Sarah falls ill.”

“I don’t think he’s responsible exactly.”

Ignored.

“The Bertrand barn came tumbling down.”

“What?” she asked the sheriff.

“And a boy from Appleseed got a maul to the ankle and we don’t know if he’ll walk again.”

“What?” This time to the teacher.

“He was in my way.”

“My very conclusion as well!” the sheriff yelled. “But what I can’t figure out is why act as a teacher to set up your own operation within our town? You going to hire out students to be your bootleggers?”

“There is no pretense in what I do. I am here to educate and open the eyes of the ignorant, and you, Sheff, fallen though you may be, you are lost, you are chief among the blind, but I do not think you are beyond salvation.”

“Silence or feel my lead wrath!”

“Lead? What of such impure weapons! Fire! Free me! Fear how small you are in this world!”

The sheriff shook with an impotent rage as his finger found the trigger but he hesitated as he saw the teacher repent. Fear entered his eyes at the reality of the situation. He backed away from the sheriff. Authority had won as it always should.

But acquiescence would not alter history’s course.

The sheriff could not have a rival. This town flourished like an oasis in the midst of a desert thanks to the sheriff. The Bertrand farm? Petty coppers by comparison. Clean in the eyes of the laws, but the law of this town was him and he alone kept it afloat! They’d die without him!

And that assertion would be challenged in the coming days.

Because the teacher had not feared the revolver.

He feared the dark lump of Abner stirring in the back.

No.

Not sweet little Abner.

Raised from a small piglet that could not nurse at the Bertrands’ and so he was donated and so Sarah had raised him as her own. Others had pups, but she had a pig. A pig who hopped and squealed and rooted in all manners of muck and once found a bone!

But now something else had found Abner.

That pathetic little runt that’d make lean, gamy bacon had grown big. Blue ribbon at any fair. Love will do that to anyone.

But now, with his juices sucked out, he was plumper than ever for that thing did not just drink Abner; it filled the pot-bellied pig with its own progeny. Abner died alone, squealing, with dust in every crevice, while this creature lusted for more. Whatever had been slurping in the corner had not been sleeping but finishing its first meal. And the sheriff was the second.

A large proboscis pierced his belly.

The pain squeezed the itchy trigger finger and a bullet rang out.

The sheriff, feeling his life drain out of him, reached behind to grab the 6-prong skewer. Two needles had sawed in. Two held the wound open. One sucked the color from him and the last pumped a new, terrible color back in.

The teacher grabbed Margaret’s hand and dragged her into the storm. He needed his bag.

However, as they ran past the tool rack, she thought, it must be safer with this than without. She wielded an ax ready to die in defense of her daughter.

“What are you doing?” he screamed.

“That thing, like a mosquito, it hunts blood and Sarah’s wound will draw it! Two deaths in this barn tonight.”

“Yours and his,” the teacher said.

“Then I pray I satiate it.”

The sheriff stumbled out the door, a bloated husk of his former self, then collapsed, but right behind it was that overgrown parasite, a silhouette in the shadows but growing closer and clearer and Margaret only wanted to close her eyes or turn and run but she could not.

The illusion of this world shattered for her tonight.

That thing…

It had once been human but now the torso curled back on itself--how many cracks and breaks were required to contort that way? Head rested on ass. Its shorter arms like hind legs, each bone cracked to form two additional elbows, and the belly was pregnant and stretched and the blood inside radiated a wicked light through the stretched skin. And the face… Her face… there was still a face on that poor woman, a face Margaret could not and would not recognize, nor should she, for the pity she’d feel might break her. The lips, the eyes, dried leather peeled back in four rolls of a panged expression as that proboscis had sprung forth from her skull.

Margaret raised her ax not in defense of her daughter, but in vengeance for a neighbor. It did not matter who.

~

The teacher ran to the Cadillac.

If Margaret was to play bait, he’d not waste a second. He ran as fast as his legs took him. He leapt over the freshly dug grave. Without opening the door, he dove in the window to grab his Gladstone bag.

042435

He unlocked it. Under the Bible. Under spare clothes and silver razor was his own revolver, much much older than the sheriff’s, and loaded in the chamber were six silver bullets.

~

But she’d been correct before. It was drawn to blood. And it ignored her. It was not after the dried blood on his shirt, but the fresh wound the gunshot had created. His shoulder oozed dark juices and the creature yearned.

This would not satiate it. Nothing could. But it had no eyes and saw the world in smells and pheromones and the ones given off by fresh crimson liquid sent shivers through its deformed vessel and it would forever seek satisfaction until its last day.

Which was today, Margaret resolved.

What was that thing made of?

She was not one to keep up with her own mother’s wood chopping but an ax had weight! An ax had an edge!

And still that needle nose did not bend, did not sever.

Each swing sent it into the dirt which it shook off, scratched with its forepaws, the woman’s feet, and then continued its pursuit with greater speed and urgency--not for feeling threatened but for the buzz of excitement.

Smell, touch, these were all it had and to be touched was a wonderful thing!

It was on her! It was close! It felt it! It stabbed!

It missed.

She had backed up so far she’d fallen into her mother’s grave. A six-foot unexpected fall is rarely a blessing but for this moment, it had saved her.

“Margaret!” the teacher cried.

But the smells permeating from that hole drove it into a frenzy. A parent defending its nest.

“Margaret! Where are you?”

It peeked over the side and bristling tremors ran through it and though it had only a needle and no mouth, it needed to scream. It crawled in on top of Margaret, pinning her under its gelatinous belly of blood and babies and it already had one nest in here, another would do fine.

“If you do not give a holler, Sarah will see a sunrise you don’t!”

“HERE!”

And instantly after, a gunshot rang out.

Blood flowed that was not its, was not the woman’s it stole, but the sheriff’s and Abner’s and now, she feared, maybe even traces of her mother’s until globular eggs clogged the exit wound.

“Are you hurt? Did it nick you?”

A trembling mess, Margaret shoved the carcass off her.

“Margaret?” his voice was soft and full of pity and she cried in anguish as she rose high the ax head and brought it down severing limbs no longer human before splitting the skull at its back and forever detaching the sucker.

The two were both covered in blood.

The two were in a world steeped in madness, but what is madness? Do not mistake it for illness. Madness is to see the invisible strings manipulating the world and being unwilling to cut them. They were not mad. They were human and they cared and it broke them, but they had each other.

~

As the teacher returned to his Cadillac with someone who counted herself his ally, he saw he’d left his Gladstone bag open.

There were still his clothes and his razor.

But someone had taken Ms. Catherine Tully’s Bible.

Week 3: 17,600 words

Chapter 1

From the back door of the diner, all you could see were two glowing orbs like pupil-less eyes. The sounds fed into the darker thoughts, the way dust funneled through the alley tearing air to a buzz, and don’t forget that growl of the engine. What great beast lurked in the dusty shroud?

It had a jaunty whistle, though.

“A radio? In a car?” Margaret asked for not the first time. “Don’t that distract you?”

The bootlegger sat in the cab without a word. All ready for the coming storm, he had on goggles pulled off the Red Baron’s body but the boy was too young for that. In nice clothes—nice and dirty—with a bandanna over his mouth and nose. Hard to say if he was enjoying the broadcast, but she wasn’t. She was busy sweating hefting a 5-gallon jug from the back. She paid $50 a jug, knowing half was water. It wouldn’t have been this heavy otherwise, heavy, but not this heavy, and a gentleman might’ve offered to unload it for her—heck even a good businessman would’ve offered, but this boy from Appleseed didn’t need to be a gentleman or a good businessman. He had a good business. Could charge what he wanted. Help how he wanted. Listen to whatever show he wanted.

She went back under the tarpaulin.

Box of tools.

A spare tire.

“There’s only one jug back here.” She went around the cab to knock on the door. “Hey, I paid for two and there’s only one back here.”

The boy looked down on her saying nothing.

“Now I’m a good customer but I won’t continue to be with this kind of service.”

“Tell the sheriff,” he said and the engine revved up to head out at speeds too dangerous for a town the size of Oskaloosa, Oklahoma.

Never heard of it?

Look on the map.

Still can’t find it?

What you need to do is get a map from 1862 before the Homestead Act then look at a map from anywhere in the 1920s and you see that little speck you thought was a printing error? That’s Oskaloosa.

But family, this story takes place in 1935 and don’t you dare look on a map after that because it won’t be there.

~

“Who’s winning?” Margaret asked as she came in the diner. Not a one in here offered assistance with the jug, either, but that was all the better. From the kitchen, hidden by a half wall and a curtain, she quietly turned on the tap, hoping their banter covered the sound.

“Shef,” one of the farmers said. “As usual.”

“Ah, you’re only here for the drink.”

“And the smile of Ms. Tully. But how’s it--” The farmer heard something.

“Just washing up.” She came out from the kitchen with a towel in hand. “Y’all may be cheats and scoundrels, but this here is a respectable establishment. Now who’s parched?”

The hands went up.

The glasses went round.

The faces got red.

The pot got bigger.

Margaret even won a hand, being the only clearheaded one. She wasn’t trying to peek but it was hard when the banker yawned with his Hearts over head.

The quarters and dimes got passed around, but one stack kept growing.

The farmer said, “Maybe you oughta come work the fields, Shef.”

The general store owner had a good hand coming up, he just felt it in his bones, like he knew the rain was coming any day. “I’ll knock a dollar off all y’all’s tabs. What do you say?”

The harbinger wind howled round and banged the Dutch shutters against the siding.

“You’re out,” the sheriff growled.

“Can be a dollar each and y’all just spot me a dollar collective.”

“Walk it off.”

“You’ll see! I just know I almost—”

“Go home, Willy!” he barked.

“Now wait just a damned second! I had the best hand last time but you just—you said—you—you!” He rose up out of his chair so quick the thing tipped back onto the hardwood with a thunderous clatter.

The men at the table went quiet. No running the tap at this juncture.

When Margaret came running out the kitchen, she witnessed the sheriff slowly rise up. He didn’t have his star on him tonight. Probably for the best because where the star went, the revolver followed.

A friendly game of Texas Hold’em was set to turn into a not so friendly game of fisticuffs.

Margaret said, “Now, Willy, why don’t you check your coat pocket? You’re always stuffing your winnings in there. And Sheff, what you doing bullying this boy? How about another drink? I was just turning the stove on, too, for a late night snack if y’all looking to soak up the gut rot.”

Willy desperately rummaged in his coat pockets at the rack, careful to take only his coat and take it far from the others, lest they think something untoward was happening.

A few hands went up for drinks and a few more for sandwiches.

Two hands went up in celebration. “You were right, Ms. Tully! I’m a darn fool. I always stuff my winnings or change in my pocket and play with it as I’m heading home. Lets me savor that victory. Watch me win back all I lost with just this lucky dollar. Sheff, a sandwich on me? No hard feelings. Two more sandwiches, Ms. Tully.”

The bacon and eggs joined the smoke in the air and then all the sandwiches came out toasted. Sheff took two and said, “Thank ya, Willy. No hard feelings.” There wasn’t another leftover for him.

“Fifty-one,” Margaret muttered into her accounting book, writing in red.

~

Margaret carried away the glasses and plates into the back.

“Can we help, Ms. Tully?” Willy asked with five dollars stuffed in his pockets and his hat in hand.

“Yes, Willy, you can help by going and getting.”

The glassy-eyed lot of them said their thank yous and goodbyes and Margaret Tully took to cleaning. First the dishes. Rinse, wash, dry, and place them in the cabinet and seal it.

As she turned away from the sink window, just a screen of dark dust out there that even the White Way couldn’t do more than cast silhouettes, one such silhouette approached the window.

The shadow watched through the glass as she cleared the table.

“Save all them crumbs for Abner,” she said in her mocking tone. She brushed them down into a sieve, knowing it unnecessary but still worrying what dust might do to her baby’s baby, and the dust that fell out—if it were sugar, it’d be enough for a cake. She worried what this dust might be doing to all them.

Then last and probably least, she grabbed her broom and dust pan.

No matter how she stuffed cloths and towels under the doors and around the windows, dust got in. Even the church with its vestibule entrance had a thick layer of dust whenever you opened the hymn book. No power greater than Gods’ but perhaps there were other matters to attend.

It’d all be back in the morning but there was some dignity in leaving a place tidy. She gathered up a nice little pile then listened for the wind. Today, the leeward side was the window above the sink.

She set the dust pan on the floor.

Then unlocked the window.

Then she bent down for her dust pan.

And when she rose to toss out the day’s filth…

She sneezed and it went all in the sink.

She just sort of stared a moment. “Messy Margaret strikes again.”

The window got closed and locked as did the door behind her and once outside with a scarf pulled over her mouth, she circled the building to latch the shutters. They did their part, however small, in keeping the dust out. And silhouettes.

If she were new in this one-horse town, it’d be easy to get lost on a night like now. The storm was in full force. Maybe she could’ve waited it out. They never lasted long. But it wasn’t the big one. And she liked getting home before the witching hour.

As she followed those too high orbs lighting a vague way down Main Street, she couldn’t hear herself think. A gale force wind sent nipping particulates across her cheeks and she turned away as she trudged on.

And at first, she thought her mind must be playing tricks on her. A bit of Midnight Madness striking a weary mind. But her eyes kept on it, trying to focus, trying to filter out the smokescreen, until she was certain:

Someone was following her.

“Howdy, neighbor!” she called.

But she did not stop.

She released her clutch upon her scarf to wave. “We best be getting home before this really picks up.”

Her voice could be getting carried two towns over for all she knew. And perhaps the same was true for the silhouette.

She continued down the street, her pace a bit faster now.

“Gotta get out of this storm!” she tried again.

Faster still.

Losing her breath, catching a mouthful of dust instead.

Soon she was at her gate. It wasn’t more than a block away from the diner. Everyone knew her house. Everyone knew she had sugar or recipes or a hammer. Everyone knew, unlike everyone else, she kept her doors locked.

How many times had that saved her?

Not now.

She had her key in hand before she ever stepped on the wooden porch. It really needed replacing and she meant to last year before it got cold but maybe this year, maybe this summer, and the boards would sit tight together.

Her eyes never left the figure behind her. They were just across the street now. She hoped they’d pass.

Perhaps if she had prayed…

She fumbled for the lock but aiming without looking is bad business.

She felt the hole with her thumb but when she tried lining it up, her hands trembled too fiercely and she missed, lost her grip on the keys, and they fell.

Still her eyes stayed locked on the figure nearly at the gate. If he—and she was sure they were a he now--opened that gate, she’d scream. She’d scream the whole way. She’d scream whatever happened.

But like the lock, it’s bad business feeling for keys without looking. Especially on a deck with space between the boards. The moment she felt the metal of the key, she nudged it just enough to fall through to the dirt beneath.

She had to look.

The keys had disappeared into the abyss where no light reached tonight.

No more looking.

No more waiting.

Just screaming.

Bang, bang, bang!

“SARAH!” she screamed. “Uncle Pete! Unlock this right now.”

Bang, bang, bang!

A look back.

Where was he?

She heard a lock undo.

He was coming through the gate.

“Gonna wake the neighborhood like that.”

The front door opened and Margaret Tully charged in, knocking the book out of her teenage daughter’s hand.

“Who walked you ho—? Uncle Pete? He’s long…” At 17, Sarah was taller than her Mama and a good deal sturdier, too, but a mother on a mission can’t be stopped. Before Sarah could finish a thought, Mama disappeared into the kitchen, but she got her answers when Mama returned with Uncle Pete’s shotgun (Gods rest his soul).

She aimed at the door.

They waited several minutes. Long enough Sarah almost said something but thought better of it.

Then Mama lowered the gun.

She didn’t put it away, but she did remove her finger.

“No one came by tonight?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

They waited several minutes more and this time Sarah did say something.

“My only suitor was Abner.” She waited for Mama’s response. “I didn’t let him in though.”

Mama breathed finally. “I brought him a present.”

“Any apple cores?”

“Two.”

“He’ll love them.”

Mama had come in charging but trembling. Now her nerves were still. Sarah had the opposite reaction. She was trembling as reality set in, her eyes scanning the window for anything but getting nothing. Mama put the gun back and instead put her arms around Sarah.

It was just them in this big house these days. Only a month since Gran passed and already a lot of things happened: the two had gotten closer, the schoolhouse closed, they started dragging themselves to church, and soon a lot more would.

Mama looked out the window a bit longer. Even a flashlight wouldn’t cut through. Best wait till morning to get the key she dropped. She felt braver with a babe to protect, but not to the point of foolishness.

“Now what are you doing up reading past midnight? That’s how your eyes fall out.”

“Waiting on you,” Sarah shot back. “The Board of Education sent a note. New teacher’s coming next week.”

“I guess we can take tomorrow to rest.”

“No church?”

“No church. But don’t go celebrating! Celebrating is a sin!”

Sarah stifled her smile until she was in Mama’s arms again and then let it spread wide. She hated that creepy old pastor.

~

In 1862, Congress passed what was known as the Homestead Act, signed by Lincoln on May 20. In 1863, the first settler took to living on and improving their land. Soon 3 million would follow with 1.6 million officially obtaining necessary documents for the 160 acres of nearly-free land. Nearly-free because there was a small registration fee, and the price of tools and materials to build a new house, and the fact that this was already Native land, some legally given to tribes after they’d been forced to move once before.

But to the ignorant, predominantly white settlers taking advantage of this, none of that mattered.

Do you know how long it takes to walk the length of 160 acres?

90 minutes without dillydallying.

Do you know how long it takes to tear up the grasslands, plow, plant, tend, and reap 160 acres?

A whole lot longer, family.

And these inexperienced farmers laid claims without a single thought to that and many found out a whole lot longer was in fact too long and parceled out acres here and there until the size was manageable and being neighborly with houses on either side was feasible after a hard day’s work.

With so many farmers, ranchers, miners, speculators, and the rest, they needed infrastructure. They cobbled it together like they cobbled together their houses. They weren’t the first to discover it but certainly they acted though they were.

For example, it didn’t make sense for so many farmers to head out to the City to sell their crops. That was time not spent growing their crop. So they set up somebody’s son to sell all the farmers’ crop in the City and then come back and pay them 90% of the earnings. And while he was out there, bring back some supplies for the farmers.

They later realized this was a store.

Then Farmer Fred started putting up fencing and his neighbor Farmed Ted argued Fred had intentionally lay claim to Ted’s land. Neither had any way to prove their stolen land was their own, but the collective commissioned the smith make a star and they pinned that to the ugliest, meanest man who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone. He locked up folks just for whistling at too high a pitch.

They called him Sheriff.

Then farmers started catching sick and a guy pretty good with a horse was put in charge of all hoarse throats. They wouldn’t be named such if they weren’t connected. They started calling him Doc and people thought he must be or they wouldn’t call him that. He did alright, as well as anyone should’ve expected, but eventually he got old and an apprentice replaced him who could actually read and the population boomed.

And with the farmers multiplying, there were a lot of children running around unable to read and that was no good because a church was coming next. So they set up the St. Thomas Aquinas church for the old pastor that seemed like he’d come as naturally as the town. He was ancient, as all pious folks were, and his long, gaunt fingers traced the words as he read them. His voice shivered and quake and he promised these wet years would continue so long as they kept up the intensive farmer.

“Rain follows the plow,” were his words and the words of old wisdom.

And 60 years later, 60 years after Oskaloosa was the official name for their little collective turned town, the curse came collecting.

It was, as many things are, the curse of ignorance.

Stolen land.

Poor farming.

The death of natural diversity.

All for a quick buck.

And little in Oskaloosa was set up in antagonism toward ignorance.

That little was Ms. Catherine Tully’s schoolhouse who passed 60 years later, a day short of 100, an age no one would question her fate, and soon a terrible dust storm five miles high would smite the folks for their ignorance.

~

Chapter 2

The day had been pretty clear.

The coolness of March was giving way to April and little dust wafted through the air without a breeze so everyone could go about their business with their bandannas around their neck or perhaps stuffed in their pockets. Some of the ruder men used them in place of a handkerchief, but when the inevitable storm came, you knew they didn’t change them before putting them on.

But all in all, today it was easy to forget about their troubles: the drought, the economy, all the goodbyes to folk chasing a better life in California. Those faded into the background like a cricket’s song and however briefly, the idyllic days had returned.

Then Willy came running into the diner.

“You forget your hat, Willy?” Margaret asked.

“You gotta come look!”

A Cadillac on an old country road in the days after a dust storm announces itself like a war.

The curious from the diner joined the curious already in the town square and soon a little crowd formed almost higher than Willy could count without pulling off his socks, all to peer down main street at the cloud forming the horizon.

It approached until the haze faded and the red dot at the center grew larger until you saw there was green trim and it was in fact a car growling down the road and not some Otherworldly beast that had its sights set on Oskaloosa. The folks there always were worrying about that.

“That’s a bootlegger’s car.”

“Think it’s the boy from Appleseed?”

“He drives a truck,” Margaret said. Then added, “Don’t he?”

Willy gulped. “What do they want with us?”

Sheff was the last to join the crowd, if you didn’t count Sarah who only peeked up from her book and out from her shed at the conversation around the vehicle.

But when the crowd moved to the parking spots the Cadillac occupied in front of the general store, Sarah stayed on the bench in her shed and closed the door.

“Howdy, sir,” the sheriff said as a man in black stepped out of the car.

This stranger was not aged, perhaps in his early 30s, but there was something old about the twinkle in his eyes. The way he took in the rapidly expanded landscape, building a mental map of the town, comparing it with one already in his mind, erasing the most modern buildings, and looking, scanning, searching for some landmark to orient himself. Even in this town with low-lying buildings and their wide yards, the skyline hindered his view.

Not once did his gaze dip to the man addressing him, nor the crowd surrounding him. He was unconcerned with these folks. But they were concerned with him.

His clothes were as nice as his car. Black with crimson and green trim, and trim those clothes were on his slender body. His head stuck out above the crowd and if any folks ran up at this moment, they’d know exactly who everyone was gawking at and why. While his tight buttoned collar did a good job of hiding, it didn’t do a perfect job and just below, there were deep scars.

When his eyes eventually did condescend to meet the crowd, he regarded them wordlessly. The sort of wisdom of a man that knew to think before he spoke, the sort of wisdom of a man to who you listened when he spoke, and if he didn’t speak and instead started doing something, it must be important. So when his eyes settled on the sheriff’s badge and suddenly he stooped to reach back inside for the passenger seat, the town collectively held their breath and the sheriff readied his anger in place of his revolver, but the stranger was just grabbing his wide brimmed hat.

The crowd breathed once more.

Finally, he said, “Which one of you local yokels want to show me to the schoolhouse?”

There was disdain in his voice.

“Yokels?”

“Calling us ignorant.”

“Ignorant?”

“Uneducated, Willy. Illiterate. Idiots. Bumpkins. Fools. Stupid, stupid!”

Two murmurs at opposite ends ran through the crowd.

“The new teacher?”

“In that car? No… What do they pay teachers elsewhere?”

“City fools think reading people superior to feeding people!”

Both conversations found their way to either ear of the sheriff.

“Pardon, friend, but might I ask your name and business? I seen this sort of transportation and I know what company it follows. And what company it attracts. This here is a Christian society and we don’t mind keeping the schoolhouse closed.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied slowly. “But the board of education does. And I can already see I have a lot of work to do here. And a lot to undo. Don’t worry. The car won’t bite. If you’re understandably green, I’ll take you for a spin sometime, Sheriff.”

The sheriff didn’t much care for the accusations in that answer. “Your name, boy.”

“Call me Ishmael.”

Margaret could see the rising tension as red filled up the sheriff’s face. “That’s certainly a unique name, sir. You’ve had a long trip, I imagine. Perhaps someone could show you to the schoolhouse to get you acquainted.”

“I’d be touched if you did.”

She raised her hands to say not her, just now realizing she still held a pen and notepad with someone’s order half-written. “I’ve got my diner to tend to. But—SARAH!” she yelled suddenly.

Her eyes trained over his shoulder and it made him turn his head to see a tall, lean, slapped together, wooden shed with a pitched roof and occupancy for one. The door stayed shut a minute. As if the occupant, this Sarah, was finishing up her business. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of putting such infrastructure in the center of the town square.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My daughter is not otherwise occupied and she’ll be one of your students, one of the best and brightest you’ll ever see.”

He doubted that but did not say. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make introductions and y’all can return to your little lives.”

“Little lives?” someone muttered.

He marched across the brown grass to meet his star pupil. She had a book in hand. The Secret of the Old Clock Tower.

“I respect you rising above your environment and learning to read, but I cannot ignore the locale. A latrine?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped in confusion. Her eyes found the crowd still watching, though her mother had gone back inside. Perhaps if the windows had been cleaned, she’d see Mama watching through the window as well. But when she searched for answers over her shoulder, she realized. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is a reading shed. One of the farm boys put it up. There’s a door so it keeps the dust out and when the wind comes, it don’t turn the page on me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I assure you it does!” she said, wondering how this newcomer could argue with her. Men in this town always thought they knew everything and apparently men in other towns thought the same.

“It looks like an outhouse.”

“No, it don’t!”

“Doesn’t.”

“Glad you see reason.”

“Your grammar. If you’re the exemplary student, I worry about the rest of the crop. How’d your poor, previous teacher survive so long?”

“Don’t speak ill of my gran.”

The stranger caught his tongue. And softened it.

“Your gran was the previous teacher? Ms. Tully? Making you Sarah Tully?”

“First true thing you said. And maybe I didn’t take to every lesson but she taught me just fine to not let myself be bullied by some--”

“By some fool from out of town. Let me start over. I apologize for my initial tone. My prejudice of country folk maybe extended unfairly onto you. I’m sorry, Sarah Tully.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been insulted by an adult or by a boy or even by a man belittling her on purpose or because of how he was raised, but it might’ve been the first time she remembered one correcting himself.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

She let out a laugh. “Ha! That for true? Or did your folks just fancy Moby Dick?”

“You’ve read it?”

“Gran made me.”

“My wife’s favorite book, even before it found its place in the canon.”

“Your wife don’t—doesn’t name you.”

“Maybe that’s why she liked me, though.”

“A flimsy foundation for a marriage.”

“Maybe that’s why she isn’t here.”

It was Sarah’s to soften her tone. “Sorry, sir, for whatever happened to her. My daddy’s gone, too. Sir… Ishmael, Mr. Ishmael? What did my mother send you to me for?”

He gathered himself with a big breath. “I want to see the schoolhouse and perhaps meet your classmates to arrange the start of classes once more. I’ll take you in my Cadillac.”

They returned to the crowd. It had dispersed enough to perhaps be called a company instead, but the sheriff watched with a suspicious eye. He could love and accept all, as the Good Book told him, but he didn’t have to trust them.

When the new teacher pulled out of the parking spaces, before he put the car in drive, he had to ask his burning question.

“So your mother owns the diner?”

She nodded.

He had to be sure.

“And her name’s Tully, too.”

“’Course.”

“Margaret Tully?”

“You got a good memory, sir.”

“I do now. I do.”

He drove off down the street, following her guidance. Sarah assumed he wasn’t used to the dust yet, heck even she wasn’t, because as a smile crept over his face, a tear formed in his eye.

~

In 1967, our nation closed its last one-room schoolhouse, but in 1930s rural America, they ruled America. The Church of St. Thomas Aquinas set up Oskaloosa’s to give children and adults the opportunity of reading the Good Book themselves. Did that violate a separation of church and state? No, because in those early barbaric days, the state had no involvement in the schools and it wasn’t until 1909 that Boards of Education were nationally instituted.

By then, Ms. Tully Sr. had already separated church and school.

~

Sarah was meant to be directing her new teacher to the schoolhouse, but she got lost in the leather seats and knobs. Instinct told her to play with them all and he didn’t say nothing when she did. He kind of watched. Not supervised. Not cautioning. Observed. That sort of look like at Christmas time when you’re trying to memorize the look on Mama’s face as she opens your gift.

Sarah stopped playing. But didn’t stop thinking about playing. She had never been in a car like this before. A few pick-up trucks and farm equipment, of course, but nothing that reeked of luxury. She didn’t like it.

But when they arrived at the schoolhouse, she hesitated to step out.

Maybe she liked that it was different.

“How did you know where—?”

He cut her off. “It has a recognizable shape. Clearly not a house or business. Clearly not the church. I got lucky.”

“Unlucky if you wound up in Oskaloosa.”

The teacher went to inspect his workplace. He’d be spending a lot of time in here, except in summers, of course, and it was almost summer. An odd time for the Board to send a new teacher, if you asked her, but adults rarely did. Regulations are regulations, however nonsense.

The walls were painted white last summer. Sarah had helped. Gran had supervised. Some desks dated back to before she was born, but whenever one broke, it got replaced, and since they didn’t all break on the same day, an array of history was on display. Various names carved into the desks, some with hearts round them. Rude words. Crude pictures. The roof was all new as a tornado came by and ripped it off three years back—a scary time in Oskaloosa but now, the folks might welcome a tornado if it took all the dust with it and dumped it on Appleseed.

When Sarah chased him in, she heard escape from his lips, “It’s not the same.”

“Same? Same as what?”

“Not as I expected.”

“Reading too much Little House on the Prairie?” Sarah had a gnawing suspicion inside her.

The newcomer rifled through the desk drawers, but though he found names, notes, and even drafts of letters for parents that got a second, gentler attempt, nothing seemed to satisfy his curious itch. “There must be something,” he muttered.

“What’s it you’re searching for?”

He ignored her because one drawer was locked.

It did not open with a jiggle and he went once more through the drawers looking for its key.

She would not help him until he proved himself. “Say, Mister, where are you from?”

He moved onto the library, a single bookcase in the corner with texts on all manner of subjects: math, grammar, history, geography, a dictionary, and the rest novels of varying quality.

“Paris.”

“France? You don’t got no accent like them.”

“Illinois.”

Paris at that time would’ve been close to 10,000 folks. 10,000 folks don’t get you taught in Geography class.

Sarah grabbed her grandmother’s—well, his pointing stick and slapped the map. “Point to it on the map, Ishmael.” Then she dropped her impression and added, “Sir.”

Without so much as looking up, he jabbed empty green land. Without a label and without knowing better, Sarah doubted he’d be anywhere in the right vicinity of Paris, Illinois, but with a bit more insight, her jaw would’ve dropped.

Instead she shrugged.

His investigation turned up nothing, but frustration.

“Tell me about your gran.”

~

The pastor arrived in time to see the schoolhouse be assembled.

“You gathered some fine workers, Father,” Ms. Catherine said.

She’d seen him creep toward them since the roof started being patched and it took his ancient legs a long while to carry him. He might’ve once been a tall man, but he had since curled over with age and his features existed behind a thick white beard and even thicker eyebrows. What was lost on his head seemed glued to his face.

“They’re proud folks, but they know to submit.”

“Soon they’ll be reading all the verses on their own,” she said.

It wasn’t long before the children had their letters memorized and some of the youngest picked up words quickest and helped their elder kin to sound out each word and after no more than six months, every child had a book in hand and affection in heart.

The men, on the other hand, arrived before dusk and left before dark and six months in, they had affection in their heart but Trent Walker led the way on pride in stupidity.

Ms. Catherine asked him to come to the board and spell his name.

“X,” he scrawled in chalk.

He turned to the class. “It’s good enough for any contract!”

The class knew his daddy was the sheriff.

The class knew to laugh.

Ms. Catherine knew, too, but didn’t. “I don’t mind a learner needing extra time, but I do mind folks who squander my time. What are you here for if not to learn?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Catherine, I am. I’m here to learn.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Cross my heart.”

“Then I’m sorry for doubting—”

“Here to learn about you!” He clapped and had a good guffaw that the class knew to join in.

After class, Trent tried to apologize without an audience. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll show you I can be an ass, but that deep down I am trying, and maybe you’ll see something special in me too, like I see in you.”

“I have no romantic interests, Trent. Please ask your son for help on those ABCs.”

There was one man, Herman Bartleby, that did not attend classes, but he was in the church after service running his finger over words, repeating what the pastor had said. The words the pastor had said and the words Herman touched were not the same words but an illiterate man had no concept of that.

“Herman, my roof is leaking something awful since the last storm. Could you—?”

“Of course, Ms. Catherine. Today?”

“It’s a day of rest,” she said.

“But tomorrow the children will be in. And there’s rain a-coming.”

“You raise a good point. Shall we head there together?”

And as he fixed the roof, she’d read for him stories. He liked stories. Who doesn’t like stories? Even Trent liked stories, so long as they were his or he could see himself as the hero in them.

But as she read, as she often had to, she stopped to cough. Herman hopped off the roof without even using the ladder and ran inside to catch her as she collapsed to her knees, trying to extricate the phlegm with only her lungs. He patted her back, a little roughly, to help and eventually she recovered but the reading finished for the day.

Soon the roof was fixed, but she’d enjoyed his company so she asked for help with the windows. They didn’t open. He’d work during morning classes and listen in. The man was simple and unassuming and he took to learning the stories quickly as many do when given opportunity and patience.

“The Bible is a bit unfriendly to beginners. Heck, it’s unfriendly for even me. This one is a bit better,” she said after class.

And with what he picked up both listening and watching, he read better than Trent within a week. But within a week, the windows all opened to let in a breeze for summer and he’d finished another book, twice actually to really understand it.

“Herman, you tricked me!” she declared.

“I haven’t! See?” He demonstrated how easy it was to open each window.

“You’ve been here spending time with me pretending you can’t read just so I’ll read them to you. That’s your dirty trick.”

“No, no, I just know the sounds you taught me, and I don’t have much else to do when sleep won’t come so I just light a candle and practice.”

Then the door didn’t hang even. So he took to that, but he was too good with his hands and that took only a day to look at it and a day to get proper parts made. And in that time he finished another book.

“You’re always welcome at classes, Herman.”

“You’d welcome a wolf, but Trent wouldn’t welcome a sheep unless he planned on eating it.”

It didn’t matter how she persisted, what she promised, even kicking Trent out, an empty threat since Sheriff Walker would not accept that—Herman wouldn’t attend.

But she had nothing else for him.

Four weeks of tasks and he’d done such a good job that nothing new needed fixing. Sure, she’d see him around and maybe in church, but it wasn’t the same as everyday and in the privacy before students arrived or after they left. It wasn’t the quiet moments when it was just them.

“I could teach you!” she said. “You helped me so much.”

“But Ms. Catherine, you have classes in the morning till afternoon and then the grown-ups come after supper. When would you fit me in?”

“Come by place at night, Herman. I’ll fit you in.”

Friday night, Herman arrived at the Tully house in his Sunday best with a book she loaned him from the library. Ms. Catherine’s plan was that they’d head out to church in his Sunday best, slightly wrinkled.

However, she had to turn him away. “I’m sorry, Herman. I promise next time.”

From the porch, he saw the pastor seated in her parlor before she closed the curtains with a somber expression.

~

The sudden request caught her off guard. But Sarah prided herself on being quick on her feet. “I don’t what you want to know but everyone liked her. Sometime around January, a boy was giving her lip because he didn’t want to chop wood but it was his turn! I did it just the day before. Gran did it on the weekend! But you know how boys are, thinking they’re already grown, and so he shoots up cussing out of his chair and grabs the ax and says, ‘You wanna see how good I am at chopping?’ It all happened so fast all we could do was stare. We all knew he wasn’t talking about wood at that point. Gran asked, ‘What do you want to happen next?’ and he took a second to think before settling down and going to chop wood.” Sarah took a second to settle herself. “I think if you locked a lion in with her, she’d come out queen of the jungle.”

“Tigers live in the jungle. Lions are the savanna.”

She doubted very much Georgia had an lions but sometimes it was best not to argue with a teacher.

“Chopping wood at her age? No one ever thought to let the old gal retire?”

“They don’t exactly ask my opinions on such things.”

“Tell them anyway.”

“Gran said the same…”

He’d spent that whole story searching with no fruits. Nothing on the door frame. Nothing under the Gran’s desk or the students’. When he opened the sash window, he frowned deeper than elsewhere, testing its smooth track and finding trouble in its fresh coat of paint.

His goal was clear when he returned to the desk.

He gave it so violent a tug the whole thing moved and white scratched appeared near the feet.

Gone or not, his or not, this was her Gran’s desk that he abused. “Sir, please just the littlest of respect for her property.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I need in that drawer. Where’s the ax?”

Her eyes went wide and she held her breath with an internal struggle, before she stepped outside to the chopping stump. The ax was locked away in a shed. But she reached under the stump and came back in with a handful of dirt that held a dull, golden prize: the key.

It fit perfectly in the locked drawer.

With trepidation, Sarah watched him pull it open, not sure why, not sure what inside her gave her these shivers, but certain she could trust them.

Inside was a Bible.

“That’s it?” he said.

“No…” Sarah couldn’t put her astonishment into words. Parents often came by asking why their child didn’t have more verses memorized and Gran would tell them they were at the wrong place. Whatever the old ways were, Gran had shirked them. She didn’t attend church. She didn’t keep a Bible. She said she feared but did not love.

“Gran was not a pious woman. She kept us out of church each Sunday.”

“As she should. The best defense against sin is education. Immorality and ignorance go hand-in-hand.”

Sarah bit her lip. Was that a common saying? How else could he quote Gran?

~

Chapter 3

The teacher drove at speeds faster than any of the Gods’ creations past the farmland in a man-made machine, but began to coast with his eyes in the sky as he saw a bird dropping dust upon the crops. A loud, noisy bird. It had an unsettling rhythm. The chop of air. The buzz of wings. Like a bug too big.

His fascination almost laid his goals to rest then and there till Sarah screamed and he jerked the car before finding the ditch.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s been a long day’s drive. Perhaps this should be our last stop.”

Sarah’s curious itch kept getting the better of her. The teacher had stuffed Gran’s Bible into his Gladstone bag. She tried to peer inside. That bag might be her biggest clue to who this newcomer was and how he seemed aware of things he should not be aware of. But when he set it in the back with her, when his eyes weren’t on her, she found the bag locked with no means of opening. The combination could’ve been hundreds of possibilities, she reckoned, and there was no point raising his suspicion of her at this point.

They ventured out to the Bertrand farm. A rarity in the town because the 160 acres had not been parceled off. The Bertrands, dating back to 1880, had been good upstanding folk coming from a farm in Iowa to farm in Oklahoma. It was like they spoke to the land. And the land spoke back.

Just a decade prior to the Dust Bowl, other farmers scented their town like bread and popcorn as they burnt surplus hoping to drive up the prices, but the country had too much in store to care. At least they were warm without needing expensive coal. There was even talk of joining the Farm Strike until the National Guard began rounding up mob leaders who threatened the judges evicting farmers and the dairy trucks trying to deliver farm products.

Meanwhile, Bertrand Sr. did his part to support this town’s finances and bellies.

So Sarah directed the teacher there. “Several classmates work the farms with their parents. A good place to spread the word.”

Now that they approached, she added a caveat. “Remember, these folks value respect. They know they’ve earned theirs, but they don’t know if you’ve earned yours.”

“How do I know they’ve earned theirs?” he asked.

They arrived without an answer.

The workers played poker on their breaks. This wasn’t the high stakes game at the diner where a week’s wages might be on the table. This was a game of pennies and you knew someone meant business if a nickel got thrown in. Just something to pass the quiet time while eating a sandwich.

As the Cadillac pulled up, they regarded it as they might any other car then returned to their game. Once the teacher stepped out, alone, suddenly break time was over and it was back to work.

“What’s on the agenda for today, folks?”

The five here had not more than a quality shared among them: Young, old, black, white, male, female. Two exceptions: place of employ and disinterest in strangers.

“How old might you two be?” he asked the youngest.

“Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying so skedaddle before you look a fool,” said an older woman named Adelaide while another grabbed a wooden maul.

“I do not fear looking a fool, I do not fear not fitting in, I do not fear the violence of the ignorant. I only fear that such a cycle will repeat itself once more,” the teacher said. “School starts once more tomorrow.”

“Violence?” That got them all in good spirits at his expense. “A maul ain’t made for violence, friend. It’s made for service. And we got fence posts to replace. Come back tomorrow and maybe they’ll be free.”

“Hand it over.”

He waited for the maul.

“I’ll assist so no one’s too tired for reading tomorrow. Everyone’s welcome but it’s mandatory for minors.”

“Only farmers here.”

This crew saw little in the teacher to respect but if he was offering his services, maybe they’d find a place for him. After all, he wouldn’t be teaching much without any students so it was good to have a fall back.

Adelaide spat. “You can hold the posts.”

Sarah watched from the car, deafened by the distance and the windows, as to exactly what was transpiring but her new teacher lugging a cart full of fence posts while marching beside a boy and an armed woman did not sit right with her.

Still, were he to survive in this county, he needed to prove himself to its people.

And to Sarah.

~

Tall though he was, to steady it in place he needed to hug the post as a worker swung the maul near his head to drive it in. The older workers offered up Junior, the boy, about Sarah’s age, perhaps younger or perhaps just a bit thinner, to stand on the cart full of posts and swing with the brunt of his power but when he hesitated, that Adelaide took over to show him how it was done. She swung and if the teacher got hit, he shouldn’t have been there. But he did not get hit, though it came near, and he did not flinch.

Instead, he spoke up after the second post. “Perhaps work would go quicker if we switched spots.”

“I been doing this half my years, and you think you can do better than me?”

“No disrespect intended, but I’ve seen how you can do it. You haven’t seen how I can.”

She burned her gaze into his eyes but if the threat of a crushed skull couldn’t do it, why did she think a stare would faze him? Begrudgingly, she handed off the maul.

With a deep breath, the teacher watched the crop duster from before as it landed down the way on a dirt strip. The plane seemed to be the first thing to unsettle him today. But who wasn’t afraid of flying just a little?

He draped his coat over the side of the cart. Then without the button on his sleeve, he rolled them up fine. And lastly, his undone collar revealed pinched, glossy skin running down his collarbone and deeper into his shirt. Where the scars stopped was impossible to say.

Crack

The worker’s eyes went big as she pulled further away. Just an extra inch to save her.

The teacher’s arc had violence within it but following the first swing came an identical second. A third. A fourth. Power surged from his astride position up through the hips into the shoulder and at the crest, his hand slid down the shaft.

Crack!

For the next post, the trajectory did not change but the speed did. He’d found his rhythm. Nothing would stop him but completion. His eyes trained on that post as if he was not seeing a wood as his target but some vendetta.

CRACK!

Deeper the fence post sank into the dirt.

“HEY!” Adelaide’s anger rolled over itself in her voice.

The teacher stopped his swing.

“You did that on purpose!”

“I did.”

The admission flabbergasted her. In all her days, never did she expect someone to admit it!

“You’re an insightful one. I hit that fence post on purpose.”

“You know what a caved skull does to a smart mouth?”

“You there, boy,” he called to the thin lad from before. He’d been watching as wide-eyed as her. “Was that last swing any different?”

Junior started to stammer before coming to grips. “No, sir. I mean, I didn’t notice anything off about it.”

“You weren’t worried until someone shouted?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it me shouting when that hammer came near my ear?”

“No, sir…” Guilt seeped into his voice and he averted his eye from her.

If her death stare didn’t work on the teacher, it’d work on the boy whether he looked or not. She scrambled up the cart to snatch that maul from the man. Her huffing and puffing and the wild look in her eyes—he knew what the thought bouncing around that head of hers.

“Consider your first strike because retaliation requires no hesitation.”

Before this came to a head, an older man hobbled toward them from the barn. The cane he used for support was enough but just the same, the boy went running.

“Dad! We saw you up there.” There was an uncanny likeness. Needing a few more inches and a few more pounds, surely, but the strong nose was the same. “One day, you’ll show me a roll, won’t you?”

“At dinner, sure. We get a new hand?”

“A teacher,” Adelaide scoffed.

“And why’s there derision in your voice?” Bertrand Sr. was a stout man, even being over six-foot. The wiry graying hair in his beard held all manner of dust but it didn’t bother him.

“Is this green bean what we want the next generation turning into?”

“Separating our farmers from our scholars got us into this drought. We need farmers teaching and we need learners plowing.”

“The babes can’t plow if they’re locked in school.”

“Yes, I understand, this farm certainly can’t survive without babes, can it, Adelaide?” He regarded her with a cold tone. Then he turned his attention to the teacher finally. “Sir, the name’s Russel Bertrand Sr. And this here’s Junior or Russ if you take to him. He’s got 15 years in him and he knows his reading fine, but his arithmetic could use work. Do you know much about the agricultural sciences?”

The teacher began buttoning up his collar and sleeves once more, but left the coat folded over his arm. It was too warm for such dressings after exertion.

“I’ll help him.”

“And what should he call you?”

“Ishmael will do. ‘Sir’ if it’s too odd.”

“Ishmael will do. A name should command the full usage of the tongue if it’s to be worthy of respect.”

~

About this time, Sarah had some business to attend to.

She crept out of the car, keeping a watchful eye on the folks arguing. The maul seemed no longer a concern with Mr. Bertrand in control. But she required the smallest amount of discretion here and when no one was looking, she went around the barn.

There was a sweaty farmhand on the other side. Certainly it was getting warm, yes, he hammered away at the new strip of siding with nails in his mouth, but the sweat pouring from him seemed in excess to her.

Whatever his particular ailment was, it was none of her business. She was only thankful that she could slink by with heavy footfalls without drawing his attention but when he stopped pounding, she stopped walking.

He muttered something to himself as he took a new nail.

Sarah’s eyebrow cocked.

Family, that wasn’t English. Nor Spanish. Nor any other language she’d heard here or there. But the world was large and she tried not to think it strange enough to stop her mission.

It’d been a long day and how much longer was untold. She knew the Bertrand farm. She knew Russ. She knew where the outhouse was, though she much preferred to go in-house.

And as she exited, she heard a scream unlike any she thought possible by a human.

The agony seemed to ferment in his belly before erupting out in boiling, gaseous pleas for Grace but those prayers fell on deafened ears and Sarah was the first on the scene.

She did not see what happened first to split his leg in uneven twain but the man already had the jean scrunched up revealing a foot hanging on by one flap of ankle skin. At first, she looked away, repulsed as any might by the bone and the gore and things only doctor’s should know exist, but it was her duty to help this man how she might.

She began screaming to as she raced to him.

Then stopped racing but kept screaming.

The teacher was the next on the scene, his pace quickened further by Sarah’s distress. He brandished the maul and did not drop it.

“Snakes!” she repeated from the ground.

His eyes scanned for any near but he saw none.

Another farmhand took over handling the injured, but Junior left his father’s side to take to Sarah with more care than the teacher. “What do you mean, Sarah Tully? Did you get bit by a snake? You didn’t hear a rattler, did you?” He yanked at her shoe to see her leg.

“No! Snakes!” and she hissed the final letter like one herself.

“You got bit by multiple?” When he revealed her leg, not a mark was found.

“Not me!”

The boy looked perplexed at the scene, at the blood, at the man in the distance that had little hope for his life, let alone for his leg. “I don’t think a snake bite or even many could do that.”

Mr. Bertrand, however, pieced together an account of the events. “That fool Harry probably stepped into a nest and when he felt one climb up pant-leg, he took to striking his own foot. Junior, how do we protect our legs?”

“Pants in boots,” the boy said, checking his own.

“No, that…” Sarah started to stammer. She stood of her own accord, shaking off her friend. That was nonsense. Illogical. It wasn’t what she saw. It was wrong!

“Y’all should head out,” Mr. Bertrand said. “Take the boy with you. Work is done for the day while we tend to the injured. I’ll tell the other workers to send their kids tomorrow.”

“That’s not what—!” Sarah yelled but her teacher cut her off.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of them.”

She kept fighting to say her piece as the teacher ushered her away. Mr. Bertrand had no interest in changing his mind and Russ thought she’d caught madness from the situation, giving her little mind but much sympathy.

She did not quiet until the teacher looked her in the eye and said, “I believe you.”

They marched to the car and in the backseat, she felt her own legs. She had never seen inside a leg before, but she had legs. There were no vacant pockets in her flesh. The fool Harry, as Mr. Bertrand had put it, hadn’t stepped in a nest of snakes. The nest of snakes had been inside him.

She tucked her pants into her boots.

“Russ, how bad is it to get bit?” she whispered.

“Not too bad if it’s not a rattler. You hardly feel the bite until later, but the bite ain’t the problem. The infection is.”

She pulled her sleeve down. She’d had a fever before. No problem.

“They say if you get bit, always keep the snake.”

We put our dogs down for the same offense, but you keep the snake? she thought. Too late anyway.

~

Chapter 4

On occasion, the teacher glanced in his rear-view mirror to catch the girl’s eyes but her thoughts were out the window miles away. She had more to say, certainly, but she wasn’t saying it.

Junior, on the other hand, wouldn’t quit yammering. “I ain’t never seen an accident like that.”

“And I hope we never have to again,” Sarah muttered.

“Even when my pa got his leg crushed by a horse, it certainly didn’t cleave off like that. You ever see the insides of a person, Sarah Tully?”

“I have now!” The teacher’s eyes darted to the mirror as her voice rose a little.

“What was it like?”

“Junior, I don’t particular like the memory nor dwelling in it.”

He grabbed at his leg, flexing his foot to see how the muscles moved and digging his fingers in deep to get a sense how big the bone was within his calf. “I can certainly feel there’s meat inside and surely we’re not so different from beasts, but—”

The car skidded to a stop so suddenly there was impact against the seat behind the teacher. He whipped around with impatient fury in his eyes. “Boy! Do you not hear what’s she saying? She’s asking you ever so politely, ‘Enough!’”

Sarah rubbed her head. “Sir, what in tarnation was that? Do you want to send me home bruised? Gran tolerated no whooping and neither will Mama.”

The air was thick and uncomfortable and it wasn’t just the dust. He searched for an apology but then his eyes locked on where Divine chance had set to place this disagreement.

Just down the way was the largest building in town. A few modern businesses had been constructed of brick, but wood houses ruled this land. Brick? Wood? This was made of neither for this was no house. This was no modern business. This here with the two spires was the Church of St. Thomas Aquinas.

Each spire was like some terrible and ancient creature had hammered a spike from under the crust, then liked it so much they did again. Folks here saw the stain glass with its 12 symmetrical circles and reckoned it a clock though there were no hands and no numbers. The actual clocks on all four sides were wrong. Wrong in different ways, mind you. One read 6:10, the next 3:11, the next 1:15, and finally 10:14. None moved. The clock never once corrected itself or stubbornly continued on its path. They simply sat as a reminder. Something to set your eyes upon and forever keep in your heart.

To an outsider, it must’ve been odd having a Gothic cathedral in town large enough to hide the population during a storm, but for those raised here, it was no different than being born with webbed fingers. If it didn’t cause problems, it was just how it always was and an assault on it was as an assault on the town.

After enough silence, Junior found his words again. “I just pray Mr. Styles will make it.”

“Enough!”

“Don’t yell at him.”

Junior’s eyes fell to the floor. Just rolled into town and already dusty. But what stuck out as odd to him was the Gladstone. The bag certainly wasn’t big enough to fit all his belongings unless very little belonged to him. Junior thought about stuffing his entire life into this and maybe, if he only needed a single spare set of clothes and the Bible, then maybe it’d all fit. But when he found the bag locked, and with the teacher already angered, he set it down.

“Say, Mr. Ishmael, what might you want us for today? I understand Sarah was showing you around, but surely I’m—”

The car roared to life, cutting the boy short, only to slow as they approached the church’s lot.

There was a girl holding a ball.

“Who is she?” the teacher asked Sarah.

“Never seen her to my knowledge.”

Her penetrating eyes met the teacher’s and soon the two were locked on one another.

Junior spoke up. “Maybe if you attended church every so often. That’s the vicar’s daughter.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty, Russ.”

“Tell me about the vicar.”

“A rough fellow, but the path to salvation is a windy one, they say, so I know it’s not my place to judge. He blew into town just this year with just a bindle and his daughter, but the pastor welcomed him in to his legion.”

“Then why don’t she come to class?”

Junior shrugged suddenly out of answers. “Maybe the church is all she needs to be one of them acolytes like her daddy. He moved up the ranks so quick you’d think he’d been born in that church.”

“You’re right, Sarah. Why doesn’t she? Let’s offer our invitation.”

His words were hospitable enough, but his tone—she knew a lie when she heard it and as the car revved up once more with awesome power just to go several feet, she kept her eyes on the girl who had never once looked away. A steady gaze like that… What had she seen?

~

“Hello, girl. What’s your name?”

Junior hadn’t known that either.

And after some waiting, neither did the teacher.

Certainly she was younger than the others, perhaps 10 if his estimation was generous, and the sort of rail thin of a picky child with unaccommodating parents. Her hair cut was rough. Definitely her daddy’s doing. But the feature that would forever stick in the teacher’s minds was those eyes. Hypnotically wide, dark, and unblinking.

Sarah and Junior stepped out to try their hand. Every child knew the silence adults expected when they were near, so perhaps some words from an older sibling type might coax her into speaking.

“You can call me Sarah if you like. That’s a nice ball you got.”

Nothing.

“They call me Junior, but I hate it. Sins of the father, right? What should we call you, honeybunch?”

A stare.

The two companions turned toward one another but the teacher could not look away from this porcelain doll. No child should be in such clean clothes, not even at a church.

“Can I help you, neighbors?” a voice called from the door. The vicar wore a white dalmatic trimmed with gold that matched his tooth as he smiled. “Come here, Emily.”

Seeing the low, out-stretched hand, the girl trotted off to take her place beside him. There was an almost imperceptible quiver.

The teacher tore his focus from the girl. Then to Sarah’s surprise, his words were coated in honey. “Well hello! Don’t know if word reached you, but you got a new teacher in town. We’ll be opening up tomorrow. Emily your daughter? You can send her round 9:00 or earlier if you got other business.”

Was this his first time cracking a smile? Sarah did not like it.

“She’s learning her verses fine here, but it’s been a pleasure, sir.”

On either of them really.

“We’re happy to accommodate all subjects. Mr. Bertrand asked that his boy be taught the Earth sciences. We can certainly round that out with Heavenly scripture, too.”

“You think you’re more insightful than the Church?”

“I do.”

“Excuse you?”

While children scrapped with tooth and nail and all manner of tugging on hair, Junior had heard his parents argue enough in front of him to know these were fighting words. “Perhaps we should wait in the car, Sarah.”

“Perhaps you all should,” the vicar declared. “We’ll see you again sooner or later.”

Junior already had his hand on the door and Sarah was reaching for the teacher’s suspenders when an ancient voice bellowed from the back of the cathedral.

“Wait,” it croaked.

The vicar’s gold—toothed smile twitched as he steadied his breathing.

“Bring them to me.”

~

Baited breath bellowed from the ribbed vaulted ceilings as the party followed their chaperon past kaleidoscope stained glass windows. Wide though the structure was, it felt claustrophobic with tall candelabras dotted by the the pier-raised pointed arches, and the vicar caught Junior staring instead of watching where he wandered.

“I know the artwork’s morbidly fascinating, but be assured that they are cautionary tales of sin and little more.”

Certainly the windows were a sight, but no story jumped out of the broken rainbow in its glassy prison to catch the boy’s attention. He’d seen them before. He’d seen them just yesterday.

But what he hadn’t noticed was the sound.

Perhaps it was the organ music playing, the bustle of neighbors congregating with one purpose, the holy hum of hymns, or the pastor’s raspy sermons, but he had not heard this sound yesterday.

The buzzing.

The clerestory windows were large and clear and sunlight filtered through best it could.

However, the triforium windows were much smaller with tight artwork full of nooks for critters to build nests. But those nests didn’t appear without material. Wasps for example went skittering to the nearest tree, or wood, to chew up the wood and build a pulpy nest. Bees used wax made of oils from pollen. It might be noticed if wasps came chewing on the pews. And bees had no interest in dead, pale flowers that decorated the crimson carpet running the length of the aisle.

“Need help with the cleaning?” Junior yelled, digging a pinky in his ear.

The vicar whipped around at the implication. “I tend to it myself.”

As a holy man, his patience was short.

The 2nd floor walkway approached the windows enough that surely he would’ve seen any nests in there, so it must simply be the distance and the detail playing tricks on Junior. As a kid, he always dreamed of watching a sermon from there. And maybe continuing on to the spires on either side to ring the bell. But for not the first time, he failed to find the tucked away stairs.

He led them to the raised pulpit. Each Sunday, Junior and most of the town gathered in, finding seats with family and friends, murmuring polite talk about the weather and the week before silence snatched the crowd and everyone rose to watch the ancient pastor hobble up the steps. The youngest became antsy midway. Mothers mouthed to their babes, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” but they dared not speak it. Even the elderly, though not the same ancient, found their legs incapable of enduring the anticipation and they’d take the arm of someone near because at this moment, to sit was to sin. The vicar always offered an arm to the pastor but was always refused.

Today, it was empty.

The five of them.

Given the pastor’s top speed up the stairs, Junior tried to imagine where the leader called from so loudly.

Rather than lead them to the antechambers on either side, the vicar ascended the steps. Sarah, with her upbringing, saw nothing sacred in these steps, and Emily followed, but Junior hesitated.

There was a room behind the pulpit, but what lay beyond was shrouded in teenage mystery. There was no Earthly way of knowing without taking up the cloth.

“Come now, you two,” the vicar called.

Behind Junior, he now noticed, the teacher too hesitated, but his reverence was not toward the stairs.

Instead, the stranger stared at the shadows on the 2nd floor walkway.

Perhaps he, too, fancied ringing the bells, and a brief bit of imagination had Junior swinging from the rope of one and the teacher swinging from the other and outside, Sarah listening, and on all three faces were toothy smiles. And as he painted each smile in his mind, Sarah’s, then his own, he shuddered at the toothy maw that might appear if stranger’s somber expression broke.

The teacher ushered him up the stairs with blasphemous disregard.

What had he seen? Junior wondered.

~

The light of the windows did not reach the hunched pastor standing before a large wooden double doors. Oil lamps provided a dim view of the uneven walls. No decoration. No beauty. Just imperfect human craftsmanship for the House of Gods. Brazen youth fleet of foot might stumble on the floor. Though, that was not why Sarah walked slowly.

The others had lagged behind, leaving the girls alone before the pastor.

She’d rarely seen him.

Maybe a few times as a child when her father had insisted on attending, usually Christmas and Easter or when money was tight. Then again after Gran. Between those times was at least a decade.

At the start of someone’s life, 10 years is a lot. You start being able to do nothing but cry, learn to babble and crawl, walk and talk, lose all your teeth, grow them back.

And it seemed to Sarah that 10 years should always be a lot. 7 to 17 had changed her a lot. Surely Gran, too, though so gradually that without a photograph you wouldn’t realize. Aged, thin, the smoke of a smoldering fire. That was Gran day in and day out. She had crystallized in Sarah’s memory.

The pastor, though, had the disadvantage of years without notice.

Do people stop aging at a point?

And what was that point? Because Gran still aged up to nearly 100.

While Sarah was lost in thought, Emily had gently taken her hand, and her tremor only fed the discomfort.

“An unfamiliar face,” he groaned. “Girl, why have we not met before?”

The teacher fell in behind her. “Nice to see you, Pastor.”

See? Sarah thought. Not meet or make his acquaintance or—

“Your father?” the pastor asked and the absurdity caused a chuckle that raised to a laugh and she could not stop herself, cackling in hysteria between these two men.

“Sorry, your holiness, sir, my father long left this town. I’m Catherine Tully’s granddaughter.”

“Ahh, the Tullies. You do not attend at her guidance.”

“Well, ever since…” She trailed off. Of course he knew of her passing. “My mother’s been making an effort, but we sit in back.”

“Seems your mother is not all fool then.”

He left Sarah’s mouth a gape as though she’d been slapped.

“That leaves you, boy. What is your business here?”

Sarah listened keenly as well.

The teacher eyed the old man. His liturgical clothes were as pale as his skin. However many hairs he had as a lad, he now had equal number of wrinkles. His eyes were glass beads of cataract beneath sinking bald brows. The cloth hung on him like he had an older brother.

“Why did you call us here?” the teacher asked. His polite tone was back but it was cracking with this feverish energy tossing in its cage, eager to free itself to the chaos of the world.

The doors, the wooden double doors with studded with iron and a black band running horizontally, towered above even the teacher. The Cadillac could’ve fit through. And how many labored to carry these massive creations in here?

But the pastor reached back with a single hand and the door swung open, dragging along the stone.

Sarah took a breath.

Clear air.

Another. She could breathe!

No dust getting swept by the perfectly fit doors.

The tears in her eyes were not speckled with microscopic flecks.

What an awesome miracle, she thought.

“Join me for an early supper,” he told them as the air cleared of creaking, too.

“Russ,” the teacher said. “That bag you were playing with in the car? Fetch it for me. Now.”

Before the boy could jump at the chance to help, the pastor said, “It can wait.”

“Go on, Junior.” The teacher’s voice quivered.

“Emile, the doors.”

“Russel!”

And at the pastor’s command, the doors they’d unknowingly passed through to this chamber were sealed and with the gust of wind that followed, the torches went out, leaving the hall in darkness but for the dim candle light upon a table set for a feast. The sound of a key in a lock.

“I guess it can wait, sir. Is it some remedy you needed or…?”

The teacher, a fiery silhouette now, passed by the children into the dark room.

~

The smell caught Sarah.

Perhaps there was no dust in the air, but something had died in a corner.

Emily sat first, the other children on the opposite of her with cloches, pots, and candles between them, and the teacher at the foot of the table.

As he sat, he did something amiss, though. Each candle had burned near the end of its life. They were flat pucks of wax. He extinguished the tallest then drew it into his shirt. She did not peg him for a petty thief. An impatient, arrogant outsider but a thief, too? Gran must be rolling in her grave.

Junior also sniffed the air but he had no visceral reaction to the odor. Instead it inspired him to lean close to the table, eager to peek beneath the lid, but he caught himself as the pastor’s shoes shuffled along the stone.

“Smells great, sir. What are we having?” He slapped a pest unseen in the shadows.

Sarah did not think she was so picky as to wretch at what others considered a delight. Her eyes caught the teacher’s but he either did not notice her in the low, flickering candlelight or had too much cause to watch the pastor.

Chair legs scraped against the stone.

As the pastor drew it back, Sarah’s eyes adjusted enough to see a spiral stairwell down into darkness. Strange whispers emanated. A storm cellar, she told herself, but still the whispers. She listened.

Instead, she heard the pastor. “Sir, would you like to say grace before the meal?”

“No.”

“I can do it,” Junior said.

“A good sheep.”

“Oh Heavens above, hear your servant’s plea.

From the desire of self, Deliver these fools,

From the desire of esteem, Deliver these ingrates,

From the desire of belonging, Deliver these exiles,

From the desire of safety, Deliver these cowards,

From the desire of need, Deliver these mortals,

For within You, I shall welcome Death,

As Death welcomes me to You.”

This was not a prayer Sarah knew and her eyes searched the table for other reactions. The pastor’s chin lifted toward the heavens, an expression of divine bliss, while the teacher lowered his. The shadow on his face hid whether his eyes were closed or not. And without other dissenters, Sarah felt like a blasphemer for doubting the words and she scrambled for reasons. A strange translation from Latin. Context within the holy text. But all she came up with was ignorance on her part and her head bowed, too, in shame.

To end, beaming at his good memory, Junior said, “Amen.”

He raised his head to receive praise from the pastor, who offered a solitary nod, all the pastor needed to give to widen that boy’s smile more. Then Junior’s hands went for the knob on the bell-shaped dome nearest him, and after a second nod of approval, he lifted it up.

The smell that hit Sarah.

Whatever had died was not in the corner, but on the plate.

Shriveled, browned fruit slices on a plate with a rug of mold along the grapes.

“Pastor, I think…”

Junior popped a grape in his mouth with delight, then revealed more.

A congealed stew with colonies of dull blue bacteria.

Her eyes went frantically wide as Junior ladled a bowl, passed it to the pastor, then another to her, another to the teacher and finally his own. Hers had a roach in it.

He stopped. Good, his eyes adjusted. Soon he’ll grow sick at the thought of the rotten grape in his belly, but no, no, no, he stopped, but only to ask, “Is there a bread knife, sir?”

The teacher did not pass it down, but instead cut a piece for Junior, smothered with rancid butter.

“Mr. Ishmael, maybe you should…”

He gave her a soft smile and passed the bread down, but continued to grip the knife.

“Why is a non-believer in my inner sanctum?” the pastor asked suddenly amid Junior’s chomping.

A tense silence hung in the air.

Then with a lightness to his tone, like a joke, “I think he’s talking to you, Sarah.”

“I believe!” she said, but added in a whisper, “I think.”

“Me too,” Junior chimed in though he was not in question.

“Then we all agree,” the teacher said. “There is Something out there. The cosmos borne of nothing? No. Close your eyes and feel that eternity is assured. But not some old man in the clouds, Pastor, whatever your aspirations. Hooves that gleam like polished brass. Hybrids akin to creatures in the deepest depths covering hands and faces with a godly amount of wings. Now your flock are in darkness, as you have led them, but to see these venomous desert snakes will burn your eyes blind. Ignorance and insight are two sides of a coin and we must walk that thin edge between. What is out there is terrible, Something to be feared, and what they want from us is beyond mortal reckoning. So I believe, but I do not love.”

Junior, caught up in the teacher’s rising voice, shouted back, “Don’t you think that’s a bit rude, sir? I don’t mean to talk back but we were invited here and you say heretical things?”

“A pig squealing before the slaughter.”

Junior started speaking back, but Sarah interrupted. “Who are you?” she screamed. “How do you quote Gran? Were you her student? Did you know her? What are you doing here and why are you lying about replacing her?”

The teacher went quiet at the accusation.

“Replacing?” The pastor’s lips curled up. His teeth were either missing or dead turned a bluish color. And the glass cataract over his eye was like a full moon that glowed ominously in the dark. “Tell me, girl, did she retire?”

“Sir?”

“Your grandmother. Ms. Catherine Tully. Why does she need a replacement?”

“Well, yes, sort of.”

“Say it plainly!” he barked as his patience wore thin.

“She died.”

A maniacal cackle escaped his lips. From the depths of his dusty lungs, the laughter roiled, growing upon itself, each echo growing in volume rather than diminish, disturbing even Junior, until it seemed the voices of several heads, several people, several beasts, all mingled among one another to create madmen’s mirth.

Sarah’s quivering uncertainty only grew as the laughter faded into the dark stairwell behind him as one candle flame went out.

Then the teacher was out of his seat.

The medieval doors banged with the force of a bull.

Another candle winked out of existence.

His hand gripped the pastor by his holy collar.

The doors rattled on their weakening hinges.

Junior restrained the other arm, though, and the final flicker of light glinted off the serrated knife.

The vicar’s daughter sitting in silence.

“What do you think—”

A giant of a man kicked the doors flat. A tall, gaunt creature dragging a bag behind as it lumbered toward them. He? It. Draped in tattered cloth that revealed a chest full of markings, terrible deeds painted on gray skin. And the room was briefly bathed in darkness as the teacher spun round to knock the table over and with it, the final candle.

But that persistent little flame did not die. It found new fuel upon landing. The tablecloth went up. Then the table itself. Then the echoing laughter returned as the teacher dragged Sarah by the wrist into away from the door and the ever approaching Bag Man into the darkness of the stairwell.

~

Chapter 5

Round and round they went. Tiny, cramped steps under a dark ceiling so low the teacher hunched. The rope anchored to the wall guided him down, but Sarah was being yanked by supernatural caution and it’d be accurate to say she stumbled down five flights of stairs.

Though she’d done little more than tried to survive, her skin glistened with sweat despite the cold air. Her breath was vapor. But she could not see without a speck of light showing.

Still, she sensed the spiral stairs had opened to a large room.

The teacher’s heavy breath next to her turned to indiscriminate cursing. “You cack-crusted caitiff!” he screamed back up. Between panting, he said, “There was no time to grab her, too.”

The confession died in the dark.

In its place, the rush of footsteps, more careful yet less stable than his own. Sarah thought they’d rush off once more but where to in this darkness. The ability to navigate her house at midnight often resulted in banged shins or stubbed toes and that was with a mental map of the place. Here? Somewhere she never suspected existing? Whatever that thing busting down giant wooden doors was was less of a threat than dying lost down here.

The teacher must’ve known the same. He did not rush off. He did not even move. He called, “That you, Junior?”

“It’s me, sir!” His voice quavered.

“That’s a good lad. Come on down. Just you?”

“Yes, sir!” he reported, thinking it good news.

“Dammit!”

The footsteps stopped.

“Take your time.”

“’Take your time?’” Sarah repeated flabbergasted. “That thing will kill him. Don’t have to be faster than the bear, just faster your friends, huh? Is that it? Hurry, Russ!”

“That thing is Death, to be sure,” he said. “But Death is slow, patient, and relentless. There is no rush because eventually, it will come for us all. So careful with your steps, boy.”

She seethed. If Junior had time to be careful, they had time to hash this out. “Who are you?”

“I told you.”

“You lied!”

“Only its cousin: half-truths.” There was heavy breathing between them both. He softened his tone to say, “If we survive till morning, you may hear it all.”

Junior bumped into her as he descended. She caught herself on an odd wall. Tightly packed knobs with holes between and every so often something larger, rounded at parts with contours, two circular holes and a triangular divot.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“The ossuary.”

“The… what now?” Junior didn’t read much.

Sarah took her hand from the wall. “It’s better if you don’t know yet.”

“The catacombs where bones are kept. We need to move.”

Junior froze in place and Sarah knew ignorance in this case had been the better option.

“If you don’t want yours counted among them, keep your left hand on the wall.” The teacher began assaulting both in the dark, knowing each only by their structure and clothes, searching for their limbs. He placed Junior’s hand on a bone.

The farm boy wasn’t a fool.

“Whatever happens, keep your hand on the wall and follow my voice.”

“Russ,” Sarah said gently. “Here.” She took his trembling hand in her own. She could feel the dead walls for him. Together, the friends steadied one another. Her fear?

The whispers that emanated from these depths.

She heard them as everyone caught their breath.

They fell into the background as the huff and wheezing of a slumbering beast.

~

“Still there?” Junior called.

“Yes.”

Initial progress was slow. When he said, “Follow my voice,” they assumed that’d be a regular breadcrumb but the birds had picked it clean. More often they bumped into him at a turn.

They wandered the labyrinth in an agony of despair. Steps instead of light gave them some indicator of time passing, but even then, in the silence, thoughts crept up on them. Was that Junior’s breath behind her? The teacher’s steps ahead? Were they headed up or down? Was there even an end? Another exit? Was all this wandering just to loop back around while the Bag Man lost itself within the maze? What was going on at the Church?

Sarah found her fingers in a nose triangle, but she was getting used to touching death. “Teacher, what was with the food?”

Russ answered instead. “He wanted to lull us into a false sense of security. But what feud do you have with the pastor? If it weren’t for that giant, I’d’ve stayed up there and called the sheff.”

“Traps are best broken by the ruse of folly. To approach the trapper, you must approach the trap. Same is true of the bugs, the window, the girl.”

“Bugs?” Sarah hated bugs.

“The vicar said something about windows, too, but they were just stained glass, right, Sarah Tully?”

“I think.”

“In time, you’ll open your eyes,” the teacher said and continued through the dark.

Occasionally, following the wall led them around two interior corners and Sarah knew they were backtracking. She tried building a mental map of this place, but it was impossible to know how much ground they lost. And her mind was as dark and fuzzy as this basement. It was too cold and she was too hot from exertion. Occasionally, her hand dropped from the wall before quickly finding its place again. For all she knew, they were back at the beginning.

Then, after some steady progress, she crashed into the teacher.

“Another turn?” Junior asked.

“Shh!”

Sarah knew in her heart they’d stumble into the den of that slumbering beast, but no, the snores echoed from elsewhere. Instead it was the heavy plop of footfalls.

“What is it?” Junior called with no guile or restraint.

The Bag Man.

He plodded along behind the wall to their left. Was it her trembling hand or did each step really rattle the bones?

There was no turn behind them.

Ahead?

Were they headed straight to his turn? To follow the left wall was now to march into his path, but to switch to the right was to lose all progress and to follow neither was assured death. What was the safest option? What should they do?

“What—”

Sarah’s hands forgot the wall, forgot Junior’s preference for her hand over that of the dead, and they found his fool mouth.

“Shh!” she repeated.

Had it heard? Could it find its way to them on sound alone?

Or perhaps could such sounds lead it astray in the dark?

Her hand found the wall, but she had spun on Junior, and she switched walls, but had she spun halfway round or fully? She reached ahead to find the teacher’s shirt. And she did find some fabric, but the thought crept in: was it him? Was it the impostor she’d known or the impostor chasing them? And suddenly Junior was lost somewhere around her, just stifled breaths in the dark?

“Tea—” She silenced herself. This was all leading that creature to them and for what? Mad panic!

A match struck alight and passed to a small puck of wax revealing the teacher.

“I won’t let anyone hurt my students. Trust me.”

The light.

She spun around to find Junior. And she found the wall they’d been hugging this whole time. What the darkness held ahead she did not know, but for now, she saw enough to feel safe.

But as the feeling washed over her, it did not matter what was ahead, for just as the door offered no resistance to this gaunt hulk, so too did the walls cave beneath his kick and a foot passed between them, spraying bone chip shrapnels, and Junior, succumbing to mad panic anew, forgot the plan and ran off into the darkness, not a hand on the wall, taking whichever turn he came to.

“Wait!”

She, too, almost followed.

But the teacher gripped her wrist tightly. “Your misguided concern will kill you both.” And they ran the opposite way, a petty puck of light to guide them. And with the rush of movement, soon that died, too.

~

“I want to know why we’re being pursued!” she cried. The sweat of her brow stuck swatches of hair to her forehead. She wiped but the sweat did not stop in the frigid catacombs. Her breathing was too hard.

The teacher was a ghost. He glided along the floor, kicking up mushrooms and bones, but no amount of distance, speed, effort, fear compromised his composure. “Because you’re still talking.”

His grip rubbed her wrist raw.

She yanked free. “I’m not moving another step until you tell me why.”

Behind them, the Bag Man plodded. They had a few minutes at most if it kept that pace and why should it when she’d given up on stealth. Charge ahead, bust every wall. It knew where they were with supreme precision. This was a game of chicken, and Sarah would not budge.

The footsteps grew louder. There’d been a turn but little did that matter to this ascendant corpse.

“Then the fool of us will die.”

“I could die a fool or live with answers. The choice is yours, teacher!”

He grasped her hands.

She would not go.

He placed the left to the wall.

Then he ran off on his own, making all manners of bestial sounds.

In her right hand, he had placed the candle and a box of matches.

~

She dared not mutter the degrading thoughts she had, but they could be summed up as, Foolish ingrate, left to ponder my own mortality in self-imposed exile and what do I find within my heart? Cowardice.

The steps were so far as were the distractions until they died suddenly.

She told herself, once the Bag Man caught the teacher’s scent, he’d gone silent so as not to actually be found, but perhaps the darker possibility were more likely. His beaten body had been stuffed within the bag to be carried back to the pastor as a prize.

Her toe kicked a hard ledge.

A wall?

She reached out but no.

She stepped over it and found in place of solid floor a bath.

She thrashed for edge but to swim suddenly in the dark, you lost all sense of up, all sense of distinction between air and water, and when buoyancy did carry her up, she didn’t know. She needed a wall. A ledge. That ledge she’d kicked. Any ledge!

Unbeknown to her, as she kicked in the depths, tendrils probed at her shoes. A single touch was all it needed to taste the promise of prey and if she stopped kicking, the suction cups would find purchase.

A strong hand grabbed her as she surfaced.

No!

Any pursuer would not be friend!

She withdrew. She fought. She’d rather drown than wind up another prize in that thing’s bag!

She sank lower toward the tentacles. They didn’t need stillness if they could find her waist.

“Quit splashing, Sarah Tully!”

The familiar naive voice dragged her to an edge.

It did not have the strength alone to pull her free.

That lent credence to an identity.

The Bag Man could’ve pulled her out and whipped her around. The teacher would’ve hauled her out with nary a grunt.

Only Junior would need her to do half the work.

“Was a trip to the swimming hole really bright right now?”

First thing she did when on solid ground was hug him, though she wound up clocking his face. “How did you find me?”

“That thrashing.”

“It’s pitch black, Russ!”

“By the Gods’ grace then.” He did not tell her he thought his eyes might be adjusting, for it seemed this abyss had nothing, and only the Devil could see down here. However, there was a logic to it. When he had regained his senses, he followed the same left wall, and like a coin flip, he’d been right, confirmed when he came upon the busted wall and scattered remains. “Same way I escaped whoever passed me. They headed the other way and we were both pressed to our walls and they did not seem to notice me. Too small for that creature. Could it be the vicar?”

“Or the teacher.”

She knelt down suddenly searching for the candle and matches. She’d dropped them in the panic. But the only conclusion she came to was they’d fallen into the water. All the teacher’s plans crumbled to blood-stained dust in the presence of her inanity.

“He left you?”

“You hear him taking part in this discussion? He wasn’t just letting me drown!”

“Should’ve expected as much. If the pastor’s at odds with him, he must be a villain.”

She wanted to clear his name then and there, but she needed time to admit her own stubbornness probably doomed him.

And it was almost time when Junior continued with excitement. “We need to turn around.”

“Why?”

“I found a way out.”

~

He guided her back the way he came and when they felt the shattered wall, he dragged her in and picked up the pace. No more wandering. He knew where they were and how to get there.

Junior shoved a rock into the wall and listened for the plop of water. “Look!”

Never did she think she’d be so happy about dirtying a well, but when she peered upward there was the night sky. It might as well have been blazing daylight by comparison. The cosmos painted itself upon oily black and blue with only the suggestion of red, red dust.

Yes, great, a skylight, but they were 60 feet down.

“But how do we get up?”

They spoke in whispers. Even their exclamations were little more than a breeze.

“Don’t you remember when we were kids and we’d race to the crown of an oak tree? What’s so different about this?”

Rocks that can be pushed from the other side do not provide the same support as branches. There is not the same grip on smooth stone as there is on bark. And however their eyes might have adjusted, to find holds was a tactile task at night and how sensitive could their shoes be? She did not like this plan.

But the alternative…

“We need the teacher first.”

“Why?” Junior had an unfamiliar spit in his voice, like one of the farm dogs had just nipped him at dinner time. “What could we possibly need that cretin for? He’s here to poison the well. The pastor only retaliated with that…”

People see what they want to see, but a leap of logic cannot cross the Grand Canyon. Such moments will cause pause, but as they turn back and see their previous leaps, they cannot fully renege on their beliefs.

He tried another route.

“That man left you!”

“I made him. I said I wasn’t budging until I got answers and whatever secret he’s holding onto, it’s worth dying for but not worth getting someone killed for. Rather than doom us both, he led that thing away.” She was shaking. She did not feel that much shame or guilt but she shook all the same and it picked at Junior’s pity.

He said, “We came in as three; we’ll leave as three.”

~

No matter how big the maze, rats following the same path are bound to run into each other. That was the gamble they continued into the dark with and to win was to find the teacher, but to lose was to find the other.

But Sarah’s fevered mind said if shouting raised the risk, it also raised the chance of victory.

“Mr. Ishmael!” Junior yelled.

“Teacher!”

Their voices reverberated off the walls in a way that brought a clearer image to life. How near they were, how far. Just as that brief candle had renewed hope for Sarah, so too did the noise lessen the solitude. Perhaps she’d have felt different if it was just hers, but to have a friend beside her, going along with the plan, those tears were of happiness, relief, the accumulation of tension finally setting her down gently.

“We found a way out!”

But after each call, they listened for a response, and all they heard were the heavy steps of their pursuer as it dragged a heavy bag.

Perhaps that was their answer.

Wiser children might accept they came in as three but would leave one short, but the Gambler’s Fallacy says that if there’s a 1% chance of finding him with a single call, then a hundred calls means success is assured.

Finally Sarah stopped at a turn. This was the last turn her heart could handle. She was tired, dirty, sweaty, shivering, and most of all…

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, teacher! Scold me, whoop me, stare at me in disappointment for I have failed you, and I am truly, terribly, with all my heart—”

“Misguided concern will kill us all, child.”

The whisper came from behind a wall.

“Teacher, we found a way out! A well we can climb up with some persistence and—”

Victory was short-lived.

“I, too, have found a way out. The stairs we came down, and at the top is my target.”

Her hand off the wall, she went in search of the source of those lunatic words and when she got her hands on him, she yanked him by his collar. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Take the well. It’s the safer option.”

“He ain’t coming, Sarah.”

“I will not leave this place without either of you.”

“Is it true?” Junior asked. His voice hurt as did his pride. “When I was alone, I found our escape but I did not take it until you were with me. Can you say you’d’ve done the same?”

“I—I—”

“Or are you only concerned with this backbiter and not your lifelong friend? Whatever you say, swear it and I’ll believe it.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But the three of us are here now and why? Why can’t we leave together? Climb out and come back through the front doors as we entered! Come back through the dark for all I care. But wait! I am of my right mind now and I am not leaving without you both.” Her voice grew louder as her breathing grew ragged. “You said you would not let your students die tonight, sir. What if the biggest risk to them is your action now?”

She had him. She knew. He’d soften. He’d relent. He’d escape with them.

“If my guidance falls on deaf ears, that is your decision.”

At a loss for words, she found herself in darkness worse than around her. The brightness of her mind had had something at the edges creeping in but she had not noticed until her vision was a pinpoint and the snakebite in her veins was more than she could bear.

She collapsed.

~

Chapter 6

The only two remaining customers at the diner were the sheriff and his daughter sharing a piece of rhubarb pie with custard. Every week they ordered a different pie for their next daddy-daughter date night.

“How old are ya now, miss?” Margaret asked.

She held fingers on both hands.

Margaret raised her spectacles to her eyes to get a clearer count. “Really? 13 already?”

1 and 3.

“And her birthday’s in a month. Tell the nice lady how old you’ll be then, honey.”

“23? Time flies!”

The adults had a good laugh at bad jokes and the girl only felt the warmth of the evening and not the teasing. The sheriff ordered a sugar cream pie for next week and Margaret was writing it down when Junior came running in.

“Ms. Tully!”

“Catch your breath, boy,” the sheriff said.

“Sheff.”

“Looks like you been playing hard. How’s old Harry?” she asked.

“I don’t—” Big breath. Swallow of thick saliva. Looking at the little girl. “It’s Sarah. She’s come down with a fever.”

The sheriff called after the two, “I’ll turn the stove off. Don’t you worry,” as the door chime tinkled against the glass.

Margaret found her daughter soaked with sweat and her clothes damp with some foul-smelling stain. She raved unintelligible phrases about the bag, but Sarah hardly carried a bag and she hadn’t earlier. Her forehead burned Mama’s heart.

“I’m here, baby. Mama’s here,” she cooed.

The teacher watched in the rear view, a mother nursing her daughter, fretting about the worst possibilities, and when she glanced up, her eyes burned with accusations.

He drove off.

~

On the sofa, Sarah’s words continued like a madman’s through rapid breathing. “Bones, no bones.”

“Your bones are fine, dear.” Margaret moved her hand to feel her knee. “Now stop your yakking.”

“We need to get her clothes off.”

“Are you a doctor too now?” Junior asked.

“Quiet, Junior. He’s right. Go home if you’re shy. She’s dirty, wet, and covered in Gods-knows-what. She’ll need a cold bath to keep the fever down.”

They carried her upstairs, the teacher at her head and the others grabbing a leg, and they set her down gently in the Art Moderne tub. The slop on her sullied the colorful back splash tiles they’d ordered by mail last year. Junior stepped into the hall for this. Just wasn’t right, and truth be told, he was quivering, wondering what it could be, and as the bath water ran, the others found the first hints.

“Ain’t ever seen a limb balloon up like that. Some sort of bite?”

“Bite?” Junior called. “She was asking about snake bites after Harry got hurt.”

With furious footsteps, the teacher rushed into the hall. “Get a sharp knife from the kitchen. Something small but sharp.”

“Well, shoot, sir, if it’s just a rattler, she’ll probably be fine in the morning.”

“And a torch, lighter, anything that makes a consistent flame.”

“She will be fine in the morning, right, Mr. Ishmael?”

“Go now.” After he examined the affected region further, trying to find a bite, but it was all purple on pale skin, two injection ticks would not stand out. He yelled down, “And something to catch the pus!”

Margaret watched him with keen regard. He was tender to the ill, but his voice cut to Junior’s insecurities. Bad teachers existed, but they often did their best to put on a nurturing persona. Was that all he was?

“Excuse me, sir. Now might not be the right time, but did you serve in the war? A medic or something?”

“You’re right. It’s not the time. This was no rattlesnake bite and we need antivenin.”

“Who are you?” Sarah’s fluttering eyes popped open to clutch his sullied collar. “Just tell me truly!”

“Sir?” Junior was in the doorway with a fruit bowl holding a paring knife

“Arm or bowl, boy?”

“What? No, no, I--”

“She needs you. Hold the bowl. Miss, I’m going make a cross-shaped incision in her arm. The more she moves, the more it’ll hurt so hold her arm steady.”

Margaret held her daughter’s hand and arm and hoped that was better comfort than a smiling, hopeful face, because she couldn’t muster such strength.

“Junior.”

“I’m ready, sir.” The crack in his teenage voice betrayed his heart. But bravery isn’t the lack of fear, but action in spite of it. Perhaps that’s what you want from a man, anyway, hesitation, overwhelming concern, because to act robotically meant you had too much trauma to care anymore.

A wail of anguish cut the still country night and the neighbors knew something was afoot.

~

Junior washed out the kitchen sink.

Upstairs had gone quiet. They didn’t need him anymore. And this stuff smelled awful. Especially after he coated it with his half-digested lunch.

He poured himself a glass of water when he heard heavy steps coming down the stairs and a door open.

He flew after the teacher, making it as far as the porch. “Sir! Wait! Where are you going?”

“To concoct a remedy.” The man did not stop and opened his car door.

“Don’t you need help?”

“All of this is my responsibility.” He hesitated in the driver’s seat. Then he started the engine. “Are you going to help me find a snake in the dark on 160 acres with a dust storm coming? Russ, think about what it is only you can do.”

“What only I can do…? What if that thing comes a-knocking?”

“Don’t answer.”

Junior’s eyes scanned the roads as the Cadillac roared away. It was too dark to see forever, but every shape on the horizon could’ve been the Bag Man in pursuit.

“Junior!” Margaret called and he ran up to help her dry, dress, and carry Sarah down the stairs.

~

Farm scene

~

Margaret was in the kitchen making them something to eat. Sarah would need her strength when she woke up and until then, her caretakers needed their strength as well. And to have her hands busy kept her mind from wandering.

“Ms. Tully!” Junior’s voice rose up from the living room. “Do you have more bandages?”

“Is it bleeding through again? That man cut too deep. Probably wasn’t ever a surgeon or medic or anything like that. Just read about it in some dime novel and thought, ‘I’m a man. I can do anything!’ Let me get them.”

What the teacher had said before leaving stuck in Junior’s head. What could he do? He was a boy. He had no idea what was going on with the church. He’d never had medical training or nothing, only once when he was younger while playing with a throwing knife, trying to flip it and catch it, he cut his arm dearly. No amount of pressure would stop it. He sheepishly showed his pa who didn’t bother trying the same and instead got a knife of his own. A butter knife. And he’d heated it on the stove’s flame until it glowed and the metal got soft. It wasn’t like when the teacher had sterilized the paring knife. His pa wanted it hot and he would not tell Junior why or else he’d have fled. Death was preferable to pain. And the burning hot side of a blade was painful indeed. The noises he made might’ve caused a stampede, and when the boy awoke, the bleeding had stopped, the wound was seared closed, and he had a cauterization scar to forever remind him never to play with knives.

“Maybe we could cauterize it,” Junior suggested.

Week 2: ~12,000 words

From the back door of the diner, all you could see were two glowing orbs like pupil-less eyes. The sounds fed into the darker thoughts, the way dust funneled through the alley tearing air to a buzz, and don’t forget that growl of the engine. What great beast lurked in the dusty shroud?

It had a jaunty whistle, though.

“A radio? In a car?” Margaret asked for not the first time. “Don’t that distract you?”

The bootlegger sat in the cab without a word. All ready for the coming storm, he had on goggles pulled off the Red Baron’s body but the boy was too young for that. In nice clothes—nice and dirty—with a bandanna over his mouth and nose. Hard to say if he was enjoying the broadcast, but she wasn’t. She was busy sweating hefting a 5-gallon jug from the back. She paid $50 a jug, knowing half was water. It wouldn’t have been this heavy otherwise, heavy, but not this heavy, and a gentleman might’ve offered to unload it for her—heck even a good businessman would’ve offered, but this boy from Appleseed didn’t need to be a gentleman or a good businessman. He had a good business. Could charge what he wanted. Help how he wanted. Listen to whatever show he wanted.

She went back under the tarpaulin.

Box of tools.

A spare tire.

“There’s only one jug back here.” She went around the cab to knock on the door. “Hey, I paid for two and there’s only one back here.”

The boy looked down on her saying nothing.

“Now I’m a good customer but I won’t continue to be with this kind of service.”

“Tell the sheriff,” he said and the engine revved up to head out at speeds too dangerous for a town the size of Oskaloosa, Oklahoma.

Never heard of it?

Look on the map.

Still can’t find it?

What you need to do is get a map from 1862 before the Homestead Act then look at a map from anywhere in the 1920s and you see that little speck you thought was a printing error? That’s Oskaloosa.

But family, this story takes place in 1935 and don’t you dare look on a map after that because it won’t be there.

~

“Who’s winning?” Margaret asked as she came in the diner. Not a one in here offered assistance with the jug, either, but that was all the better. From the kitchen, hidden by a half wall and a curtain, she quietly turned on the tap, hoping their banter covered the sound.

“Shef,” one of the farmers said. “As usual.”

“Ah, you’re only here for the drink.”

“And the smile of Ms. Tully. But how’s it--” The farmer heard something.

“Just washing up.” She came out from the kitchen with a towel in hand. “Y’all may be cheats and scoundrels, but this here is a respectable establishment. Now who’s parched?”

The hands went up.

The glasses went round.

The faces got red.

The pot got bigger.

Margaret even won a hand, being the only clearheaded one. She wasn’t trying to peek but it was hard when the banker yawned with his Hearts over head.

The quarters and dimes got passed around, but one stack kept growing.

The farmer said, “Maybe you oughta come work the fields, Shef.”

The general store owner had a good hand coming up, he just felt it in his bones, like he knew the rain was coming any day. “I’ll knock a dollar off all y’all’s tabs. What do you say?”

The harbinger wind howled round and banged the Dutch shutters against the siding.

“You’re out,” the sheriff growled.

“Can be a dollar each and y’all just spot me a dollar collective.”

“Walk it off.”

“You’ll see! I just know I almost—”

“Go home, Willy!” he barked.

“Now wait just a damned second! I had the best hand last time but you just—you said—you—you!” He rose up out of his chair so quick the thing tipped back onto the hardwood with a thunderous clatter.

The men at the table went quiet. No running the tap at this juncture.

When Margaret came running out the kitchen, she witnessed the sheriff slowly rise up. He didn’t have his star on him tonight. Probably for the best because where the star went, the revolver followed.

A friendly game of Texas Hold’em was set to turn into a not so friendly game of fisticuffs.

Margaret said, “Now, Willy, why don’t you check your coat pocket? You’re always stuffing your winnings in there. And Sheff, what you doing bullying this boy? How about another drink? I was just turning the stove on, too, for a late night snack if y’all looking to soak up the gut rot.”

Willy desperately rummaged in his coat pockets at the rack, careful to take only his coat and take it far from the others, lest they think something untoward was happening.

A few hands went up for drinks and a few more for sandwiches.

Two hands went up in celebration. “You were right, Ms. Tully! I’m a darn fool. I always stuff my winnings or change in my pocket and play with it as I’m heading home. Lets me savor that victory. Watch me win back all I lost with just this lucky dollar. Sheff, a sandwich on me? No hard feelings. Two more sandwiches, Ms. Tully.”

The bacon and eggs joined the smoke in the air and then all the sandwiches came out toasted. Sheff took two and said, “Thank ya, Willy. No hard feelings.” There wasn’t another leftover for him.

“Fifty-one,” Margaret muttered into her accounting book, writing in red.

~

Margaret carried away the glasses and plates into the back.

“Can we help, Ms. Tully?” Willy asked with five dollars stuffed in his pockets and his hat in hand.

“Yes, Willy, you can help by going and getting.”

The glassy-eyed lot of them said their thank yous and goodbyes and Margaret Tully took to cleaning. First the dishes. Rinse, wash, dry, and place them in the cabinet and seal it.

As she turned away from the sink window, just a screen of dark dust out there that even the White Way couldn’t do more than cast silhouettes, one such silhouette approached the window.

The shadow watched through the glass as she cleared the table.

“Save all them crumbs for Abner,” she said in her mocking tone. She brushed them down into a sieve, knowing it unnecessary but still worrying what dust might do to her baby’s baby, and the dust that fell out—if it were sugar, it’d be enough for a cake. She worried what this dust might be doing to all them.

Then last and probably least, she grabbed her broom and dust pan.

No matter how she stuffed cloths and towels under the doors and around the windows, dust got in. Even the church with its vestibule entrance had a thick layer of dust whenever you opened the hymn book. No power greater than Gods’ but perhaps there were other matters to attend.

It’d all be back in the morning but there was some dignity in leaving a place tidy. She gathered up a nice little pile then listened for the wind. Today, the leeward side was the window above the sink.

She set the dust pan on the floor.

Then unlocked the window.

Then she bent down for her dust pan.

And when she rose to toss out the day’s filth…

She sneezed and it went all in the sink.

She just sort of stared a moment. “Messy Margaret strikes again.”

~

The window got closed and locked as did the door behind her and once outside with a scarf pulled over her mouth, she circled the building to latch the shutters. They did their part, however small, in keeping the dust out. And silhouettes.

If she were new in this one-horse town, it’d be easy to get lost on a night like now. The storm was in full force. Maybe she could’ve waited it out. They never lasted long. But it wasn’t the big one. And she liked getting home before the witching hour.

As she followed those too high orbs lighting a vague way down Main Street, she couldn’t hear herself think. A gale force wind sent nipping particulates across her cheeks and she turned away as she trudged on.

And at first, she thought her mind must be playing tricks on her. A bit of Midnight Madness striking a weary mind. But her eyes kept on it, trying to focus, trying to filter out the smokescreen, until she was certain:

Someone was following her.

“Howdy, neighbor!” she called.

But she did not stop.

She released her clutch upon her scarf to wave. “We best be getting home before this really picks up.”

Her voice could be getting carried two towns over for all she knew. And perhaps the same was true for the silhouette.

She continued down the street, her pace a bit faster now.

“Gotta get out of this storm!” she tried again.

Faster still.

Losing her breath, catching a mouthful of dust instead.

Soon she was at her gate. It wasn’t more than a block away from the diner. Everyone knew her house. Everyone knew she had sugar or recipes or a hammer. Everyone knew, unlike everyone else, she kept her doors locked.

How many times had that saved her?

Not now.

She had her key in hand before she ever stepped on the wooden porch. It really needed replacing and she meant to last year before it got cold but maybe this year, maybe this summer, and the boards would sit tight together.

Her eyes never left the figure behind her. They were just across the street now. She hoped they’d pass.

Perhaps if she had prayed…

She fumbled for the lock but aiming without looking is bad business.

She felt the hole with her thumb but when she tried lining it up, her hands trembled too fiercely and she missed, lost her grip on the keys, and they fell.

Still her eyes stayed locked on the figure nearly at the gate. If he—and she was sure they were a he now--opened that gate, she’d scream. She’d scream the whole way. She’d scream whatever happened.

But like the lock, it’s bad business feeling for keys without looking. Especially on a deck with space between the boards. The moment she felt the metal of the key, she nudged it just enough to fall through to the dirt beneath.

She had to look.

The keys had disappeared into the abyss where no light reached tonight.

No more looking.

No more waiting.

Just screaming.

Bang, bang, bang!

“SARAH!” she screamed. “Uncle Pete! Unlock this right now.”

Bang, bang, bang!

A look back.

Where was he?

She heard a lock undo.

He was coming through the gate.

“Gonna wake the neighborhood like that.”

The front door opened and Margaret Tully charged in, knocking the book out of her teenage daughter’s hand.

“Who walked you ho—? Uncle Pete? He’s long…” At 17, Sarah was taller than her Mama and a good deal sturdier, too, but a mother on a mission can’t be stopped. Before Sarah could finish a thought, Mama disappeared into the kitchen, but she got her answers when Mama returned with Uncle Pete’s shotgun (Gods rest his soul).

She aimed at the door.

They waited several minutes. Long enough Sarah almost said something but thought better of it.

Then Mama lowered the gun.

She didn’t put it away, but she did remove her finger.

“No one came by tonight?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

They waited several minutes more and this time Sarah did say something.

“My only suitor was Abner.” She waited for Mama’s response. “I didn’t let him in though.”

Mama breathed finally. “I brought him a present.”

“Any apple cores?”

“Two.”

“He’ll love them.”

Mama had come in charging but trembling. Now her nerves were still. Sarah had the opposite reaction. She was trembling as reality set in, her eyes scanning the window for anything but getting nothing. Mama put the gun back and instead put her arms around Sarah.

It was just them in this big house these days. Only a month since Gran passed and already a lot of things happened: the two had gotten closer, the schoolhouse closed, they started dragging themselves to church, and soon a lot more would.

Mama looked out the window a bit longer. Even a flashlight wouldn’t cut through. Best wait till morning to get the key she dropped. She felt braver with a babe to protect, but not to the point of foolishness.

“Now what are you doing up reading past midnight? That’s how your eyes fall out.”

“Waiting on you,” Sarah shot back. “The Board of Education sent a note. New teacher’s coming next week.”

“I guess we can take tomorrow to rest.”

“No church?”

“No church. But don’t go celebrating! Celebrating is a sin!”

Sarah stifled her smile until she was in Mama’s arms again and then let it spread wide. She hated that creepy old pastor.

~

In 1862, Congress passed what was known as the Homestead Act, signed by Lincoln on May 20. In 1863, the first settler took to living on and improving their land. Soon 3 million would follow with 1.6 million officially obtaining necessary documents for the 160 acres of nearly-free land. Nearly-free because there was a small registration fee, and the price of tools and materials to build a new house, and the fact that this was already Native land, some legally given to tribes after they’d been forced to move once before.

But to the ignorant, predominantly white settlers taking advantage of this, none of that mattered.

Do you know how long it takes to walk the length of 160 acres?

90 minutes without dillydallying.

Do you know how long it takes to tear up the grasslands, plow, plant, tend, and reap 160 acres?

A whole lot longer, family.

And these inexperienced farmers laid claims without a single thought to that and many found out a whole lot longer was in fact too long and parceled out acres here and there until the size was manageable and being neighborly with houses on either side was feasible after a hard day’s work.

With so many farmers, ranchers, miners, speculators, and the rest, they needed infrastructure. They cobbled it together like they cobbled together their houses. They weren’t the first to discover it but certainly they acted though they were.

For example, it didn’t make sense for so many farmers to head out to the City to sell their crops. That was time not spent growing their crop. So they set up somebody’s son to sell all the farmers’ crop in the City and then come back and pay them 90% of the earnings. And while he was out there, bring back some supplies for the farmers.

They later realized this was a store.

Then Farmer Fred started putting up fencing and his neighbor Farmed Ted argued Fred had intentionally lay claim to Ted’s land. Neither had any way to prove their stolen land was their own, but the collective commissioned the smith make a star and they pinned that to the ugliest, meanest man who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone. He locked up folks just for whistling at too high a pitch.

They called him Sheriff.

Then farmers started catching sick and a guy pretty good with a horse was put in charge of all hoarse throats. They wouldn’t be named such if they weren’t connected. They started calling him Doc and people thought he must be or they wouldn’t call him that. He did alright, as well as anyone should’ve expected, but eventually he got old and an apprentice replaced him who could actually read and the population boomed.

And with the farmers multiplying, there were a lot of children running around unable to read and that was no good because a church was coming next. So they set up the St. Thomas Aquinas church for the old pastor that seemed like he’d come as naturally as the town. He was ancient, as all pious folks were, and his long, gaunt fingers traced the words as he read them. His voice shivered and quake and he promised these wet years would continue so long as they kept up the intensive farmer.

“Rain follows the plow,” were his words and the words of old wisdom.

And 60 years later, 60 years after Oskaloosa was the official name for their little collective turned town, the curse came collecting.

It was, as many things are, the curse of ignorance.

Stolen land.

Poor farming.

The death of natural diversity.

All for a quick buck.

And little in Oskaloosa was set up in antagonism toward ignorance.

That little was Ms. Catherine Tully’s schoolhouse who passed 60 years later, a day short of 100, an age no one would question her fate, and soon a terrible dust storm five miles high would smite the folks for their ignorance.

~

The day had been pretty clear.

The coolness of March was giving way to April and little dust wafted through the air without a breeze so everyone could go about their business with their bandannas around their neck or perhaps stuffed in their pockets. Some of the ruder men used them in place of a handkerchief, but when the inevitable storm came, you knew they didn’t change them before putting them on.

But all in all, today it was easy to forget about their troubles: the drought, the economy, all the goodbyes to folk chasing a better life in California. Those faded into the background like a cricket’s song and however briefly, the idyllic days had returned.

Then Willy came running into the diner.

“You forget your hat, Willy?” Margaret asked.

“You gotta come look!”

A Cadillac on an old country road in the days after a dust storm announces itself like a war.

The curious from the diner joined the curious already in the town square and soon a little crowd formed almost higher than Willy could count without pulling off his socks, all to peer down main street at the cloud forming the horizon.

It approached until the haze faded and the red dot at the center grew larger until you saw there was green trim and it was in fact a car growling down the road and not some Otherworldly beast that had its sights set on Oskaloosa. The folks there always were worrying about that.

“That’s a bootlegger’s car.”

“Think it’s the boy from Appleseed?”

“He drives a truck,” Margaret said. Then added, “Don’t he?”

Willy gulped. “What do they want with us?”

Sheff was the last to join the crowd, if you didn’t count Sarah who only peeked up from her book and out from her shed at the conversation around the vehicle.

But when the crowd moved to the parking spots the Cadillac occupied in front of the general store, Sarah stayed on the bench in her shed and closed the door.

“Howdy, sir,” the sheriff said as a man in black stepped out of the car.

This stranger was not aged, perhaps in his early 30s, but there was something old about the twinkle in his eyes. The way he took in the rapidly expanded landscape, building a mental map of the town, comparing it with one already in his mind, erasing the most modern buildings, and looking, scanning, searching for some landmark to orient himself. Even in this town with low-lying buildings and their wide yards, the skyline hindered his view.

Not once did his gaze dip to the man addressing him, nor the crowd surrounding him. He was unconcerned with these folks. But they were concerned with him.

His clothes were as nice as his car. Black with crimson and green trim, and trim those clothes were on his slender body. His head stuck out above the crowd and if any folks ran up at this moment, they’d know exactly who everyone was gawking at and why. While his tight buttoned collar did a good job of hiding, it didn’t do a perfect job and just below, there were deep scars.

When his eyes eventually did condescend to meet the crowd, he regarded them wordlessly. The sort of wisdom of a man that knew to think before he spoke, the sort of wisdom of a man to who you listened when he spoke, and if he didn’t speak and instead started doing something, it must be important. So when his eyes settled on the sheriff’s badge and suddenly he stooped to reach back inside for the passenger seat, the town collectively held their breath and the sheriff readied his anger in place of his revolver, but the stranger was just grabbing his wide brimmed hat.

The crowd breathed once more.

Finally, he said, “Which one of you local yokels want to show me to the schoolhouse?”

There was disdain in his voice.

“Yokels?”

“Calling us ignorant.”

“Ignorant?”

“Uneducated, Willy. Illiterate. Idiots. Bumpkins. Fools. Stupid, stupid!”

Two murmurs at opposite ends ran through the crowd.

“The new teacher?”

“In that car? No… What do they pay teachers elsewhere?”

“City fools think reading people superior to feeding people!”

Both conversations found their way to either ear of the sheriff.

“Pardon, friend, but might I ask your name and business? I seen this sort of transportation and I know what company it follows. And what company it attracts. This here is a Christian society and we don’t mind keeping the schoolhouse closed.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied slowly. “But the board of education does. And I can already see I have a lot of work to do here. And a lot to undo. Don’t worry. The car won’t bite. If you’re understandably green, I’ll take you for a spin sometime, Sheriff.”

The sheriff didn’t much care for the accusations in that answer. “Your name, boy.”

“Call me Ishmael.”

Margaret could see the rising tension as red filled up the sheriff’s face. “That’s certainly a unique name, sir. You’ve had a long trip, I imagine. Perhaps someone could show you to the schoolhouse to get you acquainted.”

“I’d be touched if you did.”

She raised her hands to say not her, just now realizing she still held a pen and notepad with someone’s order half-written. “I’ve got my diner to tend to. But—SARAH!” she yelled suddenly.

Her eyes trained over his shoulder and it made him turn his head to see a tall, lean, slapped together, wooden shed with a pitched roof and occupancy for one. The door stayed shut a minute. As if the occupant, this Sarah, was finishing up her business. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of putting such infrastructure in the center of the town square.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My daughter is not otherwise occupied and she’ll be one of your students, one of the best and brightest you’ll ever see.”

He doubted that but did not say. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make introductions and y’all can return to your little lives.”

“Little lives?” someone muttered.

He marched across the brown grass to meet his star pupil. She had a book in hand. The Secret of the Old Clock Tower.

“I respect you rising above your environment and learning to read, but I cannot ignore the locale. A latrine?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped in confusion. Her eyes found the crowd still watching, though her mother had gone back inside. Perhaps if the windows had been cleaned, she’d see Mama watching through the window as well. But when she searched for answers over her shoulder, she realized. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is a reading shed. One of the farm boys put it up. There’s a door so it keeps the dust out and when the wind comes, it don’t turn the page on me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I assure you it does!” she said, wondering how this newcomer could argue with her. Men in this town always thought they knew everything and apparently men in other towns thought the same.

“It looks like an outhouse.”

“No, it don’t!”

“Doesn’t.”

“Glad you see reason.”

“Your grammar. If you’re the exemplary student, I worry about the rest of the crop. How’d your poor, previous teacher survive so long?”

“Don’t speak ill of my gran.”

The stranger caught his tongue. And softened it.

“Your gran was the previous teacher? Ms. Tully? Making you Sarah Tully?”

“First true thing you said. And maybe I didn’t take to every lesson but she taught me just fine to not let myself be bullied by some--”

“By some fool from out of town. Let me start over. I apologize for my initial tone. My prejudice of country folk maybe extended unfairly onto you. I’m sorry, Sarah Tully.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been insulted by an adult or by a boy or even by a man belittling her on purpose or because of how he was raised, but it might’ve been the first time she remembered one correcting himself.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

She let out a laugh. “Ha! That for true? Or did your folks just fancy Moby Dick?”

“You’ve read it?”

“Gran made me.”

“My wife’s favorite book, even before it found its place in the canon.”

“Your wife don’t—doesn’t name you.”

“Maybe that’s why she liked me, though.”

“A flimsy foundation for a marriage.”

“Maybe that’s why she isn’t here.”

It was Sarah’s to soften her tone. “Sorry, sir, for whatever happened to her. My daddy’s gone, too. Sir… Ishmael, Mr. Ishmael? What did my mother send you to me for?”

He gathered himself with a big breath. “I want to see the schoolhouse and perhaps meet your classmates to arrange the start of classes once more. I’ll take you in my Cadillac.”

They returned to the crowd. It had dispersed enough to perhaps be called a company instead, but the sheriff watched with a suspicious eye. He could love and accept all, as the Good Book told him, but he didn’t have to trust them.

When the new teacher pulled out of the parking spaces, before he put the car in drive, he had to ask his burning question.

“So your mother owns the diner?”

She nodded.

He had to be sure.

“And her name’s Tully, too.”

“’Course.”

“Margaret Tully?”

“You got a good memory, sir.”

“I do now. I do.”

He drove off down the street, following her guidance. Sarah assumed he wasn’t used to the dust yet, heck even she wasn’t, because as a smile crept over his face, a tear formed in his eye.

~

In 1967, our nation closed its last one-room schoolhouse, but in 1930s rural America, they ruled America. The Church of St. Thomas Aquinas set up Oskaloosa’s to give children and adults the opportunity of reading the Good Book themselves. Did that violate a separation of church and state? No, because in those early barbaric days, the state had no involvement in the schools and it wasn’t until 1909 that Boards of Education were nationally instituted.

By then, Ms. Tully Sr. had already separated church and school.

~

Sarah was meant to be directing her new teacher to the schoolhouse, but she got lost in the leather seats and knobs. Instinct told her to play with them all and he didn’t say nothing when she did. He kind of watched. Not supervised. Not cautioning. Observed. That sort of look like at Christmas time when you’re trying to memorize the look on Mama’s face as she opens your gift.

Sarah stopped playing. But didn’t stop thinking about playing. She had never been in a car like this before. A few pick-up trucks and farm equipment, of course, but nothing that reeked of luxury. She didn’t like it.

But when they arrived at the schoolhouse, she hesitated to step out.

Maybe she liked that it was different.

“How did you know where—?”

He cut her off. “It has a recognizable shape. Clearly not a house or business. Clearly not the church. I got lucky.”

“Unlucky if you wound up in Oskaloosa.”

The teacher went to inspect his workplace. He’d be spending a lot of time in here, except in summers, of course, and it was almost summer. An odd time for the Board to send a new teacher, if you asked her, but adults rarely did. Regulations are regulations, however nonsense.

The walls were painted white last summer. Sarah had helped. Gran had supervised. Some desks dated back to before she was born, but whenever one broke, it got replaced, and since they didn’t all break on the same day, an array of history was on display. Various names carved into the desks, some with hearts round them. Rude words. Crude pictures. The roof was all new as a tornado came by and ripped it off three years back—a scary time in Oskaloosa but now, the folks might welcome a tornado if it took all the dust with it and dumped it on Appleseed.

When Sarah chased him in, she heard escape from his lips, “It’s not the same.”

“Same? Same as what?”

“Not as I expected.”

“Reading too much Little House on the Prairie?” Sarah had a gnawing suspicion inside her.

The newcomer rifled through the desk drawers, but though he found names, notes, and even drafts of letters for parents that got a second, gentler attempt, nothing seemed to satisfy his curious itch. “There must be something,” he muttered.

“What’s it you’re searching for?”

He ignored her because one drawer was locked.

It did not open with a jiggle and he went once more through the drawers looking for its key.

She would not help him until he proved himself. “Say, Mister, where are you from?”

He moved onto the library, a single bookcase in the corner with texts on all manner of subjects: math, grammar, history, geography, a dictionary, and the rest novels of varying quality.

“Paris.”

“France? You don’t got no accent like them.”

“Illinois.”

Paris at that time would’ve been close to 10,000 folks. 10,000 folks don’t get you taught in Geography class.

Sarah grabbed her grandmother’s—well, his pointing stick and slapped the map. “Point to it on the map, Ishmael.” Then she dropped her impression and added, “Sir.”

Without so much as looking up, he jabbed empty green land. Without a label and without knowing better, Sarah doubted he’d be anywhere in the right vicinity of Paris, Illinois, but with a bit more insight, her jaw would’ve dropped.

Instead she shrugged.

His investigation turned up nothing, but frustration.

“Tell me about your gran.”

~

The pastor arrived in time to see the schoolhouse be assembled.

“You gathered some fine workers, Father,” Ms. Catherine said.

She’d seen him creep toward them since the roof started being patched and it took his ancient legs a long while to carry him. He might’ve once been a tall man, but he had since curled over with age and his features existed behind a thick white beard and even thicker eyebrows. What was lost on his head seemed glued to his face.

“They’re proud folks, but they know to submit.”

“Soon they’ll be reading all the verses on their own,” she said.

It wasn’t long before the children had their letters memorized and some of the youngest picked up words quickest and helped their elder kin to sound out each word and after no more than six months, every child had a book in hand and affection in heart.

The men, on the other hand, arrived before dusk and left before dark and six months in, they had affection in their heart but Trent Walker led the way on pride in stupidity.

Ms. Catherine asked him to come to the board and spell his name.

“X,” he scrawled in chalk.

He turned to the class. “It’s good enough for any contract!”

The class knew his daddy was the sheriff.

The class knew to laugh.

Ms. Catherine knew, too, but didn’t. “I don’t mind a learner needing extra time, but I do mind folks who squander my time. What are you here for if not to learn?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Catherine, I am. I’m here to learn.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Cross my heart.”

“Then I’m sorry for doubting—”

“Here to learn about you!” He clapped and had a good guffaw that the class knew to join in.

After class, Trent tried to apologize without an audience. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll show you I can be an ass, but that deep down I am trying, and maybe you’ll see something special in me too, like I see in you.”

“I have no romantic interests, Trent. Please ask your son for help on those ABCs.”

There was one man, Herman Bartleby, that did not attend classes, but he was in the church after service running his finger over words, repeating what the pastor had said. The words the pastor had said and the words Herman touched were not the same words but an illiterate man had no concept of that.

“Herman, my roof is leaking something awful since the last storm. Could you—?”

“Of course, Ms. Catherine. Today?”

“It’s a day of rest,” she said.

“But tomorrow the children will be in. And there’s rain a-coming.”

“You raise a good point. Shall we head there together?”

And as he fixed the roof, she’d read for him stories. He liked stories. Who doesn’t like stories? Even Trent liked stories, so long as they were his or he could see himself as the hero in them.

But as she read, as she often had to, she stopped to cough. Herman hopped off the roof without even using the ladder and ran inside to catch her as she collapsed to her knees, trying to extricate the phlegm with only her lungs. He patted her back, a little roughly, to help and eventually she recovered but the reading finished for the day.

Soon the roof was fixed, but she’d enjoyed his company so she asked for help with the windows. They didn’t open. He’d work during morning classes and listen in. The man was simple and unassuming and he took to learning the stories quickly as many do when given opportunity and patience.

“The Bible is a bit unfriendly to beginners. Heck, it’s unfriendly for even me. This one is a bit better,” she said after class.

And with what he picked up both listening and watching, he read better than Trent within a week. But within a week, the windows all opened to let in a breeze for summer and he’d finished another book, twice actually to really understand it.

“Herman, you tricked me!” she declared.

“I haven’t! See?” He demonstrated how easy it was to open each window.

“You’ve been here spending time with me pretending you can’t read just so I’ll read them to you. That’s your dirty trick.”

“No, no, I just know the sounds you taught me, and I don’t have much else to do when sleep won’t come so I just light a candle and practice.”

Then the door didn’t hang even. So he took to that, but he was too good with his hands and that took only a day to look at it and a day to get proper parts made. And in that time he finished another book.

“You’re always welcome at classes, Herman.”

“You’d welcome a wolf, but Trent wouldn’t welcome a sheep unless he planned on eating it.”

It didn’t matter how she persisted, what she promised, even kicking Trent out, an empty threat since Sheriff Walker would not accept that—Herman wouldn’t attend.

But she had nothing else for him.

Four weeks of tasks and he’d done such a good job that nothing new needed fixing. Sure, she’d see him around and maybe in church, but it wasn’t the same as everyday and in the privacy before students arrived or after they left. It wasn’t the quiet moments when it was just them.

“I could teach you!” she said. “You helped me so much.”

“But Ms. Catherine, you have classes in the morning till afternoon and then the grown-ups come after supper. When would you fit me in?”

“Come by place at night, Herman. I’ll fit you in.”

Friday night, Herman arrived at the Tully house in his Sunday best with a book she loaned him from the library. Ms. Catherine’s plan was that they’d head out to church in his Sunday best, slightly wrinkled.

However, she had to turn him away. “I’m sorry, Herman. I promise next time.”

From the porch, he saw the pastor seated in her parlor before she closed the curtains with a somber expression.

~

The sudden request caught her off guard. But Sarah prided herself on being quick on her feet. “I don’t what you want to know but everyone liked her. Sometime around January, a boy was giving her lip because he didn’t want to chop wood but it was his turn! I did it just the day before. Gran did it on the weekend! But you know how boys are, thinking they’re already grown, and so he shoots up cussing out of his chair and grabs the ax and says, ‘You wanna see how good I am at chopping?’ It all happened so fast all we could do was stare. We all knew he wasn’t talking about wood at that point. Gran asked, ‘What do you want to happen next?’ and he took a second to think before settling down and going to chop wood.” Sarah took a second to settle herself. “I think if you locked a lion in with her, she’d come out queen of the jungle.”

“Tigers live in the jungle. Lions are the savanna.”

She doubted very much Georgia had an lions but sometimes it was best not to argue with a teacher.

“Chopping wood at her age? No one ever thought to let the old gal retire?”

“They don’t exactly ask my opinions on such things.”

“Tell them anyway.”

“Gran said the same…”

He’d spent that whole story searching with no fruits. Nothing on the door frame. Nothing under the Gran’s desk or the students’. When he opened the sash window, he frowned deeper than elsewhere, testing its smooth track and finding trouble in its fresh coat of paint.

His goal was clear when he returned to the desk.

He gave it so violent a tug the whole thing moved and white scratched appeared near the feet.

Gone or not, his or not, this was her Gran’s desk that he abused. “Sir, please just the littlest of respect for her property.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I need in that drawer. Where’s the ax?”

Her eyes went wide and she held her breath with an internal struggle, before she stepped outside to the chopping stump. The ax was locked away in a shed. But she reached under the stump and came back in with a handful of dirt that held a dull, golden prize: the key.

It fit perfectly in the locked drawer.

With trepidation, Sarah watched him pull it open, not sure why, not sure what inside her gave her these shivers, but certain she could trust them.

Inside was a Bible.

“That’s it?” he said.

“No…” Sarah couldn’t put her astonishment into words. Parents often came by asking why their child didn’t have more verses memorized and Gran would tell them they were at the wrong place. Whatever the old ways were, Gran had shirked them. She didn’t attend church. She didn’t keep a Bible. She said she feared but did not love.

“Gran was not a pious woman. She kept us out of church each Sunday.”

“As she should. The best defense against sin is education. Immorality and ignorance go hand-in-hand.”

Sarah bit her lip. Was that a common saying? How else could he quote Gran?

~

The teacher drove at speeds faster than any of the Gods’ creations past the farmland in a man-made machine, but began to coast with his eyes in the sky as he saw a bird dropping dust upon the crops. A loud, noisy bird. It had an unsettling rhythm. The chop of air. The buzz of wings. Like a bug too big.

His fascination almost laid his goals to rest then and there till Sarah screamed and he jerked the car before finding the ditch.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s been a long day’s drive. Perhaps this should be our last stop.”

Sarah’s curious itch kept getting the better of her. The teacher had stuffed Gran’s Bible into his Gladstone bag. She tried to peer inside. That bag might be her biggest clue to who this newcomer was and how he seemed aware of things he should not be aware of. But when he set it in the back with her, when his eyes weren’t on her, she found the bag locked with no means of opening. The combination could’ve been hundreds of possibilities, she reckoned, and there was no point raising his suspicion of her at this point.

They ventured out to the Bertrand farm. A rarity in the town because the 160 acres had not been parceled off. The Bertrands, dating back to 1880, had been good upstanding folk coming from a farm in Iowa to farm in Oklahoma. It was like they spoke to the land. And the land spoke back.

Just a decade prior to the Dust Bowl, other farmers scented their town like bread and popcorn as they burnt surplus hoping to drive up the prices, but the country had too much in store to care. At least they were warm without needing expensive coal. There was even talk of joining the Farm Strike until the National Guard began rounding up mob leaders who threatened the judges evicting farmers and the dairy trucks trying to deliver farm products.

Meanwhile, Bertrand Sr. did his part to support this town’s finances and bellies.

So Sarah directed the teacher there. “Several classmates work the farms with their parents. A good place to spread the word.”

Now that they approached, she added a caveat. “Remember, these folks value respect. They know they’ve earned theirs, but they don’t know if you’ve earned yours.”

“How do I know they’ve earned theirs?” he asked.

They arrived without an answer.

The workers played poker on their breaks. This wasn’t the high stakes game at the diner where a week’s wages might be on the table. This was a game of pennies and you knew someone meant business if a nickel got thrown in. Just something to pass the quiet time while eating a sandwich.

As the Cadillac pulled up, they regarded it as they might any other car then returned to their game. Once the teacher stepped out, alone, suddenly break time was over and it was back to work.

“What’s on the agenda for today, folks?”

The five here had not more than a quality shared among them: Young, old, black, white, male, female. Two exceptions: place of employ and disinterest in strangers.

“How old might you two be?” he asked the youngest.

“Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying so skedaddle before you look a fool,” said an older woman named Adelaide while another grabbed a wooden maul.

“I do not fear looking a fool, I do not fear not fitting in, I do not fear the violence of the ignorant. I only fear that such a cycle will repeat itself once more,” the teacher said. “School starts once more tomorrow.”

“Violence?” That got them all in good spirits at his expense. “A maul ain’t made for violence, friend. It’s made for service. And we got fence posts to replace. Come back tomorrow and maybe they’ll be free.”

“Hand it over.”

He waited for the maul.

“I’ll assist so no one’s too tired for reading tomorrow. Everyone’s welcome but it’s mandatory for minors.”

“Only farmers here.”

This crew saw little in the teacher to respect but if he was offering his services, maybe they’d find a place for him. After all, he wouldn’t be teaching much without any students so it was good to have a fall back.

Adelaide spat. “You can hold the posts.”

Sarah watched from the car, deafened by the distance and the windows, as to exactly what was transpiring but her new teacher lugging a cart full of fence posts while marching beside a boy and an armed woman did not sit right with her.

Still, were he to survive in this county, he needed to prove himself to its people.

And to Sarah.

~

Tall though he was, to steady it in place he needed to hug the post as a worker swung the maul near his head to drive it in. The older workers offered up Junior, the boy, about Sarah’s age, perhaps younger or perhaps just a bit thinner, to stand on the cart full of posts and swing with the brunt of his power but when he hesitated, that Adelaide took over to show him how it was done. She swung and if the teacher got hit, he shouldn’t have been there. But he did not get hit, though it came near, and he did not flinch.

Instead, he spoke up after the second post. “Perhaps work would go quicker if we switched spots.”

“I been doing this half my years, and you think you can do better than me?”

“No disrespect intended, but I’ve seen how you can do it. You haven’t seen how I can.”

She burned her gaze into his eyes but if the threat of a crushed skull couldn’t do it, why did she think a stare would faze him? Begrudgingly, she handed off the maul.

With a deep breath, the teacher watched the crop duster from before as it landed down the way on a dirt strip. The plane seemed to be the first thing to unsettle him today. But who wasn’t afraid of flying just a little?

He draped his coat over the side of the cart. Then without the button on his sleeve, he rolled them up fine. And lastly, his undone collar revealed pinched, glossy skin running down his collarbone and deeper into his shirt. Where the scars stopped was impossible to say.

Crack

The worker’s eyes went big as she pulled further away. Just an extra inch to save her.

The teacher’s arc had violence within it but following the first swing came an identical second. A third. A fourth. Power surged from his astride position up through the hips into the shoulder and at the crest, his hand slid down the shaft.

Crack!

For the next post, the trajectory did not change but the speed did. He’d found his rhythm. Nothing would stop him but completion. His eyes trained on that post as if he was not seeing a wood as his target but some vendetta.

CRACK!

Deeper the fence post sank into the dirt.

“HEY!” Adelaide’s anger rolled over itself in her voice.

The teacher stopped his swing.

“You did that on purpose!”

“I did.”

The admission flabbergasted her. In all her days, never did she expect someone to admit it!

“You’re an insightful one. I hit that fence post on purpose.”

“You know what a caved skull does to a smart mouth?”

“You there, boy,” he called to the thin lad from before. He’d been watching as wide-eyed as her. “Was that last swing any different?”

Junior started to stammer before coming to grips. “No, sir. I mean, I didn’t notice anything off about it.”

“You weren’t worried until someone shouted?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it me shouting when that hammer came near my ear?”

“No, sir…” Guilt seeped into his voice and he averted his eye from her.

If her death stare didn’t work on the teacher, it’d work on the boy whether he looked or not. She scrambled up the cart to snatch that maul from the man. Her huffing and puffing and the wild look in her eyes—he knew what the thought bouncing around that head of hers.

“Consider your first strike because retaliation requires no hesitation.”

Before this came to a head, an older man hobbled toward them from the barn. The cane he used for support was enough but just the same, the boy went running.

“Dad! We saw you up there.” There was an uncanny likeness. Needing a few more inches and a few more pounds, surely, but the strong nose was the same. “One day, you’ll show me a roll, won’t you?”

“At dinner, sure. We get a new hand?”

“A teacher,” Adelaide scoffed.

“And why’s there derision in your voice?” Bertrand Sr. was a stout man, even being over six-foot. The wiry graying hair in his beard held all manner of dust but it didn’t bother him.

“Is this green bean what we want the next generation turning into?”

“Separating our farmers from our scholars got us into this drought. We need farmers teaching and we need learners plowing.”

“The babes can’t plow if they’re locked in school.”

“Yes, I understand, this farm certainly can’t survive without babes, can it, Adelaide?” He regarded her with a cold tone. Then he turned his attention to the teacher finally. “Sir, the name’s Russel Bertrand Sr. And this here’s Junior or Russ if you take to him. He’s got 15 years in him and he knows his reading fine, but his arithmetic could use work. Do you know much about the agricultural sciences?”

The teacher began buttoning up his collar and sleeves once more, but left the coat folded over his arm. It was too warm for such dressings after exertion.

“I’ll help him.”

“And what should he call you?”

“Ishmael will do. ‘Sir’ if it’s too odd.”

“Ishmael will do. A name should command the full usage of the tongue if it’s to be worthy of respect.”

~

About this time, Sarah had some business to attend to.

She crept out of the car, keeping a watchful eye on the folks arguing. The maul seemed no longer a concern with Mr. Bertrand in control. But she required the smallest amount of discretion here and when no one was looking, she went around the barn.

There was a sweaty farmhand on the other side. Certainly it was getting warm, yes, he hammered away at the new strip of siding with nails in his mouth, but the sweat pouring from him seemed in excess to her.

Whatever his particular ailment was, it was none of her business. She was only thankful that she could slink by with heavy footfalls without drawing his attention but when he stopped pounding, she stopped walking.

He muttered something to himself as he took a new nail.

Sarah’s eyebrow cocked.

Family, that wasn’t English. Nor Spanish. Nor any other language she’d heard here or there. But the world was large and she tried not to think it strange enough to stop her mission.

It’d been a long day and how much longer was untold. She knew the Bertrand farm. She knew Russ. She knew where the outhouse was, though she much preferred to go in-house.

And as she exited, she heard a scream unlike any she thought possible by a human.

The agony seemed to ferment in his belly before erupting out in boiling, gaseous pleas for Grace but those prayers fell on deafened ears and Sarah was the first on the scene.

She did not see what happened first to split his leg in uneven twain but the man already had the jean scrunched up revealing a foot hanging on by one flap of ankle skin. At first, she looked away, repulsed as any might by the bone and the gore and things only doctor’s should know exist, but it was her duty to help this man how she might.

She began screaming to as she raced to him.

Then stopped racing but kept screaming.

The teacher was the next on the scene, his pace quickened further by Sarah’s distress. He brandished the maul and did not drop it.

“Snakes!” she repeated from the ground.

His eyes scanned for any near but he saw none.

Another farmhand took over handling the injured, but Junior left his father’s side to take to Sarah with more care than the teacher. “What do you mean, Sarah Tully? Did you get bit by a snake? You didn’t hear a rattler, did you?” He yanked at her shoe to see her leg.

“No! Snakes!” and she hissed the final letter like one herself.

“You got bit by multiple?” When he revealed her leg, not a mark was found.

“Not me!”

The boy looked perplexed at the scene, at the blood, at the man in the distance that had little hope for his life, let alone for his leg. “I don’t think a snake bite or even many could do that.”

Mr. Bertrand, however, pieced together an account of the events. “That fool Harry probably stepped into a nest and when he felt one climb up pant-leg, he took to striking his own foot. Junior, how do we protect our legs?”

“Pants in boots,” the boy said, checking his own.

“No, that…” Sarah started to stammer. She stood of her own accord, shaking off her friend. That was nonsense. Illogical. It wasn’t what she saw. It was wrong!

“Y’all should head out,” Mr. Bertrand said. “Take the boy with you. Work is done for the day while we tend to the injured. I’ll tell the other workers to send their kids tomorrow.”

“That’s not what—!” Sarah yelled but her teacher cut her off.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of them.”

She kept fighting to say her piece as the teacher ushered her away. Mr. Bertrand had no interest in changing his mind and Russ thought she’d caught madness from the situation, giving her little mind but much sympathy.

She did not quiet until the teacher looked her in the eye and said, “I believe you.”

They marched to the car and in the backseat, she felt her own legs. She had never seen inside a leg before, but she had legs. There were no vacant pockets in her flesh. The fool Harry, as Mr. Bertrand had put it, hadn’t stepped in a nest of snakes. The nest of snakes had been inside him.

She tucked her pants into her boots.

“Russ, how bad is it to get bit?” she whispered.

“Not too bad if it’s not a rattler. You hardly feel the bite until later, but the bite ain’t the problem. The infection is.”

She pulled her sleeve down. She’d had a fever before. No problem.

“They say if you get bit, always keep the snake.”

We put our dogs down for the same offense, but you keep the snake? she thought. Too late anyway.

~

On occasion, the teacher glanced in his rear-view mirror to catch the girl’s eyes but her thoughts were out the window miles away. She had more to say, certainly, but she wasn’t saying it.

Junior, on the other hand, wouldn’t quit yammering. “I ain’t never seen an accident like that.”

“And I hope we never have to again,” Sarah muttered.

“Even when my pa got his leg crushed by a horse, it certainly didn’t cleave off like that. You ever see the insides of a person, Sarah Tully?”

“I have now!” The teacher’s eyes darted to the mirror as her voice rose a little.

“What was it like?”

“Junior, I don’t particular like the memory nor dwelling in it.”

He grabbed at his leg, flexing his foot to see how the muscles moved and digging his fingers in deep to get a sense how big the bone was within his calf. “I can certainly feel there’s meat inside and surely we’re not so different from beasts, but—”

The car skidded to a stop so suddenly there was impact against the seat behind the teacher. He whipped around with impatient fury in his eyes. “Boy! Do you not hear what’s she saying? She’s asking you ever so politely, ‘Enough!’”

Sarah rubbed her head. “Sir, what in tarnation was that? Do you want to send me home bruised? Gran tolerated no whooping and neither will Mama.”

The air was thick and uncomfortable and it wasn’t just the dust. He searched for an apology but then his eyes locked on where Divine chance had set to place this disagreement.

Just down the way was the largest building in town. A few modern businesses had been constructed of brick, but wood houses ruled this land. Brick? Wood? This was made of neither for this was no house. This was no modern business. This here with the two spires was the Church of St. Thomas Aquinas.

Each spire was like some terrible and ancient creature had hammered a spike from under the crust, then liked it so much they did again. Folks here saw the stain glass with its 12 symmetrical circles and reckoned it a clock though there were no hands and no numbers. The actual clocks on all four sides were wrong. Wrong in different ways, mind you. One read 6:10, the next 3:11, the next 1:15, and finally 10:14. None moved. The clock never once corrected itself or stubbornly continued on its path. They simply sat as a reminder. Something to set your eyes upon and forever keep in your heart.

To an outsider, it must’ve been odd having a Gothic cathedral in town large enough to hide the population during a storm, but for those raised here, it was no different than being born with webbed fingers. If it didn’t cause problems, it was just how it always was and an assault on it was as an assault on the town.

After enough silence, Junior found his words again. “I just pray Mr. Styles will make it.”

“Enough!”

“Don’t yell at him.”

Junior’s eyes fell to the floor. Just rolled into town and already dusty. But what stuck out as odd to him was the Gladstone. The bag certainly wasn’t big enough to fit all his belongings unless very little belonged to him. Junior thought about stuffing his entire life into this and maybe, if he only needed a single spare set of clothes and the Bible, then maybe it’d all fit. But when he found the bag locked, and with the teacher already angered, he set it down.

“Say, Mr. Ishmael, what might you want us for today? I understand Sarah was showing you around, but surely I’m—”

The car roared to life, cutting the boy short, only to slow as they approached the church’s lot.

There was a girl holding a ball.

“Who is she?” the teacher asked Sarah.

“Never seen her to my knowledge.”

Her penetrating eyes met the teacher’s and soon the two were locked on one another.

Junior spoke up. “Maybe if you attended church every so often. That’s the vicar’s daughter.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty, Russ.”

“Tell me about the vicar.”

“A rough fellow, but the path to salvation is a windy one, they say, so I know it’s not my place to judge. He blew into town just this year with just a bindle and his daughter, but the pastor welcomed him in to his legion.”

“Then why don’t she come to class?”

Junior shrugged suddenly out of answers. “Maybe the church is all she needs to be one of them acolytes like her daddy. He moved up the ranks so quick you’d think he’d been born in that church.”

“You’re right, Sarah. Why doesn’t she? Let’s offer our invitation.”

His words were hospitable enough, but his tone—she knew a lie when she heard it and as the car revved up once more with awesome power just to go several feet, she kept her eyes on the girl who had never once looked away. A steady gaze like that… What had she seen?

~

“Hello, girl. What’s your name?”

Junior hadn’t known that either.

And after some waiting, neither did the teacher.

Certainly she was younger than the others, perhaps 10 if his estimation was generous, and the sort of rail thin of a picky child with unaccommodating parents. Her hair cut was rough. Definitely her daddy’s doing. But the feature that would forever stick in the teacher’s minds was those eyes. Hypnotically wide, dark, and unblinking.

Sarah and Junior stepped out to try their hand. Every child knew the silence adults expected when they were near, so perhaps some words from an older sibling type might coax her into speaking.

“You can call me Sarah if you like. That’s a nice ball you got.”

Nothing.

“They call me Junior, but I hate it. Sins of the father, right? What should we call you, honeybunch?”

A stare.

The two companions turned toward one another but the teacher could not look away from this porcelain doll. No child should be in such clean clothes, not even at a church.

“Can I help you, neighbors?” a voice called from the door. The vicar wore a white dalmatic trimmed with gold that matched his tooth as he smiled.

The teacher tore his focus from the girl. Then to Sarah’s surprise, his words were coated in honey. “Well hello! Don’t know if word reached you, but you got a new teacher in town. We’ll be opening up tomorrow. This your daughter? You can send her round 9:00 or earlier if you got other business.”

Was this his first time cracking a smile? Sarah did not like it.

“She’s learning her verses fine here, but it’s been a pleasure, sir.”

On either of them really.

“We’re happy to accommodate all subjects. Mr. Bertrand asked that his boy be taught the Earth sciences. We can certainly round that out with Heavenly scripture, too.”

“You think you’re more insightful than the Church?”

“I do.”

“Excuse you?”

While children scrapped with tooth and nail and all manner of tugging on hair, Junior had heard his parents argue enough in front of him to know these were fighting words. “Perhaps we should wait in the car, Sarah.”

“Perhaps you all should,” the vicar declared. “We’ll see you again sooner or later.”

Junior already had his hand on the door and Sarah was reaching for the teacher’s suspenders when an ancient voice bellowed from the back of the cathedral.

“Wait,” it croaked.

The vicar’s gold—toothed smile twitched as he steadied his breathing.

“Bring them to me.”

~

Baited breath bellowed from the ribbed vaulted ceilings as the party followed their chaperon past kaleidoscope stained glass windows. Wide though the structure was, it felt claustrophobic with tall candelabras dotted by the the pier-raised pointed arches, and the vicar caught Junior staring instead of watching where he wandered.

“I know the artwork’s morbidly fascinating, but be assured that they are cautionary tales of sin and little more.”

Certainly the windows were a sight, but no story jumped out of the broken rainbow in its glassy prison to catch the boy’s attention. He’d seen them before. He’d seen them just yesterday.

But what he hadn’t noticed was the sound.

Perhaps it was the organ music playing, the bustle of neighbors congregating with one purpose, the holy hum of hymns, or the pastor’s raspy sermons, but he had not heard this sound yesterday.

The buzzing.

The clerestory windows were large and clear and sunlight filtered through best it could.

However, the triforium windows were much smaller with tight artwork full of nooks for critters to build nests. But those nests didn’t appear without material. Wasps for example went skittering to the nearest tree, or wood, to chew up the wood and build a pulpy nest. Bees used wax made of oils from pollen. It might be noticed if wasps came chewing on the pews. And bees had no interest in dead, pale flowers that decorated the crimson carpet running the length of the aisle.

“Need help with the cleaning?” Junior yelled, digging a pinky in his ear.

The vicar whipped around at the implication. “I tend to it myself.”

As a holy man, his patience was short.

The 2nd floor walkway approached the windows enough that surely he would’ve seen any nests in there, so it must simply be the distance and the detail playing tricks on Junior. As a kid, he always dreamed of watching a sermon from there. And maybe continuing on to the spires on either side to ring the bell. But for not the first time, he failed to find the tucked away stairs.

He led them to the raised pulpit. Each Sunday, Junior and most of the town gathered in, finding seats with family and friends, murmuring polite talk about the weather and the week before silence snatched the crowd and everyone rose to watch the ancient pastor hobble up the steps. The youngest became antsy midway. Mothers mouthed to their babes, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” but they dared not speak it. Even the elderly, though not the same ancient, found their legs incapable of enduring the anticipation and they’d take the arm of someone near because at this moment, to sit was to sin. The vicar always offered an arm to the pastor but was always refused.

Today, it was empty.

The five of them.

Given the pastor’s speed up the stairs, Junior tried to imagine where the leader called from so loudly.

Rather than lead them to the antechambers on either side, the vicar ascended the steps. Sarah, with her upbringing, saw nothing sacred in these steps, but Junior hesitated.

There was a room behind the pulpit, but what lay beyond was shrouded in teenage mystery. There was no Earthly way of knowing without taking up the cloth.

“Come now, you two,” the vicar called.

Behind Junior, he now noticed, the teacher too hesitated, but his reverence was not toward the stairs.

Instead, the stranger stared at the shadows on the 2nd floor walkway.

Perhaps he, too, fancied ringing the bells, and a brief bit of imagination had Junior swinging from the rope of one and the teacher swinging from the other and outside, Sarah listening, and on all three faces were toothy smiles. And as he painted each smile in his mind, Sarah’s, then his own, he shuddered at the toothy maw that might appear if stranger’s somber expression broke.

The teacher ushered him up the stairs with blasphemous disregard.

What had he seen? Junior wondered.

~

The light of the windows did not reach the hunched pastor standing before a large wooden double doors. Oil lamps provided a dim view of the uneven walls. No decoration. No beauty. Just imperfect human craftsmanship for the House of Gods. Brazen youth with fleet feet might stumble on the floor. That was not why Sarah walked slowly.

The others had lagged behind.

She did not feel comfortable before the pastor.

“An unfamiliar face,” he groaned. “Girl, why have we not met before?”

The teacher fell in behind her. “Nice to see you, Pastor.”

See? Sarah thought. Not meet or make his acquaintance or—

“Your father?” the pastor asked and the absurdity caused a chuckle that raised to a laugh and she could not stop herself for some time, cackling in hysteria between these two men.

“Sorry, your holiness, sir, my father long left this town. I’m Catherine Tully’s granddaughter.”

“Ahh, the Tullies. You do not attend at her guidance.”

“Well ever since…” She trailed off. Of course he knew of her passing. “My mother’s been making an effort, but we sit in back.”

“Seems your mother is not all fool then.”

He left Sarah’s mouth a gape as though she’d been slapped.

“That leaves you, boy. What is your business here?”

Sarah listened keenly as well.

The teacher eyed the old man. His liturgical clothes were as pale as his skin. However many hairs he had as a lad, he had equal number of wrinkles. His eyes were glass beads of cataract beneath sinking bald brows. The cloth hung on him like he had an older brother.

“Why did you call us here?” the teacher asked. His polite tone was back but it was cracking with this feverish energy tossing in its cage, eager to free itself to the chaos of the world.

The doors, the wooden double doors with studded with iron and a black band running horizontally, towered above even the teacher. The Cadillac could’ve fit through. And how many labored to carry these massive creations in here?

But the pastor reached back with a single hand and the door swung open, dragging along the stone.

Sarah took a breath.

Clear air.

Another. She could breathe!

No dust getting swept by the perfectly fit doors.

The tears in her eyes were not speckled with microscopic flecks.

What an awesome miracle, she thought.

“Join me for an early supper,” he told them as the air cleared of creaking, too.

“Russ,” the teacher said. “That bag you were playing with in the car? Fetch it for me. Now.”

Before the boy could jump at the chance to help, the pastor said, “It can wait.”

“Go on, Junior.” His voice quivered.

“Emile, the doors.”

“Russel!”

And at the pastor’s command, the doors they’d unknowingly passed through to this chamber were sealed and with the gust of wind that followed, the torches went out, leaving the hall in darkness but for the dim candle light upon a table set for a feast.

“I guess it can wait, sir. Is it some remedy you needed or…?”

The teacher, a fiery silhouette now, passed by the children into the dark room.

First Week of 2021: ~6,000 words

Chapter 1

From the back door of the diner, all you could see were two glowing orbs like pupil-less eyes. The sounds fed into the darker thoughts, the way dust funneled through the alley tearing air to a buzz, and don’t forget that growl of the engine. What great beast lurked in the dusty shroud?

It had a jaunty whistle, though.

“A radio? In a car?” Margaret asked for not the first time. “Don’t that distract you?”

The bootlegger sat in the cab without a word. All ready for the coming storm, he had on goggles pulled off the Red Baron’s body but the boy was too young for that. In nice clothes—nice and dirty—with a bandanna over his mouth and nose. Hard to say if he was enjoying the broadcast, but she wasn’t. She was busy sweating hefting a 5-gallon jug from the back. She paid $50 a jug, knowing half was water. It wouldn’t have been this heavy otherwise, heavy, but not this heavy, and a gentleman might’ve offered to unload it for her—heck even a good businessman would’ve offered, but this boy from Appleseed didn’t need to be a gentleman or a good businessman. He had a good business. Could charge what he wanted. Help how he wanted. Listen to whatever show he wanted.

She went back under the tarpaulin.

Box of tools.

A spare tire.

“There’s only one jug back here.” She went around the cab to knock on the door. “Hey, I paid for two and there’s only one back here.”

The boy looked down on her saying nothing.

“Now I’m a good customer but I won’t continue to be with this kind of service.”

“Tell the sheriff,” he said and the engine revved up to head out at speeds too dangerous for a town the size of Oskaloosa, Oklahoma.

Never heard of it?

Look on the map.

Still can’t find it?

What you need to do is get a map from 1862 before the Homestead Act then look at a map from anywhere in the 1920s and you see that little speck you thought was a printing error? That’s Oskaloosa.

But family, this story takes place in 1935 and don’t you dare look on a map after that because it won’t be there.

~

“Who’s winning?” Margaret asked as she came in the diner. Not a one in here offered assistance with the jug, either, but that was all the better. From the kitchen, hidden by a half wall and a curtain, she quietly turned on the tap, hoping their banter covered the sound.

“Shef,” one of the farmers said. “As usual.”

“Ah, you’re only here for the drink.”

“And the smile of Ms. Tully. But how’s it--” The farmer heard something.

“Just washing up.” She came out from the kitchen with a towel in hand. “Y’all may be cheats and scoundrels, but this here is a respectable establishment. Now who’s parched?”

The hands went up.

The glasses went round.

The faces got red.

The pot got bigger.

Margaret even won a hand, being the only clearheaded one. She wasn’t trying to peek but it was hard when the banker yawned with his Hearts over head.

The quarters and dimes got passed around, but one stack kept growing.

The farmer said, “Maybe you oughta come work the fields, Shef.”

The general store owner had a good hand coming up, he just felt it in his bones, like he knew the rain was coming any day. “I’ll knock a dollar off all y’all’s tabs. What do you say?”

The harbinger wind howled round and banged the Dutch shutters against the siding.

“You’re out,” the sheriff growled.

“Can be a dollar each and y’all just spot me a dollar collective.”

“Walk it off.”

“You’ll see! I just know I almost—”

“Go home, Willy!” he barked.

“Now wait just a damned second! I had the best hand last time but you just—you said—you—you!” He rose up out of his chair so quick the thing tipped back onto the hardwood with a thunderous clatter.

The men at the table went quiet. No running the tap at this juncture.

When Margaret came running out the kitchen, she witnessed the sheriff slowly rise up. He didn’t have his star on him tonight. Probably for the best because where the star went, the revolver followed.

A friendly game of Texas Hold’em was set to turn into a not so friendly game of fisticuffs.

Margaret said, “Now, Willy, why don’t you check your coat pocket? You’re always stuffing your winnings in there. And Sheff, what you doing bullying this boy? How about another drink? I was just turning the stove on, too, for a late night snack if y’all looking to soak up the gut rot.”

Willy desperately rummaged in his coat pockets at the rack, careful to take only his coat and take it far from the others, lest they think something untoward was happening.

A few hands went up for drinks and a few more for sandwiches.

Two hands went up in celebration. “You were right, Ms. Tully! I’m a darn fool. I always stuff my winnings or change in my pocket and play with it as I’m heading home. Lets me savor that victory. Watch me win back all I lost with just this lucky dollar. Sheff, a sandwich on me? No hard feelings. Two more sandwiches, Ms. Tully.”

The bacon and eggs joined the smoke in the air and then all the sandwiches came out toasted. Sheff took two and said, “Thank ya, Willy. No hard feelings.” There wasn’t another leftover for him.

“Fifty-one,” Margaret muttered into her accounting book, writing in red.

~

Margaret carried away the glasses and plates into the back.

“Can we help, Ms. Tully?” Willy asked with five dollars stuffed in his pockets and his hat in hand.

“Yes, Willy, you can help by going and getting.”

The glassy-eyed lot of them said their thank yous and goodbyes and Margaret Tully took to cleaning. First the dishes. Rinse, wash, dry, and place them in the cabinet and seal it.

As she turned away from the sink window, just a screen of dark dust out there that even the White Way couldn’t do more than cast silhouettes, one such silhouette approached the window.

The shadow watched through the glass as she cleared the table.

“Save all them crumbs for Abner,” she said in her mocking tone. She brushed them down into a sieve, knowing it unnecessary but still worrying what dust might do to her baby’s baby, and the dust that fell out—if it were sugar, it’d be enough for a cake. She worried what this dust might be doing to all them.

Then last and probably least, she grabbed her broom and dust pan.

No matter how she stuffed cloths and towels under the doors and around the windows, dust got in. Even the church with its vestibule entrance had a thick layer of dust whenever you opened the hymn book. No power greater than Gods’ but perhaps there were other matters to attend.

It’d all be back in the morning but there was some dignity in leaving a place tidy. She gathered up a nice little pile then listened for the wind. Today, the leeward side was the window above the sink.

She set the dust pan on the floor.

Then unlocked the window.

Then she bent down for her dust pan.

And when she rose to toss out the day’s filth…

She sneezed and it went all in the sink.

She just sort of stared a moment. “Messy Margaret strikes again.”

~

The window got closed and locked as did the door behind her and once outside with a scarf pulled over her mouth, she circled the building to latch the shutters. They did their part, however small, in keeping the dust out. And silhouettes.

If she were new in this one-horse town, it’d be easy to get lost on a night like now. The storm was in full force. Maybe she could’ve waited it out. They never lasted long. But it wasn’t the big one. And she liked getting home before the witching hour.

As she followed those too high orbs lighting a vague way down Main Street, she couldn’t hear herself think. A gale force wind sent nipping particulates across her cheeks and she turned away as she trudged on.

And at first, she thought her mind must be playing tricks on her. A bit of Midnight Madness striking a weary mind. But her eyes kept on it, trying to focus, trying to filter out the smokescreen, until she was certain:

Someone was following her.

“Howdy, neighbor!” she called.

But she did not stop.

She released her clutch upon her scarf to wave. “We best be getting home before this really picks up.”

Her voice could be getting carried two towns over for all she knew. And perhaps the same was true for the silhouette.

She continued down the street, her pace a bit faster now.

“Gotta get out of this storm!” she tried again.

Faster still.

Losing her breath, catching a mouthful of dust instead.

Soon she was at her gate. It wasn’t more than a block away from the diner. Everyone knew her house. Everyone knew she had sugar or recipes or a hammer. Everyone knew, unlike everyone else, she kept her doors locked.

How many times had that saved her?

Not now.

She had her key in hand before she ever stepped on the wooden porch. It really needed replacing and she meant to last year before it got cold but maybe this year, maybe this summer, and the boards would sit tight together.

Her eyes never left the figure behind her. They were just across the street now. She hoped they’d pass.

Perhaps if she had prayed…

She fumbled for the lock but aiming without looking is bad business.

She felt the hole with her thumb but when she tried lining it up, her hands trembled too fiercely and she missed, lost her grip on the keys, and they fell.

Still her eyes stayed locked on the figure nearly at the gate. If he—and she was sure they were a he now--opened that gate, she’d scream. She’d scream the whole way. She’d scream whatever happened.

But like the lock, it’s bad business feeling for keys without looking. Especially on a deck with space between the boards. The moment she felt the metal of the key, she nudged it just enough to fall through to the dirt beneath.

She had to look.

The keys had disappeared into the abyss where no light reached tonight.

No more looking.

No more waiting.

Just screaming.

Bang, bang, bang!

“SARAH!” she screamed. “Uncle Pete! Unlock this right now.”

Bang, bang, bang!

A look back.

Where was he?

She heard a lock undo.

He was coming through the gate.

“Gonna wake the neighborhood like that.”

The front door opened and Margaret Tully charged in, knocking the book out of her teenage daughter’s hand.

“Who walked you ho—? Uncle Pete? He’s long…” At 17, Sarah was taller than her Mama and a good deal sturdier, too, but a mother on a mission can’t be stopped. Before Sarah could finish a thought, Mama disappeared into the kitchen, but she got her answers when Mama returned with Uncle Pete’s shotgun (Gods rest his soul).

She aimed at the door.

They waited several minutes. Long enough Sarah almost said something but thought better of it.

Then Mama lowered the gun.

She didn’t put it away, but she did remove her finger.

“No one came by tonight?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

They waited several minutes more and this time Sarah did say something.

“My only suitor was Abner.” She waited for Mama’s response. “I didn’t let him in though.”

Mama breathed finally. “I brought him a present.”

“Any apple cores?”

“Two.”

“He’ll love them.”

Mama had come in charging but trembling. Now her nerves were still. Sarah had the opposite reaction. She was trembling as reality set in, her eyes scanning the window for anything but getting nothing. Mama put the gun back and instead put her arms around Sarah.

It was just them in this big house these days. Only a month since Gran passed and already a lot of things happened: the two had gotten closer, the schoolhouse closed, they started dragging themselves to church, and soon a lot more would.

Mama looked out the window a bit longer. Even a flashlight wouldn’t cut through. Best wait till morning to get the key she dropped. She felt braver with a babe to protect, but not to the point of foolishness.

“Now what are you doing up reading past midnight? That’s how your eyes fall out.”

“Waiting on you,” Sarah shot back. “The Board of Education sent a note. New teacher’s coming next week.”

“I guess we can take tomorrow to rest.”

“No church?”

“No church. But don’t go celebrating! Celebrating is a sin!”

Sarah stifled her smile until she was in Mama’s arms again and then let it spread wide. She hated that creepy old pastor.

~

In 1862, Congress passed what was known as the Homestead Act, signed by Lincoln on May 20. In 1863, the first settler took to living on and improving their land. Soon 3 million would follow with 1.6 million officially obtaining necessary documents for the 160 acres of nearly-free land. Nearly-free because there was a small registration fee, and the price of tools and materials to build a new house, and the fact that this was already Native land, some legally given to tribes after they’d been forced to move once before.

But to the ignorant, predominantly white settlers taking advantage of this, none of that mattered.

Do you know how long it takes to walk the length of 160 acres?

90 minutes without dillydallying.

Do you know how long it takes to tear up the grasslands, plow, plant, tend, and reap 160 acres?

A whole lot longer, family.

And these inexperienced farmers laid claims without a single thought to that and many found out a whole lot longer was in fact too long and parceled out acres here and there until the size was manageable and being neighborly with houses on either side was feasible after a hard day’s work.

With so many farmers, ranchers, miners, speculators, and the rest, they needed infrastructure. They cobbled it together like they cobbled together their houses. They weren’t the first to discover it but certainly they acted though they were.

For example, it didn’t make sense for so many farmers to head out to the City to sell their crops. That was time not spent growing their crop. So they set up somebody’s son to sell all the farmers’ crop in the City and then come back and pay them 90% of the earnings. And while he was out there, bring back some supplies for the farmers.

They later realized this was a store.

Then Farmer Fred started putting up fencing and his neighbor Farmed Ted argued Fred had intentionally lay claim to Ted’s land. Neither had any way to prove their stolen land was their own, but the collective commissioned the smith make a star and they pinned that to the ugliest, meanest man who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone. He locked up folks just for whistling at too high a pitch.

They called him Sheriff.

Then farmers started catching sick and a guy pretty good with a horse was put in charge of all hoarse throats. They wouldn’t be named such if they weren’t connected. They started calling him Doc and people thought he must be or they wouldn’t call him that. He did alright, as well as anyone should’ve expected, but eventually he got old and an apprentice replaced him who could actually read and the population boomed.

And with the farmers multiplying, there were a lot of children running around unable to read and that was no good because a church was coming next. So they set up the St. Thomas Aquinas church for the old pastor that seemed like he’d come as naturally as the town. He was ancient, as all pious folks were, and his long, gaunt fingers traced the words as he read them. His voice shivered and quake and he promised these wet years would continue so long as they kept up the intensive farmer.

“Rain follows the plow,” were his words and the words of old wisdom.

And 60 years later, 60 years after Oskaloosa was the official name for their little collective turned town, the curse came collecting.

It was, as many things are, the curse of ignorance.

Stolen land.

Poor farming.

The death of natural diversity.

All for a quick buck.

And little in Oskaloosa was set up in antagonism toward ignorance.

That little was Ms. Catherine Tully’s schoolhouse who passed 60 years later, a day short of 100, an age no one would question her fate, and soon a terrible dust storm five miles high would smite the folks for their ignorance.

Chapter 2

The day had been pretty clear.

The coolness of March was giving way to April and little dust wafted through the air without a breeze so everyone could go about their business with their bandannas around their neck or perhaps stuffed in their pockets. Some of the ruder men used them in place of a handkerchief, but when the inevitable storm came, you knew they didn’t change them before putting them on.

But all in all, today it was easy to forget about their troubles: the drought, the economy, all the goodbyes to folk chasing a better life in California. Those faded into the background like a cricket’s song and however briefly, the idyllic days had returned.

Then Willy came running into the diner.

“You forget your hat, Willy?” Margaret asked.

“You gotta come look!”

A Cadillac on an old country road in the days after a dust storm announces itself like a war.

The curious from the diner joined the curious already in the town square and soon a little crowd formed almost higher than Willy could count without pulling off his socks, all to peer down main street at the cloud forming the horizon.

It approached until the haze faded and the red dot at the center grew larger until you saw there was green trim and it was in fact a car growling down the road and not some Otherworldly beast that had its sights set on Oskaloosa. The folks there always were worrying about that.

“That’s a bootlegger’s car.”

“Think it’s the boy from Appleseed?”

“He drives a truck,” Margaret said. Then added, “Don’t he?”

Willy gulped. “What do they want with us?”

Sheff was the last to join the crowd, if you didn’t count Sarah who only peeked up from her book and out from her shed at the conversation around the vehicle.

But when the crowd moved to the parking spots the Cadillac occupied in front of the general store, Sarah stayed on the bench in her shed and closed the door.

“Howdy, sir,” the sheriff said as a man in black stepped out of the car.

This stranger was not aged, perhaps in his early 30s, but there was something old about the twinkle in his eyes. The way he took in the rapidly expanded landscape, building a mental map of the town, comparing it with one already in his mind, erasing the most modern buildings, and looking, scanning, searching for some landmark to orient himself. Even in this town with low-lying buildings and their wide yards, the skyline hindered his view.

Not once did his gaze dip to the man addressing him, nor the crowd surrounding him. He was unconcerned with these folks. But they were concerned with him.

His clothes were as nice as his car. Black with crimson and green trim, and trim those clothes were on his slender body. His head stuck out above the crowd and if any folks ran up at this moment, they’d know exactly who everyone was gawking at and why. While his tight buttoned collar did a good job of hiding, it didn’t do a perfect job and just below, there were deep scars.

When his eyes eventually did condescend to meet the crowd, he regarded them wordlessly. The sort of wisdom of a man that knew to think before he spoke, the sort of wisdom of a man to who you listened when he spoke, and if he didn’t speak and instead started doing something, it must be important. So when his eyes settled on the sheriff’s badge and suddenly he stooped to reach back inside for the passenger seat, the town collectively held their breath and the sheriff readied his anger in place of his revolver, but the stranger was just grabbing his wide brimmed hat.

The crowd breathed once more.

Finally, he said, “Which one of you local yokels want to show me to the schoolhouse?”

There was disdain in his voice.

“Yokels?”

“Calling us ignorant.”

“Ignorant?”

“Uneducated, Willy. Illiterate. Idiots. Bumpkins. Fools. Stupid, stupid!”

Two murmurs at opposite ends ran through the crowd.

“The new teacher?”

“In that car? No… What do they pay teachers elsewhere?”

“City fools think reading people superior to feeding people!”

Both conversations found their way to either ear of the sheriff.

“Pardon, friend, but might I ask your name and business? I seen this sort of transportation and I know what company it follows. And what company it attracts. This here is a Christian society and we don’t mind keeping the schoolhouse closed.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied slowly. “But the board of education does. And I can already see I have a lot of work to do here. And a lot to undo. Don’t worry. The car won’t bite. If you’re understandably green, I’ll take you for a spin sometime, Sheriff.”

The sheriff didn’t much care for the accusations in that answer. “Your name, boy.”

“Call me Ishmael.”

Margaret could see the rising tension as red filled up the sheriff’s face. “That’s certainly a unique name, sir. You’ve had a long trip, I imagine. Perhaps someone could show you to the schoolhouse to get you acquainted.”

“I’d be touched if you did.”

She raised her hands to say not her, just now realizing she still held a pen and notepad with someone’s order half-written. “I’ve got my diner to tend to. But—SARAH!” she yelled suddenly.

Her eyes trained over his shoulder and it made him turn his head to see a tall, lean, slapped together, wooden shed with a pitched roof and occupancy for one. The door stayed shut a minute. As if the occupant, this Sarah, was finishing up her business. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of putting such infrastructure in the center of the town square.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My daughter is not otherwise occupied and she’ll be one of your students, one of the best and brightest you’ll ever see.”

He doubted that but did not say. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make introductions and y’all can return to your little lives.”

“Little lives?” someone muttered.

He marched across the brown grass to meet his star pupil. She had a book in hand. The Secret of the Old Clock Tower.

“I respect you rising above your environment and learning to read, but I cannot ignore the locale. A latrine?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped in confusion. Her eyes found the crowd still watching, though her mother had gone back inside. Perhaps if the windows had been cleaned, she’d see Mama watching through the window as well. But when she searched for answers over her shoulder, she realized. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is a reading shed. One of the farm boys put it up. There’s a door so it keeps the dust out and when the wind comes, it don’t turn the page on me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I assure you it does!” she said, wondering how this newcomer could argue with her. Men in this town always thought they knew everything and apparently men in other towns thought the same.

“It looks like an outhouse.”

“No, it don’t!”

“Doesn’t.”

“Glad you see reason.”

“Your grammar. If you’re the exemplary student, I worry about the rest of the crop. How’d your poor, previous teacher survive so long?”

“Don’t speak ill of my gran.”

The stranger caught his tongue. And softened it.

“Your gran was the previous teacher? Ms. Tully? Making you Sarah Tully?”

“First true thing you said. And maybe I didn’t take to every lesson but she taught me just fine to not let myself be bullied by some--”

“By some fool from out of town. Let me start over. I apologize for my initial tone. My prejudice of country folk maybe extended unfairly onto you. I’m sorry, Sarah Tully.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been insulted by an adult or by a boy or even by a man belittling her on purpose or because of how he was raised, but it might’ve been the first time she remembered one correcting himself.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

She let out a laugh. “Ha! That for true? Or did your folks just fancy Moby Dick?”

“You’ve read it?”

“Gran made me.”

“My wife’s favorite book, even before it found its place in the canon.”

“Your wife don’t—doesn’t name you.”

“Maybe that’s why she liked me, though.”

“A flimsy foundation for a marriage.”

“Maybe that’s why she isn’t here.”

It was Sarah’s to soften her tone. “Sorry, sir, for whatever happened to her. My daddy’s gone, too. Sir… Ishmael, Mr. Ishmael? What did my mother send you to me for?”

He gathered himself with a big breath. “I want to see the schoolhouse and perhaps meet your classmates to arrange the start of classes once more. I’ll take you in my Cadillac.”

They returned to the crowd. It had dispersed enough to perhaps be called a company instead, but the sheriff watched with a suspicious eye. He could love and accept all, as the Good Book told him, but he didn’t have to trust them.

When the new teacher pulled out of the parking spaces, before he put the car in drive, he had to ask his burning question.

“So your mother owns the diner?”

She nodded.

He had to be sure.

“And her name’s Tully, too.”

“’Course.”

“Margaret Tully?”

“You got a good memory, sir.”

“I do now. I do.”

He drove off down the street, following her guidance. Sarah assumed he wasn’t used to the dust yet, heck even she wasn’t, because as a smile crept over his face, a tear formed in his eye.

~

In 1967, our nation closed its last one-room schoolhouse, but in 1930s rural America, they ruled America. The Church of St. Thomas Aquinas set up Oskaloosa’s to give children and adults the opportunity of reading the Good Book themselves. Did that violate a separation of church and state? No, because in those early barbaric days, the state had no involvement in the schools and it wasn’t until 1909 that Boards of Education were nationally instituted.

By then, Ms. Tully Sr. had already separated church and school.

~

Sarah was meant to be directing her new teacher to the schoolhouse, but she got lost in the leather seats and knobs. Instinct told her to play with them all and he didn’t say nothing when she did. He kind of watched. Not supervised. Not cautioning. Observed. That sort of look like at Christmas time when you’re trying to memorize the look on Mama’s face as she opens your gift.

Sarah stopped playing. But didn’t stop thinking about playing. She had never been in a car like this before. A few pick-up trucks and farm equipment, of course, but nothing that reeked of luxury. She didn’t like it.

But when they arrived at the schoolhouse, she hesitated to step out.

Maybe she liked that it was different.

“How did you know where—?”

He cut her off. “It has a recognizable shape. Clearly not a house or business. Clearly not the church. I got lucky.”

“Unlucky if you wound up in Oskaloosa.”

The teacher went to inspect his workplace. He’d be spending a lot of time in here, except in summers, of course, and it was almost summer. An odd time for the Board to send a new teacher, if you asked her, but adults rarely did. Regulations are regulations, however nonsense.

The walls were painted white last summer. Sarah had helped. Gran had supervised. Some desks dated back to before she was born, but whenever one broke, it got replaced, and since they didn’t all break on the same day, an array of history was on display. Various names carved into the desks, some with hearts round them. Rude words. Crude pictures. The roof was all new as a tornado came by and ripped it off three years back—a scary time in Oskaloosa but now, the folks might welcome a tornado if it took all the dust with it and dumped it on Appleseed.

When Sarah chased him in, she heard escape from his lips, “It’s not the same.”

“Same? Same as what?”

“Not as I expected.”

“Reading too much Little House on the Prairie?” Sarah had a gnawing suspicion inside her.

The newcomer rifled through the desk drawers, but though he found names, notes, and even drafts of letters for parents that got a second, gentler attempt, nothing seemed to satisfy his curious itch. “There must be something,” he muttered.

“What’s it you’re searching for?”

He ignored her because one drawer was locked.

It did not open with a jiggle and he went once more through the drawers looking for its key.

She would not help him until he proved himself. “Say, Mister, where are you from?”

He moved onto the library, a single bookcase in the corner with texts on all manner of subjects: math, grammar, history, geography, a dictionary, and the rest novels of varying quality.

“Paris.”

“France? You don’t got no accent like them.”

“Illinois.”

Paris at that time would’ve been close to 10,000 folks. 10,000 folks don’t get you taught in Geography class.

Sarah grabbed her grandmother’s—well, his pointing stick and slapped the map. “Point to it on the map, Ishmael.” Then she dropped her impression and added, “Sir.”

Without so much as looking up, he jabbed empty green land. Without a label and without knowing better, Sarah doubted he’d be anywhere in the right vicinity of Paris, Illinois, but with a bit more insight, her jaw would’ve dropped.

Instead she shrugged.

His investigation turned up nothing, but frustration.

“Tell me about your gran.”

~

Flashback scene

~

Sarah prided herself on being quick on her feet.

“I don’t know what you want to know but everyone liked her. Sometime around January, a boy was giving her lip because he didn’t want to chop wood but it was his turn! I did it just the day before. Gran did it on the weekend! But you know how boys are, thinking they’re already grown, and so he shoots up cussing out of his chair and grabs the ax and says, ‘You wanna see how good I am at chopping?’ It all happened so fast all we could do was stare. We all knew he wasn’t talking about wood at that point. Gran asked, ‘What do you want to happen next?’ and he took a second to think before settling down and going to chop wood.” Sarah took a second to settle herself. “I think if you locked a lion in with her, she’d come out queen of the jungle.”

“Tigers live in the jungle. Lions are the savanna.”

She doubted very much Georgia had an lions but sometimes it was best not to argue with a teacher.

“Chopping wood at her age? No one ever thought to let the old gal retire?”

“They don’t exactly ask my opinions on such things.”

“Tell them anyway.”

“Gran said the same…”

He’d spent that whole story searching with no fruits. Nothing on the door frame. Nothing under the Gran’s desk or the students’. When he opened the sash window, he frowned deeper than elsewhere, testing its smooth track and finding trouble in its fresh coat of paint.

His goal was clear when he returned to the desk.

He gave it so violent a tug the whole thing moved and white scratched appeared near the feet.

Gone or not, his or not, this was her Gran’s desk that he abused. “Sir, please just the littlest of respect for her property.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I need in that drawer. Where’s the ax?”

Her eyes went wide and she held her breath with an internal struggle, before she stepped outside to the chopping stump. The ax was locked away in a shed. But she reached under the stump and came back in with a handful of dirt that held a dull, golden prize: the key.

It fit perfectly in the locked drawer.

With trepidation, Sarah watched him pull it open, not sure why, not sure what inside her gave her these shivers, but certain she could trust them.

Inside was a Bible.

“That’s it?” he said.

“No…” Sarah couldn’t put her astonishment into words. Parents often came by asking why their child didn’t have more verses memorized and Gran would tell them they were at the wrong place. Whatever the old ways were, Gran had shirked them. She didn’t attend church. She didn’t keep a Bible. She said she feared but did not love.

“Gran was not a pious woman. She kept us out of church each Sunday.”

“As she should. The best defense against sin is education. Immorality and ignorance go hand-in-hand.”

Sarah bit her lip. Was that a common saying? How else could he quote Gran?

Final Week: 20,353 / 87 pages

“Attention all passengers. Outer Rim flights have been delayed. Please check the flight information display board or consult one of our friendly gate agents for more detailed information,” the PA announced and everyone began scouring the news for what happened. 

Then the large holo-screen up above addressed Port 7 with the following announcement: “We here at the Deimos Intercolony Spaceport would like to ask everyone to bow their heads in a moment of silence.” 

Most everyone did in remembrance of the Kharon Incident last year. Even one of the infiltrators, a young woman with blue hair, Sonya Alkes took a deep breath to steel herself for the mission ahead. 

But the mission leader strode forward among the bowed.

“Only cowards pray before the gates of Hell.”

They wore their face masks. If they stood out, it was as foreigners during flu season, raising only the hackles of the most conservative, but a space port was a place for foreigners even during these war-stricken times and the war lingered in the distance, among the starlight, a supernova of great destruction that for those at the viewing screen, looking out into the cosmos, was almost beautiful, a backdrop to their days.

In the year 2154 CE, humanity renewed efforts into its expansion into the solar system. Space was no longer the sole domain of scientists, but miners, cooks, families, every profession under the sun needed off our planet. At first, colony ships were sent up with enough for a sustainable population: 80. And once these 80 settled between high Earth orbit satellites and Luna, daily life began. Half of the first wave were critical systems professionals. Repairs, constructions, agricultural scientists (farmers), but even professionals want to start families. The first off-Earth child was born in 2155. 

It marked the start of an era. 

With a growth rate of 3%, that colony pod started to swell as more immigrants from Earth flocked star-ward for a new life and when the pilgrim pod’s population approached sustainable development goals, rather than send up a second colony and cluttering the (2.29 * 10^17) cubic kilometers of open space, they future-proofed the colony. 

Construction crews donned their space suits. Citizens were asked to ration manufactured goods for a few years. An annex was built then subsequently filled. The new sector became an industrial complex that continued adding onto the colony until the pilgrims in the first pod became the center of a beautiful, ever expanding flower.

Other colonies arrived, using a modified blueprint of the first.

These expensive, overcrowded colonies would become known as the Inner Rim. 

But the Earth’s resources were strained supporting such expansion and it became vital to excavate space. New colonies situated between Mars and the Asteroid Belt took half a year to reach and while the growth rate was a similar 3%, the birth rate was significantly higher. The companies who invested their fortune into this gamble saw great returns after a few years, but after several round trips, it became clear that the Outer Rim laborers would see little profit. 

Outer Rim colonies grew jealous of one another. Supply ships would be pirated. Earth-bound ships would be held for ransom. 

Eventually two major factions came to power.

The United Earth Colonies, popular but not ubiquitous in the Inner Rim, and the Independent Space Front, a loose confederation of Outer Rim colonies.

“And remember,” the PA concluded, “if you see something, say something.”

A common misconception is that shuttles, stations, and colonies need to be airtight to survive the vacuum of space. While that is functionally true--the little air leaking out does not endanger denizens--it is not absolutely true. The same principle applied to security. Blind spots existed and hampering travelers with excessive protocol was bad for business, so ports opted for a theater of security. A sign that said “Employees Only” would deter the weak-willed, but without a keypad, those that came on a mission just had to glance this way and that, then step through. 

The corridors led from the civilian access port to the military, where security was eased because soldiers had been vetted before enlistment. In the main hangar, a fighter had been disassembled to a puzzle-piece sphere with the main turbine out on blocks. Stripped to the chassis. Parts exposed. And the repairman stepped away to eat his lunch. He glanced at a nigh illegible maintenance request form for fixing the arm of a collector before tossing it into the pile. He had examined it yesterday. It was fine.  

The emtact, MTCT, military traffic control tower had dark windows. Not just tinted, but unattended. 

A call came in. 

A light switched on.

The sleepy ensign Lisa Maldoon slapped her face. Tested out her voice. Then answered. “DMS emtact. Call sign. Over.”

Silence lingered a moment and just as thoughts of her nap returned, the distant vessel replied, “UEC Defense Force escort carrier Scorpio en route to Ceres. Over…”

“…Purpose for dock? Over…”

“…Refuel and pick-up. Over…”

“…Transmit logs. ETA? Over…”

“…49 hours. Over… 

“…Roger. Over and out.”

It was the worst part of her shift. Shortly after a spacecraft entered detection range, transmissions took 1.22 minutes to cross the vast expanse. 1.22 minutes there, 1.22 minutes back. And once answered, like someone performing CPR, the operator was obligated to stay until all signs of life went quiet for good. The ensign went back to sleep.  

The busiest sector in this port was shielding. That needed constant attention. 

An asteroid the size of a grapefruit--manageable, low-energy--disintegrated before reaching the titanium coating. The shield, otherwise invisible, flickered when activated and the color depended largely on the metal ions present in the asteroid moving to an unstable, excited state. Copper: green. Strontium: red. Potassium: purple. Science teachers felt equal excitement demonstrating since they got to play with fire. This grapefruit flickered yellow: iron. 

Drones orbited the colony, armed with lasers and an emergency explosive ordinance. Their patrol detected no threats large enough to activate defense protocols, but once in a blue moon, a large asteroid turned up that needed to be broken into manageable, low-energy chunks.

“Goddamn litterbugs!” a new engineer cried as the data logger in his hands fried from overuse. “What are those junk rats doing?”

The real plight of laborers was pollution. 

Stray space waste lit one of hundreds of pale dots on a graph, charted by an arbitrary Earth-centric time or the objective place in orbit. Certain sections of the orbit had dense groupings of dots, and while a single piece of junk required no more attention than a single fruit fly, a swarm was an annoyance. Last week’s orbital position was officially called a series of long, boring coordinates but among the engineering staff, was collectively known as Tie-Dye Hell. Pretty. Sparkly. And a nightmare of overtime. 

“Cheer up, guy.”

“Cheer up?” The grouchy engineer took up his wrench in singed, bandaged hands to threaten the supervising mentor with. “Why the hell should I cheer up?”

“Think of the paycheck.”

His expression softened to one already a little drunk off celebration. 

Time-and-a-half or no, as shield surgeons reached seniority, they requested for cushier positions like emtact. The high turnover meant unfamiliar faces keeping the colony safe. 

“Hey, you.” The supervisor snapped her fingers, trying to grab the attention of a newbie. ”Fetch another data logger from maintenance.”

“Data logger?” Sonya asked.

“In the bird cage.”

She looked around. “Bird cage?” She looked to her mission leader who also shrugged.

The supervisor slapped her forehead. “I’ll get it myself.” 

She walked down the corridor, past a trash can overflowing with recyclables that when not properly sorted wound up giving Shielding more overtime and normally she’d do something about it, but not today. If she had, she’d have discovered the infiltrators’ civilian disguises buried beneath.

Every step after reaching shielding was a trade. A dollar for 2 quarters. 2 quarters for 3 dimes. 4 nickels. 5 pennies. Those pennies in the machines. Sudden maintenance. 

Then sneaking away in the cover of a rolling blackout.

~

As Sam carried his three-legged dachshund into the hall, he heard voices by the elevator. From the tone, clearly friendly chit-chat between long-time acquaintances, perhaps even friends, but he didn’t have his translator tapped on. He stopped to consider.

With the long day of paperwork he just had, with the earlier reprimand for filling it out incorrectly, with Sushi in his arms, Sam left it off. 

“So cute,” the short and athletic guy said. Sam had heard the phrase enough to understand it. 

The tall woman pushed up her glasses and said something like, “You think he’s handsome?” 

“Mhmm.” 

They couldn’t see Sushi’s prosthesis. 

Sam had seen them around. He assumed the two were dating. Always together, leaning on one another, heading into the same 50-square meter apartment--too tight of living quarters for friends. All three lived on floor 40, but their schedules rarely overlapped. They ran into each other on nights like tonight where they were taking out his bag of trash & her box of recycling, and Sam had Sushi. 

He smiled to be polite, but they only saw his eyebrows scrunch up since he was in a mask, beanie, and sunglasses. If they commented on his flu season protection, strange on this colony, it wasn’t with any words he knew off the top of his head, but they continued to chat amongst themselves.

The elevator arrived. Everyone got in. The man held the door open button until Sam was in, 23rd century chivalry.

“One?” the guy asked. 

He nodded. 

The guy pressed the 1 button then B1 then let Sushi sniff him--Lee Ji-Ming, 32, First City native, 3 tours, senior airman.

The dog averted his eyes and shuddered when the stranger pet him. A long whine let loose. He nestled deeper in Sam’s arms, settling by the time the affection stopped. 

The woman pushed the door close button--Tele’ktrides C. Lee, 37, Second City native, weapons R&D, team leader.

As the elevator descended, they were rocked by a sudden KA-CHUNK!

Rubber soles slapped the ground. 

Everyone looked to the door then each other. 

The collective thought that broke language barriers was, “Are we going to die?” followed immediately by “What should we do?” but the elevator soon started down again and somehow, having had the warning of the first drop, the second surprised everyone more—KA-CHUNK!—and Tele’ktrides box of cans scattered across the floor. 

Emergency brakes engaged immediately and though the drop felt like a few meters, a few centimeters was more realistic. The display said they were on floor 39 and in the local alphabet, ERROR. 

Ji-Ming pried open the doors to reveal they were between floors as the top half of the elevator was open to the 40th floor, marked by signage, but the bottom showed a shaft too small to squeeze into. 

Sam remembered a dream like this. In it, he had tossed Sushi out thinking it’d save the dog, but as he had tossed the dog, the elevator went into freefall, the lights went out, and because it was a dream, they had impossibly survived the crash but as the red emergency lights flicked on, Sam saw Sushi cut in two, down to a single front leg, whimpering, betrayed, and he desperately tried to apply pressure to the poor pup’s missing hindquarters. 

It was not a recurring dream. He’d had it once, back when nightmares were new, and yet it stuck with him, rearing its ugly head even during rare moments of tranquility and that ugly head now grinned with delight that the premonition seemed reality. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam cooed to the pup. The two seemed to tremble at the same frequency as he stroked his back, slowly, firmly, letting the dog hear his words through touch. “You know, it’s actually a good thing. We’ll get down much faster this way.”

The two strangers exchanged quizzical glances. Dogs don’t get dark humor, and neither do cochlear translators. 

“Did he just say…?”

Ji-Ming nodded.

Despite his attempts to soothe the boy, the anxiety must have been evident on Sam’s face, because a comforting hand touched his shoulder, grounding him as he did the dog. Ji-Ming said in English, “Should we crawl out?”

Sam slapped his ear in a fit, slamming his translator deeper in as it tapped on. “No!” 

“That’s correct,” the woman said. Tele’ktrides pressed the big yellow Emergency Call button. An alarm sounded. A voice broadcast in several languages that all got translated, imperfectly in their ears, to something like, “Stay where you are. Help is coming. Don’t worry.” 

“Guess we wait,” the guy said. “I’ve seen you around a few times, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so!” 

A thin disguise of politeness. Sam stood out on this colony. His muddled appearance relayed that he was human and little else of his ancestry on Earth, compared to here where not-so-distant segregation had led to a starker contrast in skin tones. This couple might feel judgmental eyes on them as the man’s parentage received privileged treatment that he still reaped the benefits from while the woman still felt the sting of prejudice in outdated laws. Regardless of their personal beliefs, he stood out as an individual as much as they stood out as a couple and there was no ignoring that. 

“You can call me Eddie if it’s easier.” His accent was thick and Sam realized it was because Ji-Ming was speaking rusty English and the translator wasn’t doing any work. 

“Tele’ktrides,” the woman said. She kept to the colony French. “Are you one of the recent cadets?”

Sam shook his head. “Collector. For about 3 months.” 

Ji-Ming’s eyes went up and over as he tried to recall when he first saw Sam, closer to 5 months prior, and the pieces started to snap in place when they heard a THUNK! overhead. 

The maintenance access panel opened and a bright young face popped into view--Jean Beaumont, 26, Second City native, repair person. “Hey, folks! Don’tcha worry. We’ll have y’all out of here in a jiffy,” they said. “Oh, it’s you two! I don’t know you, though. But your puppy!” If Jean were a cartoon, their eyes would have turned to hearts. “Are they okay? They’re very cute. They don’t bite, right? I’ll just stay up here and admire from afar but tell them the next head-pat is from me--THANK YOU!” 

As quickly as they popped into view, they popped out, their flash of red hair trailing behind them, and the sounds of tools on the metal roof echoed in the elevator. 

“It’s okay,” Ji-Ming said, clearly calming Tele’ktrides down, not from adrenaline-fueled fear, but from a boiling resentment of this buffoon. “Give them a chance.” 

“Oops!” A tool scraped the outer wall before it plummeted down the shaft. 

“Another chance.”

“How many do they need? They flunked out of grease monkey duty on base after their half-assed repairs nearly got you sucked out of an air-lock and now our lives are in their hands--again. It has to be intentional.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Maybe it’s an assassination that’ll look like an accident.”

Sushi began to whimper at all the stimulus--tools falling, mag-boots, feuding, and Sam squeezing too tightly. Tele’ktrides took an intentionally audible deep breath and shut up. 

Ji-Ming said to Sam, “These power outages happen occasionally. You’re just not usually in an elevator when they do.” 

Jean called down, “Actually, it’s city-wide. Maybe Second City, too.”

The couple exchanged looks. 

Sam noted it, but took it as a bad sign.  

A building outage was just the result of crappy repairs, complements of hiring a flunkie. A block outage was an easily-fixed fault in the grid. City-wide could only be the result of space debris making it through the barrier and the astronomical odds having a grudge against shield surgeons. But the electrical grid had separate blocks for situations like that. One goes out, another reroutes power to critical systems, and the lights go dim but stay on. If it was the whole colony… 

Was this Kharon all over again?

“Two muffins are sitting in an oven,” Sam whispered to Sushi. “One says, ‘Wow, it’s hot in here.’ The other yells, ‘Oh my god! A talking muffin!’” 

Sushi didn’t laugh.

Tele’ktrides didn’t either. 

Jean peeked down amid sparks. 

Ji-Ming chuckled, his eyes nervously darting to his partner then to Sam in the corner who leaned on the hand rail. Without it, there’d be no other reason Sam’s shaking legs supported him. Touch was no longer enough. 

The main lights flicked back on the and the alarm went silent. That emergency message turned to one of cheer. Jean hopped through the access panel and undid their belay line, which shot up the shaft, dinging the rim. They must’ve been wrong about the Second City. Nothing so widespread would get fixed that fast.

“Thanks, Jean,” Ji-Ming said while Tele’ktrides turned away.

The elevator stopped at the 12th floor. The short ride was smooth as butter, but everyone got off except Jean. “Should be all good. We have a form in the lobby for you to fill out and if you could give me 5 stars, it’d really help me... Where you going, Tele’ktrides?”

“Stairs.” 

“Don’t bother with that! It’s fixed.”

She didn’t stop. 

Jean reached toward Sushi and he turned his snout up to sniff their hand which frightened Jean into yanking it away which frightened Sushi into burying himself into Sam’s arms. 

“I need the exercise, too,” Sam said so Jean wouldn’t in an enclosed elevator with a trembling wiener dog. 

“Thanks, bud.” Ji-Ming pat Jean on the back, but already torn as Tele’ktrides left, he saw Sam go, too. “I guess I should as well, but you did great work--as always!” 

In the windowed stairwell, Sam gathered that Jean had apparently restarted the building’s systems before the AI had been able to. Probably by by-passing a few critical diagnostic checks that would almost certainly turn up green but were still there for a reason. Back-up generators and emergency personal lights dotted the First City. The streets were especially visible as cars fell into an algorithm of stopping at the flashing traffic lights. No scarlet dome rose from the horizon and Sam suspected Second City had indeed been hit as well. 

An early dark inspires nightmares. Ancient people died of shock upon witnessing an eclipse. Sam was not so primitive, but those overprotective instincts were, so perhaps that was why, out the window, he at least thought he saw a silhouette falling from the roof. 

No. 

Not falling, not a loose piece of paneling that spelled the doom of this colony, too. It descended too controlled for a fall. 

A landing.  

While he parsed the information, Tele’ktrides heard the door open, footsteps, and from half a flight below, yelled a bit hushed, “What the hell were you doing speaking English--” She stopped upon spotting Sam looking startled. “Apologies.”

Ji-Ming made it in time to watch a wave of lights roll through a dark city. He rushed toward Sam then seemed to usher him quicker toward his girlfriend so the trio could walk as a group.

Jean’s footsteps echoed in the stairs above them, opting for the company on the long trek down than an elevator ride alone. They did, however, stay a floor above Sushi, rushing down then stopping to let Sam get further then rushing more and repeating. 

By the time Sam saw out the next window, the silhouette was a figment of his imagination. There was no more dark. He couldn’t remember the shape or where it supposedly landed other than generally in the forest by the mountain where no one would witness it. 

He let the thought go--as much as he could. 

~

Tele’ktrides continued down to B1 with her remaining recycling, having left the top layer of aluminum cans in the elevator, but Sam, Jean, and Ji-Ming went to the security guard at the front desk. She spoke gruffly to Jean, “Rooftop needs you.” 

They hurried back to the stairwell, leaping up the first six in two steps. 

“Elevator, Jean,” she said with a sigh. 

One big hop down.

Ji-Ming mulled over the maintenance survey like a final exam and Sam wondered how long it’d take. His arms ached from holding Sushi for now 30 minutes of panic or stair climbing, but finally Ji-Ming signed it SrA Lee Ji-Ming and took the dog from Sam, quickly finding a paddle point that eased the poor boy’s trepidation while Sam took the stylus. The survey amounted to a few basic comments then some ratings. It took Sam 10 seconds. 

The entrance to the building faced a parallel entrance and the cigarette butt-filled courtyard between buildings with sparse plantings of grass and a symmetrical saplings propped up by stakes led to the shopping center to the right or a distant park to the left—where Sam took Sushi most mornings, nights, and afternoons he wasn’t working. The park had quite a few people out for strolls or bike rides or similarly walking their own dogs. 

However, to the left if you took another left into the alleyway by the building were the dumpsters--where Ji-Ming was headed. 

Adrenaline has a strange nature to it, in that as it recedes, it leaves a person, however shy, traumatized, or generally anti-social, craving bonding. So Sushi, not feeling this, automatically headed toward the park and felt only the harness tug at him to go a strange direction full of strange smells. Sam had not intended to follow Ji-Ming but they’d been together so long already and there hadn’t been an explicit goodbye so his feet moved on their own as the two chatted. Ji-Ming threw his bag into the pile and stood with the two lost puppy dogs, giving them the attention they all needed after that experience. 

“What happened?” When Sam was filling out the form, Ji-Ming had felt the prosthesis. But politeness meant asking later. Later was now. “Dogs never get the good ones unless you’re filthy rich. Lawyers, CEOs, arms dealers, and I guess soldiers too. We might be dogs of the government, but they still fit us with the latest and greatest.” 

He twitched his pointer and ring finger on his left hand. The movement was sharp and more to the point, the other fingers didn’t move. Complete isolation. 

“Long story.” Then Sam asked, “SrA?” 

“Senior Airman. Military rank probably holds more sway, and Jean does deserve someone pulling for them.” 

The Deimos colony was a part of the United Earth Colonies, but in name only. They were safely within the middle of the middle rings. The Goldilocks of Goldilocks. No active conflicts anywhere near here. No lucrative mining operations. Not even overcrowded enough with soft targets to become a spectacle during breaking news.  

“Why are military here?”

“Ask the brains of the operation. Sit!” he said to Sushi. “Dogs don’t know what orders mean. They just know how to get a treat. But it’s a cush assignment. Early morning runs and weekend drills. Otherwise, border patrol, policing, colony repairs, and Tele’ktrides is Randy.”

The lewd lingo threw Sam, some friendly hazing.

“R and D. Research and development.” He started lighting up a cigarette, but the wind fought him. 

“Does that mean she’s the ‘brains of the operation?’”

“Ha! I wish.” He turned his back to the alley entrance and finally got his light. “One day. One bright, sunny day after the long dark.”

“What kind of research?” 

Tele’ktrides appeared around the corner. “Sharing that would be treason.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam snapped out of his auto-pilot and realized he had followed a stranger into a dark alley and was sandwiched between another stranger, the first’s partner, and not only that, they were dressed for a date. Sam was the tag-along, playing third wheel, and apparently asking them to commit treason. 

“No harm done. Civilians often ask how their tax dollars might murder others,” she said. “Should we go?” 

“Where you headed, Sam?” Beyond the park was a set of restaurants the couple liked and often couldn’t decide between until they got a whiff of the specials. That’d decide their craving. “Walk with us.”

Tele’ktrides took a deep, calming breath as she looked at her partner with a strained but familiar expression. “Only if you want.” 

“Either we’ll awkwardly walk near each other or we can make some new friends.” 

Sam looked to Tele’ktrides for a sign. 

She nodded. “He’s hard to argue with.”

They walked past some construction of a new apartment building rumored to cost so much per month that only two neurosurgeons cohabitating could afford the rent. Sam, who purchased blackout curtains in a futile attempt to sleep till his alarm, often woke up at 6:00 am to the sound of hammers.  

“Have you met many people yet?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“I mostly stay in. Work, home, Sushi.” His comm AI lit up in his pocket, listening. 

“You really like fish, huh? But sushi does sound good right now. My treat if you want to join us for some.”

“They won’t let a dog into the restaurant,” Tele’ktrides reminded him. 

“There’s outdoor seating. Or we can get it to-go and have a picnic in the woods!” 

Tele’ktrides’s glare again.  

“My dog’s name is Sushi.”

“Aww.” Sushi had been on the far side of Sam, always a step behind. Perhaps the dog’s fear was eased by the newfound kinship of Sam and them, so when the soldier squat down to give pets, Sushi let him, then walked between the two instead.

Then they reached the corner that Sam had never tread beyond. Turn here and reach the park. Go another few blocks, turn right, and that accessed the spaceport where Sam worked. Another block beyond that was the grocery store and the final corner to Sam’s territory, a comfortable rectangle with everything he needed. 

But the two were heading the other way and while conversation wasn’t stellar--his fault--it scratched a long-standing itch. 

There were trees that way, too, a lot in the woods around the mountain, and there were restaurants with new smells and probably messages left by other dogs and most immediate, that direction had a few minutes longer with his new acquaintances, maybe even friends.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said as he turned toward his usual route. 

Ji-Ming, through a subtle set of questions, drawing on his own memory for other evidence, had been on the cusp of an epiphany since floor 40—an epiphany that Sam feared.

~

In the park, through the maintenance access hatch of the underpass, through some sewers, down three flights of stairs, past Francesca, with a password… Gladiators fought for glory.  

“Gentlefolks of all ages, are you ready for the opening match-up?” the announcer yelled, trilling his voice as it rose to scratchy peeks, fomenting the crowd with pure enthusiasm. “They may be rookies but their trash talk has been professional. And if the talk is to be believed, we might need to the police on standby!” 

The music changed to a song full of bravado that hyped his fans.  

“Our first fighter—you know him from the corner of your eye, that sense that something or someone is there, that brief glance in the mirror to see a shadowy figure behind you! The Gorgeous Ghost of Georgia!”

The crowd’s fervent energy bubbled over. The crowd didn’t pack the meager bleachers, but the few here wanted to see a fight. His fans loved the pure technique and speed he employed to get around his opponent like an assassin striking from behind then disappearing like a phantom. Some wanted to see this pretty boy get hit again after the first punch to ever land hit him last week, a lucky blow right to his nose. He was so stunned to have taken a clean hit that a follow-up almost clocked him before he put the opponent in his place. 

“With a win-loss record of 7 to 0 with 3 KOs, he’s a rising star for the rookie division of Deimos. Please, put your hands together for Peeete Holmes!”

The spotlight hit the blue corner’s entrance, but as many punches missed, the light found nothing. 

It started panning the corridor leading up to the ring. Fans held out there arms past the barriers hoping for a hand shake or autograph. 

The announcer made the call again with that same rote speech. 

He wasn’t there. 

The music stopped. 

An official ran up to the ring and the announcer leaned over to talk. The mic picked up a bit of it. His real voice was much softer, higher pitched. “Go fetch him from the dressing room. I’ll bring out the other guy.” Then the official went running down the walk-up. 

Another music change. Slow operatic chanting in some ancient language not standard on anyone’s translator.  

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec (anotehr fake latin anagram) 

  Fithos yusec wecos vinosec

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec

~

Back in the changing room, the fighters warming up for their fights after this opening match turned their eyes to the door. 

Knock, knock.

The fighters rushed to block it. 

The official only managed to crack it open enough to peek in. “Where is he?” 

The room collectively shrugged. 

“Can I see for myself?”

A broken telephone of hand signals passed from gladiator to gladiator. “Sure.” 

They opened the door completely let her step inside, but only to a point. 

From her vantage point just inside the door, there was nothing suspicious--boxing gloves, jump ropes, hand wraps, water bottles, egg shells--all perfectly normal. Nothing suspicious. Other than the fighters themselves. 

Then she spotted the closed door.

“I’ll check it and I’ll leave.”

The barricade of bodies hesitated, then finally let her pass through the throng. 

She put her hand to the doorknob when a toilet flushed.

The door opened. 

It wasn’t Pete Holmes. 

“Wash your hands,” she told them. 

The fighter looked at their perfectly done hand wraps then to the official in disbelief. 

With a sigh, she finally left down the hall, radioing others. “Not in the changing room. Have you checked the--”

A sudden bark caught her attention and she peeked back. “What was that noise?”

The fighters shrugged and she left for good.  

~

The music switched to a common language. The strings built to a crescendo. Fast-paced excitation. Cannon fire

“Huddle over the dying embers of this old world

Butterfly wings could extinguish with a small flap

But the tides of change are upon us

Watch as they crash down”

In stark contrast to the solemn voices and his own natural voice, the announcer resumed his duties. “Our next fighter is like a living tank. He gets hit and keeps on trucking! How long can this poor boy last taking so many hits?”

“Now,

You, who whisper to me, 

The mirage with wings,

The deja vu who wakes me up,

Surround me.

Holding me.

Wind,

A small flap

Starts inside the heart.

A hurricane”

“Hits or no, tonight’s blue corner fighter has been a hot streak these last few weeks. 5 wins, 3 losses, and all of them for better or worse by stunning knockout, give it up for Saaaam Nuwim!” 

“As stars sink into dreams,

Wake from your slumber

On this fated day. 

Deliver us from the Deluge.” 

~

Tippy-tap, tippy-tap, tippy-tap…

Sitting impatiently, his whole body wiggling, his tail polishing the bench, whacking everyone nearby, when the challenger’s name was finally called, Sushi stood on his hind legs and barked once more. 

Like watching a gym newbie trying to bench too much, the fighters rushed to spot him but he didn’t need it. He sat back down, waiting to see the close-up. 

~

Unlike on the other side of the ring, there were few hands reaching out for acknowledgment. He could have easily shaken them all. But Sam let them brush against him without breaking stride. He peeled off his beanie. Then his sunglasses. And finally, each ear strap of his face mask. 

He was bared faced he ascended the steps into the ring.  

Alone. 

The announcer caught his expression. He shrugged. The official at the gate shook her head. 

Then a murmur swelled to a cacophony behind Sam. Coming from the challenger’s entrance. They had found Pete Holmes, backing up to get a running start. He sprinted down the corridor, the throng of hands slapping him in what sounded like applause, he leaped over the stairs, flipped over the ropes, and landed between Sam and the stunned announcer. 

“Don’t wear yourself out,” Sam said. 

“Don’t worry your little self. I’ve got plenty of gas in the tank.”

“Now that’s how you make an entrance,” the announcer called. “We finally have our two gladiators in the ring and the fight will commence shortly. Gentlemen, to your corners. A reminder, Holmes, your corner’s over there.”

After some last minute pep talk and strategy discussion from their coaches and cutmen, it was time for the two to touch gloves and get this started. 

The two approached and the referee went over the rules. 

“Pretty fitting match-up, eh?” Holmes said. The ref’s mic picked up his words for the crowd. “A wild bull taking every spear and arrow thrown his way and someone who’s never hit?”

“How’s your nose?”

He sucked on his mouth guard in frustration. “How’s your mom?” 

~

“Sam, they’re two-minute rounds and you couldn’t even let one go by? It’s not exciting that way.”

He sat on the bench and stroked Sushi’s back. The pup worked off his excited energy by doing circles on Sam’s lap, then occasionally standing up to lick his face. Sam was back in his flu weather protection. 

A hardly recognizable man, beaten and bruised, approached Sam. 

“Hey, you know, it was just for the show,” Pete Holmes said, his voice no longer swollen with bravado. “I really didn’t know.”

“Next time, ask about my sister.”

“You got it, bud. Again, really sorry.” 

They hugged it out, then walked together to get their purses, Sam with the lion’s share.

~

The couple chose outdoor seats, but not for fish. Their new furry contact turned them off, momentarily, to sushi, and instead they opted for warm oxtail soup on the chilly evening. Their table had the perfect view of the mirrors as they angled away the sunlight and the day came to a rest. The mirrors perhaps mimicked the day cycle, but the mirrors were functional and the sun divine. Maybe one day they’d see a real sunset together. 

“What if he had accepted?” she asked. 

He rubbed the scar on her knuckle, drawing her back to an old memory, first bitter then sweet, when while dissecting the rotor of a defunct, early model starfighter, her pristine knuckle caught on a bolt. She wanted to shake it off and keep working, but while shaking, a droplet splashed on the canopy he had just polished. He hopped down from the ladder and stuck her hand in his armpit. It kind of worked at applying pressure while he fetched liquid stitches from the medkit. Bitter, sweet, and a little smelly. They’d been married two years at that time. “Then we’d excuse ourselves for some alone time.”

They smiled across the table.

“He just seemed like he needed a friend. And almost getting dropped from an elevator, that’s scary for most people in their bubble-wrapped lives.”

They finished their soup. Ji-Ming summoned his comm’s AI assistant. “Pronoia, can dogs safely gnaw on oxtail?” 

Cooked bones might splinter so, against Tele’ktrides wishes, he talked to kitchen staff for some raw ones that they had to charge him for, but the bag was full of about ten full of marrow, then the two headed off. 

According to CCTV footage on the street, after finishing their meal, the two turned right to walk hand-in-hand to her one-room, off-base apartment and even the building footage, doorbell’s camera, and keypad log showed the same. 

But those would be discrepancies with reality. 

They turned off their comms.

Deep in the woods, Sonya Alkes tugged on her face mask painted orange by the light of the small fire. 

Tele’ktrides wiped her brow. 

“Nice weather for camping.”

“If you’re okay with the cold.”

Sonya said in a sharp tone, “You’re late. Kill a deer en route?”

“They’re for a friend’s dog,” Ji-Ming said. 

“Shouldn’t be making friends,” their contact said. 

Tele’ktrides gave her a flash drive. “If all goes as planned, this will save the colony.”

“And they’ll hate you for it. How soon do we move?”

“They’re doing final diagnostics tomorrow, so the first test flight is slated for the day after, off colony of course. Pick-up arrives in 47 hours. That’s our window.”

“During test?” 

“Before.”

~

As Sam lay in bed, his dreams spilled over to reality. The sound of collapsing buildings, that cacophony of voices and materials crashing into one another, were confused by the erection of the new apartment building next door. 

Breathe. 

“Sushi,” he called and his comm lit up as well as the AI panel on the wall and the dog. It was a constant source of confusion for machine and mammal. “Time.”

Deep breath. 

“7:06 on a bright sunny morning. Would you like to hear headlines?”

Sushi jumped from the spare pillow on the floor to bed, then settled in the same coiled dragon position he always did, his fluffy tail draped over his nose. 

“Yes. Lights on. Curtains up. Music.”

Some generic background music played, harkening back to spring in a meadow with birds chirping and apparently strumming a harp as the friendly voice, not at all how he imagined his dog’s, read off, “Kharon Gone but Not Forgotten,” a pause, “Pollution Predicates Power Outage according to Officials,” followed by a few innocuous accusations of corruption, wasting tax dollars, and the usual government criticisms. 

He could not settle. 

“Sushi. Call police non-emergency number.”

The dream was familiar. Except for the not-falling silhouette. 

The convincingly human operator listed several options. Personal extension. Press inquiry. Case inquiry. Appointments. Tip line. 

“Tip line.”

“Please leave your name, address, and contact information along with any relevant information to an open case or suspicious activity and an officer will get back to you.” 

Sam remembered a similar message when he first arrived on Deimos. The hospital said they’d contact him with test results and clearance to exit quarantine, but they never did, and every attempt to contact them had him leaving a similar message that went unreturned. 

It was probably nothing. 

“Remember, if you see something, say something.”

But due diligence. 

~

A month ago, an announcement spoke of visiting soldiers from the United Earth Federation, the head of the Commonwealth known as the UEC. Soldiers, clerks, and factory workers knew of the visit regardless of clearance, but only a percentage knew why they were on layover. Tele’ktrides was at the top of that list.

And even she was not informed that the Feddies would be sending their own test pilot, an ace from a long-running and long-over civil conflict on Earth. Low-gravity space travel was hard on the body and he was given a week to get his space legs underneath him. The spin of the colony threw Earthlings.  

Today, it’d been a week and Tele’ktrides would be his tour guide around the Deimos military base. 

As was too often required, she held her tongue, letting her opinion known only through barbs of logic. 

“A war hero, you say?” She made faces like she was impressed as he recounted a battle on Earth. 

Commander Reynolds was in his late 30s with rough skin that sagged. His build was large, but the flesh atop it had gone soft. “Deserts of the Gobi--do you know it?” 

Of course not. No more than he knew the streets of Deimos. 

“Five men. Two ATVs. Surrounded on all side by enemy drones. Tac-Com told us, ‘It was an honor.’ No one expected us to make it out. Maybe if they had sent evac when requested, Scratchy would still be with us.”

“Well, you’re with us now. Our test pilot. How was the journey here? Did you stop anywhere interesting?”

“No offense intended, but all the colonies look the same. I’m happy to see each and every after a month in flight, but if you were to ask me whether I won it big at slots on Artemis or Freija…” He shrugged. 

“Perhaps you remember the shape of the colony? Was it a Torus like Deimos? Or perhaps a cylinder or sphere? Most Inner and Goldilocks colonies use these shapes to create artificial gravity through rotation.”

“Like on Earth. Otherwise, we’d all go flying off into space.”

She stopped in the path for a breath. “Only in a poorly researched piece of science fiction. It’d be almost impossible to stop the Earth’s rotation instantly, but if that were to happen, people would fly off in spite of gravity. The Earth creates gravity via mass.”

The commander had been the kid in the back of class with doodles instead of notes. “Have you ever had the chance to go abroad?”

“Yes. For our honeymoon, we went to the popular gambling district on Freija.”

Their tour had taken them to the training grounds. Soldiers sprinted down the obstacle course to low netting that needed crawling underneath, then tractor tires, a fence to scale, and at the end, a pull-up bar next to a bulletin board. Each month, whoever scored the fastest got a prize and whoever got the most pull-ups got a prize, but each week, the slowest and the lowest got significantly less desirable prizes: latrine duty and KP, respectively.

Tele’ktrides continued her tactical assessment. “It’s taxing keeping up with the exercise as well. Even civilians need an hour or two on machines to maintain their physical condition, and soldiers… Well, motivation’s tough when you’re too high ranked for drill sergeants.” 

“I did what I could.” 

“Of course. You can always tell which soldiers have been on-colony, though.” 

“It’s true this simulated gravity can’t compete with Earth’s,” he shot back. “You colony folks can’t even draw a straight line.” 

They approached the starting line where some grunts in fatigues saluted the higher officers. 

“Would you like to show them what real gravity does to a man?”

“Another time.”

She nodded at the grunts, who counted down amid ironically motivating trash talk. 

“And your experience with cosmic combat is…?” She let the question linger to encourage that bad habit of boasting.  

“Cosmic? Fancy term for flying without restriction.” 

“So simulation only.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, starting to sense her objective. “I have a sixth sense that’s gotten me this far.”

“This far completes the tour.” And her assessment of this ace pilot. They rejoined the group in the hangar, but Tele’ktrides had bad news. “He’s unqualified.” 

The shock radiated out from her superiors but her assistants had expected such a scene. Commander Reynolds himself spoke above the others with indignation. “Unqualified? I’ll have you—”

“Shut up and listen. First, his physical conditioning from his peak on Earth I’d estimate is less than 70%, and I’m trying to be nice with that, but he refused physical testing. It could be lower. Do you think succumbing to half a year of sloth can be rectified in a week? I’d posit that even 90% would be a challenge with this machine. 

“Second, his mental acuity took him a good portion of the conversation to realize the test pilot was being tested. A slow mind and slow body equal bad reflexes and with hundreds of trillions invested into a single machine, you don’t want him crashing on take-off due to poor condition. 

“Finally, and most importantly, the reason we hand-selected pilots was because growing up off-Earth forces the mind to develop a real sixth sense. Because you’ve grown accustomed to real Earth gravity, you can only think in two dimensions: forward-back, left-right, right? You probably expect this fighter to look like a plane, but there’s no atmosphere out here. There are no reasons for wings. 

“Even if you were at peak conditioning, the moment an enemy pilot comes from below, you and, more importantly, my prototype will be space dust. 

“Trash collectors are more qualified. Enjoy your vacation here. Take some pictures. Do your best to remember this trip.”

Tele’ktrides walked away. Her assistants knew she was right, as did her superiors, but they didn’t want to admit it. All they could admit was that without her approval, the test wouldn’t be happening. 

~

“A test? I gave him a test.”

“One with results.”

“The result was he’s not flying.”

“One with results that lead him to that conclusion, that he shouldn’t be flying.”

“If I’d told him he was fit to fly, he’d accept that without a test.”

“People only accept facts different from their expectations with overwhelming evidence.” 

~

The simulator screens showed a scientifically accurate version of space, but the tumultuous forces created by the machine were very real. The Commander strapped in. 

Before the hatch closed, through a tinted bubble helmet, he glared with determination at Tele’ktrides. 

She closed the hatch as she would the lid of a trash can.

Looking at the inside of a sphere is oddly claustrophobic. You expect corners. You expect to reach directly forward and hit a wall, but slightly up and miss it. There are no corners. If your arm is the radius, you will always reach the wall. The cameras existed all around the outside of real ships with some interpolation of the various angles to create a singular picture. The chair in the cockpit could rotate, simulated by those multi-axis trainers that kids at space camp love, but often it was easier to keep the force akin to gravity consistent and have the picture rotate before you. 

And such tight quarters were necessary for pilots to learn small movements. There was no stick. There were no pedals. No toggles or dials.

Typists had a higher qualification for space controls than jet fighter pilots. 

There were only keys. Buttons. 

Commander Reynolds took a breath. He knew all this already. He was no slouch. The months en route to Deimos had given him plenty of time to familiarize himself with the on-board simulator that had no gravity, one-upping this machine. 

He felt the physical buttons on his armrest. They were his primary controls. They needed a tactile sensation in the heat of the moment so they could be instantly findable. Bumps in the vein of Braille but large enough to be felt through the gloves indicated each function. Thrust, rotation, steering, camera, comms, and… What was that one again?

But the majority of controls had to cycle through various functions and required touch controls with the equivalent of a CTRL key or ALT key or SHIFT key to toggle them to the intention. Things like readouts, recordings, diagnostics, as well as more complicated commands like for takeoff so that they could not be instantly and accidentally pressed. 

Reynolds looked at his hands as he tested his memory for these.

Tele’ktrides’s face popped up in the center of the screen. “If you forget any of the tertiary controls, remember your on-board AI can assist via voice commands.”

“I know.” 

“A routine reminder. We’ll start this simulation outside the colony to avoid take-off woes. We’ll send you from point-to-point in a 3D space. The first few rounds will be warmers lacking in obstacles, but if you do well, we’ll throw in some asteroids, space debris, and maybe even enemies.”

Takeoff is what I’m good at, he thought. 

Tele’ktrides face was relegated to a small window in the not-corner and Commander Reynolds saw darkness dotted by the divine. A steadying breath in to help him deal with that creeping instinct similar to thalassophobia. The ocean of Earth housed sharks but those attacked three people a year. The real danger was the depth and breadth. No human could be plopped down into the midst of the blue and survive for long. If a boat left a scuba diver, it might take hours to find them. First, their muscles would ache. Then their psyche. Then their lungs as gravity grabbed them. Underwater, no one could see you cry.

Was space so different? 

Yes.

It was worse. Larger. 

Exhale. 

Then he waited.  

“The test has begun, Commander.”

“Where am I…?” He looked to his hands again, testing SHIFT commands and ALT commands and eventually calling out, “Terra, enable targeting.”

Suddenly rings popped up on screen with numbers. 2 through 7 were red and 1 was blue.

Seven? Odd number to stop at, he thought, but hey, lucky number seven, right? 

He accelerated forward with a visual lurch but not the physical sensation. Readouts listed 1.2 Gs, but simulating that would be impossible in reasonable space, and so the Commander got the easy version--a lurch. 

“Take it slowly, Commander.”

“Is time not a factor?”

“You have plenty of time, but if you vomit, it’s an instant failure.” A graph popped up in place of her face showing the semilog of the limits of tolerance of humans to linear acceleration, axes marked “Acceleration (Gs)” and “Duration (s)” and a legend in the top right for each color coded-direction. 

She explained. “As a point of note, during a real space flight, it’s best to keep your thrusters at your back so G-forces are applied to your chest. Up to 10 G-forces, you’ll be fine for a second, but if you don’t take it slowly during a real test, you won’t just vomit, you’ll pass out and maybe even die adrift in the emptiness.”

Slowly would be fine, if he had that sort of precision. He backed off the thruster but he continued accelerating. He reached the blue ring. #2 lit up blue but it was far out of sight at this point as he went sailing past it, cut thrusters completely, and tried to turn to catch it, but managed to only turn his ship without turning the camera which addled his mind as he felt his body spin but his eyes stayed fixed on a point. The simulator could produce centripetal forces more easily but also more gently. 

A sigh from the camera. 

Suddenly, the words RESET flashed across the display. 

He was still once more and supposedly back at the start with Ring #1 ahead of him. 

“Let’s try again. But first, with a reminder. You’re an accomplished pilot. What are the four forces at work when you fly?”

“Thrust, lift, drag, weight,” he rattled off. The softball question helped him focus.

“How is drag created?”

“The friction and difference in air pressure.” 

“Created by the atmosphere. What is space lacking?”

He nodded sheepishly. “Atmosphere.”

“So when an object accelerates in a direction, it will continue to accelerate until an equal but opposite force is exerted on the object.” 

“Right.”

“There are no brakes in space. Second, weight. On Earth, this term is used interchangeably with mass, if I understand correctly, but they’re different. In the vacuum of space, you have mass but you are weightless. Why?”

“No gravity,” he said. 

“So without atmosphere and without gravity, you don’t need lift. That leaves thrust. When you accelerate, you apply thrust but burns should be in seconds until you’re at the speed you wish to maintain and when it’s time to stop, cutting thrusters won’t stop you. How can you stop?”

“Counter-thrusters.” 

“Terra, display diagnostic map of the vehicle,” Tele’ktrides commanded and though it was the Commander’s AI, it listened to her. 

A spherical puzzle sphere popped up on screen, the model commonly used the UEC, designed with tracks around the perimeter for a maneuverable thruster. 

“As your primary thruster rotates to the back, smaller secondary thrusters rotate to the front. As you accelerate upward, counter-thrusters swivel to the top, ready and waiting. As you fire on an enemy, to account for directional recoil or rotational recoil, the smallest thrusters burn in the opposite direction.”

“No pilot can account for all of that.”

“Only intellect too advanced for military purposes or sociopaths can account for that, but you are correct in essence. Most pilots, even the gifted, use their on-board AI for the majority of tasks.”

“This is the problem with cosmic combat, as you call it. It’s mostly drone-against-drone.”

“Your history is outdated. Drones are not AI. Even our AI are not true AI. They require human input to make decisions and presents a strategic problem: the delay.” 

A map zoomed out to show two points on opposite sides of the map, one marked Tactical Command and the other Engagement. 

“300,000 kilometers equate to a single second of delay on transmission as equipment must operate below light speed, and while 300,000 kilometers is over 7 times around Earth’s equators, too large for human brains to comprehend, that’s peanuts compared to space.” 

The map zoomed out with Earth on side and Mars on the other. The two points 300,000 kilometers apart had blended together.

“Do you like baseball?” she suddenly asked. 

“More of a hockey guy myself.” 

“Then think of it as home team advantage with some tangible, scientific reason. Whoever was closest had the least delay. To account for this, pilots are necessary.”

“If you’re the away team.”

“The home team still needs practice, so pilots are standard in all UEC operations. If military command is the General Manager taking care of the big picture, drones are the players, and pilots exist as the coach. Let’s try again. This time with AI assistance enabled.”

“Rigged!” An epiphany sparked outrage. He started pulling at his seatbelt and helmet. “You designed this test for me to fail.” 

“Terra, voice recording please.”

Suddenly her voice was heard but her mouth was not moving. “If you forget any of the tertiary controls, remember your on-board AI can assist via voice commands.”

His voice: “I know.” 

“A routine reminder--”

“Terra, stop,” Tele’ktrides said. “Rookie pilots know the first thing to check is whether AI assistance is on or not.” 

He slid his helmet back on.

“Shall we try again?” 

~

Some dazzling description of the vastness of space. 

Infinite and open. The vastness of space stretches on to this day. Humanity, as humanity does, continues to consume all that is before it. Manifest Destiny. But not one light in that direction was man-made. Even our insatiable appetite is meaningless before infinity. One day, civilization will reach so far that a child might be born en route and die before ever seeing the edge of our own borders, and yet, the stars that light our night are even further beyond that. It is painful yet beautiful silence. 

An alarm sounded.

“Look alive, rat,” his operator snapped.  

A piece of junk pinged off the rear camera panel. Was that an egg carton?  

The three-axes of the debris collecting unit--a ball with mechanical arms--spun and for veteran pilots, they felt the whirl and steadied their eyes on the panel ahead of them and went about their business, but for Sam, even after three months in this ball, he gripped the armrest’s foam pads till he felt bone. Collectors often gabbed about rumored newly manufactured units in the Inner Rim that had inertia dampeners so magic that a sleeping baby wouldn’t wake up. Things would have to break before Sam ever saw one of those, and chances are, they’d break with him inside and he wouldn’t get to see. 

The mask hooked up to his face, feeding out through his helmet into a waste collection pack, was there to keep the expensive--if outdated--cockpit controls clean and working, but the tube still reeked of old nausea, further sending him back to his first, soul-suckingly embarrassing day in training when of the three candidates, he’d been the only one to vomit. 

Yet here he was. 

“Transport is waiting.” Sam’s operator didn’t like him, but to be fair, Keen grouched at everyone. He was old with bad eyes and sometimes forgot his glasses. “Finish already so you can brush the stink out your mouth.” 

Was Sam here because of that? 

Had the other applicants been rewarded with less twirling, whirling work and the one with the weak stomach been punished in an attempt to train it out of him? 

No. 

When he steadied, when his eyes focused, when the tide in his throat ebbed, Sushi was still running analysis on material and orbital trajectory of the swarm of debris. He had collected junk that would be useful to recycling, the raw materials going to the plant, melted down and made again into junk that’d wind up here. Factoring in how long the recycling process took, time on the shelf waiting for purchase, the forgettable instant it was chucked in the trash, the 487 days of orbit, he’d be out here collecting it again in some form in two years. Then again in four, ten. Twenty if he lasted that long.  

Space is infinite. But the space around us is not.

Sam waited for permission.

“Whatcha waiting for?” 

The main screen changed. 

What reflected on the screen was the same vision he saw, but his eyes were closed. He was no longer, Sam, rookie of the year space janitor, but at one with the bit drones in his territory. The drones locked onto the largest pieces of trash. Their single dot lasers fired. Space debris now space dust. 

An alarm.

Transport’s final call.

His shift was up.

Nausea returned as he returned to the sickening, aged smell of his helmet. 

~

With the colony laid out on a grid, self-driving cars make travel efficient and safe. They communicate with each other faster than humans can even register another presence, but beyond that, they reach everyone. Where as a single person gets confused by the bustle of a conference call, the AI can coordinate approaching lanes so that wait times are minimal. 

This was not fast enough for delivery. 

And thus the food delivery industry continued among the stars. 

It took a daring, selfless or self-destructive individual to even apply but to flourish, took complete disregard for not just their own life, but everyone’s lives. Technically outlawed, even the law hated room-temp pizza. 

A scooter careened onto the sidewalk, squeezing their handle bar, not to decelerate with the brakes, but to warn pedestrians with the horn as they rounded the corner into the corridor between apartment buildings, decorated with symmetrical saplings and cigarette butts. 

Tele’ktrides was walking through the security vestibule when she heard the horn, but the echo of the corridor didn’t give any effective warning as to which way to look and so the screeching scooter, trying to stop centimeters from the door, hip-checked her with the last of its momentum. 

She sprung to her feet and grabbed the driver by the jacket collar. 

This was such a common occurrence that drivers wore break-away clothes. The collar came off in her hands and he slid through the door that was closing behind her. Again, she was on the pavement. 

By the time she scanned her comm unit’s NFC to let her back in, the driver was up the stairs and on the elevator, having pressed every button so the irate non-customer wouldn’t know where to corner them. Again, a common enough occurrence that there was a plan in place. 

However, in the lobby, was Sam getting his mail. 

Tele’ktrides had her eyes glued to her comm unit as she punched in commands and so didn’t notice him even after they stepped into the elevator together. He waited a polite amount of time of peeking over her shoulder at the comm’s display screen before he asked, “Is that the elevator camera?” He looked up their own little bubble in the corner. 

“Yes.”

The display showed the driver in a helmet and non-descript jumpsuit. It must have been the other elevator. Digital readings also showed the floor they stopped at. The 13th. 

“Should you have access to that?” Sam asked. 

“Yes.”

This elevator was already beyond that, not hampered by the constant stopping, so Tele’ktrides pressed the already lit 40F button and the elevator speaker said, “40th Floor canceled,” followed shortly by an announcement of their new destination, “13th Floor.” 

The elevator descended. 

“I actually really need to get home.”

The elevator stopped. “13th Floor. Please exit.”

“Hold the elevator.” She threw break-away jacket in front of the door sensors, then peeked down each side of the figure-eight halls, even as the door dinged that there was an obstruction. 

“I think I should--”

“Hold it.” She punched in a few more commands on her comms and the dings stopped. 

It was about then that she found the driver and chased them down the hall, but they were well trained in the art of escape and made it to the elevator Sam was holding before she caught up. They grabbed their jacket and punched the door close button. 

The doors closed. 

Again, Sam heard, “40th Floor canceled,” and they hit the G key. 

But the doors immediately reopened. 

No one was at the door the entrance yet but Tele’ktrides strode toward them and unmasked them, expecting a dumb kid she could yell at beneath the helmet, but it was an old woman. 

Suddenly caught, she began to apologize. 

“That’s all I wanted,” Tele’ktrides said and unlocked the elevator. 

Sam stepped out. 

The second elevator returned to their floor, but to both of their surprise, out stepped Jean Beaumont. 

“Hi y’all. So it wouldn’t have happened to be you who hacked the elevators?” they asked Sam. After he shook his head, they continued, “That’s what I was afraid. You really can’t be doing that, Deez. Um… Dr. Deez.” 

“I shredded the video files already.” 

“That’s kind of the main problem. Without video of original problem, the boss thinks I made a mistake or something and then I get lectured by folks who can’t even reprogram their AI summon command. Luckily, I added back-up recordings to a hidden partition that saves locally.”

Tele’ktrides, technically outmaneuvered by a flunky, let out an audible sigh. “I’m not the problem here.” 

“Well, you did kind of let them into the building, too.” Jean pulled up the footage of Tele’ktrides exiting the building and not waiting for the first security door to close before exiting the second one as was suggested on posters all over the apartment complex. 

“Can I go?” she asked. 

“Promise not to hack into systems again and I can delete this footage.”

“Fine.”

Their bright expression returned. “How’s your puppy? Can you pull up some pictures? I like pictures!” 

“Sure.” 

All three of them stepped onto the elevator and since both were heading down and only Sam was heading up, the elevator went down as Jean cooed over the cute and safe photos on Sam’s AI drive, then once Jean and Tele’ktrides stepped off, Sam finally headed back upstairs where he could grab the real Sushi and head to the park. 

While waiting for the light at the corner of his territory, he peeked over at the mountain with the forest around it. 

The shadow stuck with him during the whole walk. 

~

Sam took a taxi to the military base, but the car wasn’t allowed past a certain point by signage or its programming, and he walked the last bit near the chain-link fence. He gawked at the expected vignettes of military life. 

Soldiers ran laps in sharp formation, chanting with bravado between breaths. Beyond the corner, a firing range aimed at the broadside of the mountain. Stray shots might hit a squirrel, but that was just protein. 

Beyond those superficial necessities for military life, the design of the base stuck out. On some colonies, the military base was like a Third City with home supply stores and restaurants and suburbs. You could find kids in the park. Movie theaters played the latest hits.  

However, on Deimos, the base reminded Sam of an industrial complex. The ugly aesthetic of function. Every building laid out on a grid. A candy cane-striped smoke stack piped toxic fumes into the infinity outside the colony. Four water tower-type structures were marked with a series of warnings. A transport vehicle parked against one with a polytetrafluoroethylene hose hooked up. It was slightly translucent and whatever dark liquid inside had stopped flowing, but the driver waited for the dregs that might disintegrate, drop by drop if, the outer coating of the colony if protocol was ignored, until finally she could drive along oddly wide roads, hauling her trailer to a building designated by an alphabet. To civilians, each letter on a near-identical building meant nothing, but to inhabitants, the difference was obvious.

The fence became a vestibule with a guard booth inside. A camera scanned for license plates and would open automatically for the guard to then check credentials and wave them past the boom barrier. 

When Sam approached, in his usual flu season get-up: face mask, beanie, and sunglasses, the guard approached. The pattern of chains separated them and while this guard had no weapon in hand, a guard standing at the far gate was armed with a rifle. Sam felt her eyes, too. 

“Identification.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Sam said. 

“Civilian ID,” he barked with a commanding gruffness that sent Sam into a panic of patting his pockets to find it. He handed it over without a thought. “Remove your face coverings.” 

First his sunglasses.

Then his hat.

His dark hair had natural highlights. 

Then a pause.

Then he started to do his mask, when the soldier nodded that that was enough.

“What’s your business on base?”

Sam hadn’t really thought about it. And definitely not how to explain it. He sputtered, “Um, I—well…” while he prepared it in his head. “I’m looking for someone named Ji-Ming. Eddie, maybe. Airman. Senior airman. He lives in my building.”

The soldier stayed silent as a short-range radio on his shoulder buzzed with background noise. Low, whispering voices not directed at this soldier but another one elsewhere. Finally the static-masked voice rose to an intelligible level. “Senior Airman Lee is in recreation.”

“Samwise Nuwim at the gate.”

“He’d just know it as Sam.”

“Sam.”

Low voices again before the gate separating the soldier and bundle of nerves slid slowly along a rickety track and Sam was looking the soldier in the eye. He remained silent but returned Sam’s ID.   

“Can I go in?” 

“Wait for escort.”

~

Ji-Ming threw his arm around Sam as they walked deeper into the base. He peeked over their shoulders before shaking his head. “Security these days. But it’s good to see you.”

After the pleasantries, there was a noticeable silence between them as they continued the walk. He was a bit sweaty from double-timing it over, but the colony fans blew a nice breeze today. 

“Was I expecting—did we make plans?”

Sam shook his head. 

“I’m happy to give you a tour. At least of the visitor friendly section. How about some lunch? It ain’t great but that’s part of the fun.” 

“I saw something.” Sam’s feet moved on auto-pilot and before he realized it, his escort’s friendly arm no longer draped across his shoulders. 

“Gonna need you to be more specific than that.” Ji-Ming’s tone changed. “This isn’t a friend-thing, is it?” 

“There are just all these posters and announcements these days—’See something, say something,’ right?” Sam was suddenly feeling very silly. 

A blackout? 

A shadow? 

A dream? 

And he was making reports like he stumbled on some conspiracy. It was arrogance to think two monumental events would happen in his vicinity. “Forget it. I should go. It was probably nothing.”

“Let me be the judge. Pronoia, voice recording.” His wrist watch had a red light and the screen showed the sound waves rise and fall with his each sound. “This is United Earth Colony Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming on Deimois military base with Samwise Nuwim. Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine.”

“Tell me what happened.” 

Sam recounted the blackout last night and the elevator and taking the stairs. “It was end of the day so only a little natural light and everything else was dark and I thought I saw a shadow fall into the woods. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something. But it looked controlled. Like a landing. Or something, I don’t know. I called the police department this morning and left similar information, but who knows how many tips they get.” 

A long pause as Ji-Ming waited.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Probably nothing.” 

“Any specific place it touched down? Mountain-side? City-side?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of it when we kept heading down.” 

“It won’t hurt to check it out. I’ll report this immediately to superiors. Pronoia, stop recording.” The wrist watch screen faded to standby. The soldier’s tone was back to friendly apartment dweller. “And it’s always nice to get off base.”

“Should I submit a written report or anything?” 

“Not necessary, but if you want a paper trail in addition to the recording, we can arrange that. We’ll have to ask around for a notary. Might take a bit, but if you want.”

“No, the recording’s fine. I should go.”

“What about lunch? I can’t promise it’s good, but that’s half the fun for civilians. Freeze-dried ice cream,” Ji-Ming said in an attempt to tempt. 

~

For Alisha Al-Abidi, search patrol was a fine way to spend the afternoon. The base got so cramped, sometimes feeling more cramped than the transport vessel she came in on with Commander Reynolds. Transport felt like a cruise. While all the food came from cans or dehydrated powders, the chefs aboard were expert at making that work. A poor in-flight cuisine for months of travel spelled danger. The crew needed hope and the best way for that was gourmet meals. 

Here, food was fine, but it was just fine. Always the same kind of fine. Never spectacular, never interesting, never even bad. Maybe if it were bad every once in a while, the rest would seem better by comparison. 

So when an officer came into the dorms asking for four volunteers to search the forests by the mountains yesterday, she thought it’d be taking full advantage of colony-life by seeing nature, however artificially transplanted, and to her surprise, toward the end, the patrol leader named Lee Ji-Ming had stopped as dark approached to make dinner over a three-pronged camping stove. 

The smell… 

It was… 

Terrible! 

She got so excited by it that she began falling into friendly chit-chat with the crew she’d only really just met, or met a few times and forgot. 

“Alisha, this like our third time meeting,” Ji-Ming said as he stirred the burning the beans. 

It was easy to forget names with so many on the colony. 

“Sorry, sorry, I know. Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming. C. Ji-Ming.”

“Lee,” Sonya corrected her. “Come on. I’ve been here as long as you and even I remember. Remember in transport when you kept calling Commander Reynolds ‘Commander Reynard?’”

“Wait, it’s Reynolds?” 

The three other soldiers had a laugh. Everyone took a scoop of beans, not wanting to take more than their fair share, leaving plenty for the cook and Alisha to finish, which they did with delighted disgust. 

~

How little the third shift meant during arbitrary time, and yet, even for debris collectors, it was the least desirable position. Instinctual lethargy dragging their movement down. And though data showed that rare accidents happened equally across shifts, it was widely known that strange things happened at the witching hour. 

“Careful tonight,” the transport pilot warned their crew. “Comms are finicky. Downed satellite in Sector 7. Repairs at 0900.” Then they held up crossed fingers—Hoping? Or lying?  

Each member had a name for their collector Ball, and as even Balls were expensive, the dozen of Balls used by the first shift were the same dozen used by the second shift and so each Ball had several names depending on the pilot. 

“Macbeth 7 reporting a reading at perimeter.” 

It was just Junie in the dispatch room, staring at the feed of the remaining collectors as well as last year’s charts. Without closeness of drifting debris or the data coordinates transmitted, the feed would be black dotted by starlight. Whether the pilot was moving at all was hard to parse, and even the faded green numbers in the corner relaying vitals, coordinates, and the like fell to background noise. Only a yellow sphere inside a red sphere made of vector graphics indicated a visual. After reaching the yellow, an alarm beeped warning the pilot and operator that they were leaving colony space. The first transport carrying 1 through 5 had already begun docking procedures, a bit early, but with paperwork and clean-up, it’d even out. 

She wheeled her desk chair over to Station 7 for a better look at the reading. The object sat on the far side of the downed satellite. It wasn’t on a collision course. It wasn’t en route for the docking procedures. And it was too far for a proper reading of elemental composition. She made a note of it on the chart for next year. 

“There’s no overtime,” radio replied. 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

If this maverick pilot took too long, it delayed 6 through 12 from docking on time, they took longer with paperwork, and then Junie is stuck sitting around when she was supposed to be on a pancake breakfast date with Nic.

“You could be the goddamn Red Star of Deimos after this but you’re still not getting an extra cent.”

7 Comms went silent. 

She reported it to the other Balls and the transport pilots, who groaned.

7 Comms stayed silent.  

“Well?” Junie buzzed impatiently. The reading had intrigued her as nothing was listed on the previous chart. 

“En route! Hold your horses.”

Junie put a remote headpiece on to take with her as she fetched coffee, certain she’d late now. But remote work always went silly in the break room and it’d been too long since last report. 

“7, report?”

Nothing.

“What’d you find?”

No answer.

“Macbeth 7, do you copy?”

Impatience gave way to dread.

“Nic! Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

The feed for Macbeth 7 cut then returned then cut again. 

“Still out. Get back here and we’ll requisition repairs. Repeat. Return to colony for repairs, Macbeth 7. Return ASAP. Macbeth 7, come back to base and we’ll have pancakes. Macbeth 7!” 

~

Tele’ktrides ran her diagnostics, waiting for the results to compile into a 3D image she’d seen a dozen times in various shades. A new actuator here, a different circuit there, an algorithmically upgraded AMPSystem that even at a slowed pace made only partial sense to her. No one could explain it. 

The software engineers had made the testers. The testers had ran infinite number of fledgling AI through an infinite number of data points. The AI who passed made other fledgling AI who were run through improved tests. And so on, into infinity, until all tests were aced and they had the AMPSystem. 

The screen she stared so intently at suddenly turned from code to a friendly, smiling face of home. 

“Dinner tonight,” Ji-Ming called her comm. 

“Did we have plans?”

“No.” His voice was not smiling. 

~

Usually when they placed Sam in a different collector unit than usual, they told him in a single word: Repairs. Today, the comms operator used two: “Can’t say.” 

It wasn’t Keen, either. 

It was some new lady with blue hair. Sonya. 

He crossed his fingers that he’d missed Keen’s retirement party. 

He might not have minded the different unit had it included a different suction mask with a better smelling hose, but those were pilot-fitted, not unit-fitted, and the smell remained. 

No more was said on the subject. 

On a normal day, in the blackness of space with empty sectors, only numbers indicated the distance from Deimos at (0, 0, 0) and those were background noise on a screen, not vital like your fuel levels, O2, or distance from objects. No trash collector ever turned back at that warning rope to notice the colony was slightly larger than last time they heard the beeps, which might’ve been months ago as most debris came from the colony--it stayed near the colony, and thus collectors did, too. 

But Sam, perhaps already suspicious, noticed. 

He had the coordinates memorized, but they only confirmed the whisper calling him further. 

The perimeter had been reduced to 75%.

60%

“Deucalion here,” he called to Sonya. “Satellite down?”

“Shouldn’t be. Maintenance went out at 0700 and already came back. Are you getting weird readings?” 

“Sort of.” The gages on his dash indicated normal. “Did they confirm repairs?”

65%

Sonya left the channel open as she typed away. “Seems so. Comms are fine so just leave it. You’re at perimeter. Go no farther.”

70%

“Why is Sat 7 outside perimeter? Why is the perimeter reduced?” 

“Can’t say.”

He took that to mean she didn’t know earlier, but now, it seemed more like code for confidential. 

75%

“Return to transport.” 

“Operator.”

“What?”

80%

“I found Ball 7.” 

“Return to port via emergency transport ASAP.”

70% 

~

After a demerit on his record signed by him and his operator—her handwriting almost as bad as his, Sonya took him into a private room. She lit up a cigarette and turned some music on—loud. If anyone was outside, their conversation would go unheard.  

“The official story is Macbeth 7 collided with Sat7.”

There’d been no crumpling. Most of the damage seemed aimed at the cockpit. And an arm was dislodged, defensive wounds of someone instinctually trying to defend themselves. “Damage was inconsistent with that.”

“Sat7 would’ve been 95% out, but according to communication recordings, she was beyond perimeter. She saw something.”

“What was she looking for?” 

“Don’t know. Her feed had interference.”

“Did she save the local recording?”

“She was instructed to,” the operator said. She blew out a puff of smoke into the ventilation shaft. “Why?”

Sam had never had to sift through any of the debris he brought back before. “How can we get access to the trash?” 

~ 

*V2 - tense after a long wait, kicks it off sooner, better written conflict*

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility. 

“Samwise Nuwim, hands on your head,” Sonya commanded quietly from behind. 

When he started to turn around, she placed the muzzle of her pistol to him and he froze. 

“You’re not in any danger if you do as you’re instructed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will you resist?”

“No.”

She removed the muzzle, but he still felt it trained on him. 

“Wipe the file. Hard reboot the computer. And eject the drive. Hand it to me.” 

Sam did each slowly and carefully. 

“You live on Floor 40, Door 18, correct? Your room overlooks the park with the little river.”

“Yes.”

“What happened today?” 

“Nothing.”

“You requisitioned an inspection of some debris. What was it?”

“Nothing. Just junk.”

“Good. Your dog is very cute.”

She left the room and Sam stayed in the chair, waiting for his heart to settle, before looking into the hall. No trace of her. 

~

*V1 - funny and ironic, better setup for later, stealthier* 

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility.

“We have to report this,” Sonya said. She reached over Sam and plugged something into the desktop. Her fingers flew with the grace of a data-entry professional. “I’m copying this to a secure drive with a decryption key that’ll match only our AI. You find the person you trust most in this colony and you show them, copy it, but do not let them have your original. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” The purpose filled Sam with a feverish energy. 

She plugged her comm unit into the second slot. Sam did, too. Three drives into this machine that’d save the colony. And he had helped. 

“Summon your AI. Bahamut, copy.”   

“Um…” 

“Let’s go.”

A wave of embarrassment swept Sam up, but national security was at stake. “Sushi, copy.” 

The blue-haired woman glanced over. 

“My dog, not the food.” He hoped that made it better. 

~

On the bridge of the military escort, the UEC Scorpio, Brigadier General Kyst wiped his brow of sweat then connected via the “Walkie-Talkie” function to the mission leader, in all respects that didn’t matter: his subordinate, but in all respects that did: worthy of fear. 

Opening the channel of communication should have been silent, and yet, before Kyst could make his report, Lieutenant Colonel Zinra Xenonemon said in a low tone, “Confess thy sins.” 

Everyone aboard the Scorpio hated how she did that. Whispers through the hall reasoned you only saw when she got it right, not how often she said it without response, and still others clung to another theory: from on high, she was sent as a messenger to guide the coming Deluge. 

“According to reports, the collector unit’s memory was discovered. It has been dealt with already,” Kyst said. 

“The Messenger of Death shall not touch us; we have traversed the terrifying ocean of dark, carrying righteousness with us.” 

Kyst was unsure how to respond. Coded messages were one thing, but he was of the opinion that a simple report should not require a decryption specialist. He looked to the room for signals, but found only blank faces and shrugs. 

There is a universal truth that no matter how outlandish, unpleasant, or cruel the methods, results are results, and such behavior must be tolerated. 

“The confidence is inspiring, ma’am.”

“Do not fall to my feet. I am your fellow servant and your brethren in this testimony.”  

“Right. Anything to report on your end?”

“The cuisine is divine.”

~  

The Lieutenant Commander stepped through the street as she received this report. She came to a crosswalk currently marked STOP, cars rushing by delivering office workers from the humdrum of work to the humdrum of home, and without drivers, the speed at which they could travel was a blur of motion. Her stride continued without fear. As her foot stepped onto asphalt, a horn sounded. 

The passenger looked up. They braced themselves for the first collision in months. In a flash of brain activity, it was almost exciting. They’d probably get a quote in the newspaper. 

But fear got the better of them and they shut their eyes tight. 

The horn died. 

The car’s speed stayed constant. 

 Zinra Xenonemon reached the other side. 

“Cover my feet so you may not see that I walk as you might. 

Cover my eyes that I might be ignorant of your worst indiscretions. 

And cover my back so that I might carry you toward the heavenly bodies that move us without feeling.” 

~

~

“Wipe your feet before you enter a house of study,” Tele’ktrides demanded of a her assistant. “Doctor Rey Lee Silvers did not spend two lifetimes studying this machine only to lose it to careless interning.”

Highly technological devices had unfortunate structural weaknesses. All the computing power of the cosmos and dust would erode it.  

“My internship ended last week,” the assistant said like a balloon of confidence.  

“Then why are you still here?”

“They hired me.”  

“Why?”

In the icy environment, the confidence in his balloon shrank till he cowered in the decontamination vestibule. A vacuum sucked up the particulates in the air that scuffed off his feet. 

~

~

At the military base, Sam knew the drill now and waited with impatient, dancing feet for Ji-Ming to escort him. He looked haggard and waved it off as having the night shift, though he was dressed in fatigues today. Maybe just getting off the shift. 

“How’d the pup like his bones? Quality, eh?”

“He wanted me to say thanks.”

“Wish I had an update on the case for you, bud, but we’ve turned up nothing.” 

“Actually… can we go somewhere secure? Private?”

Ji-Ming almost laughed at his demeanor but Sam was dead serious, jumpy, like a kid at a cookie jar. “Sure.” 

Inside his dorm room, he locked the door and offered Sam the bed or the desk chair. There wasn’t much else. A closet. Dresser. A desk with scrolling precious memories with Tele’ktrides, the two of them slowly aging through the years, as adults do. Widening, thinning, regrettable hair styles, but mostly the deep strain wrinkling their flesh and the smiles appearing more tired until the final photo from just the other night with oxtail soup and a jump cut to 10 years ago.  

“See any more shadows?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“Is your computer hard wired to the Internet? Or can we go offline and view things locally?” 

“Internet cuts out all the time, so I guess the latter.” 

“I have evidence now.”

He crawled under the desk, both to take the Ethernet cord out the back and to take a moment to process. “Of the shadow?”

“Of something that has to be connected to it. But if the investigation lists me as reporting, I’m worried about what’ll happen next.”

“We could redact your name from the initial report? Or withdraw it completely?”

“You’re a senior airman, right? You said military rank holds more sway. For the good of the colony and the people on it, I need that sway.”

He crawled out of the darkness, his friendly face looking serious. “OK, you got my support. What’s this evidence?”   

“We’re unplugged?”

“Off-the-grid.” 

Sam plugged in his AI drive. Usually it took a few seconds to go through start-up on a new computer, but it popped up with command prompt immediately. “Sushi, open file Evidence.” 

The drive didn’t light up with the usual recognition light at its summon phrase. “Sushi,” Sam said again more clearly. 

He reached over the mouse to manually open the file. 

This Computer > External Drive (F:)

Empty. 

“Maybe because we’re offline,” Ji-Ming suggested.

Sam unplugged it and tried again while disconnected. “Sushi, what time is it?” 

“Sushi, time.” 

“Sushi!”

“Sam, what’s up?”

The woman! What did she…?

“Can you pull up personnel files on this?” Sam frantically started groping in the back of the PC, trying to reconnect the Ethernet. 

“Public ones, sure.”

“Pull up Collecting Unit operator Sonya Alkes.”

Ji-Ming typed it in with the old hunt-and-peck method. “There’s no one by that name.”

“Can you pull up me? Samwise Nuwim.” 

Yes. 

“Keen Okyere.” 

Yes.

There was no one working in the Sanitation & Collection Department by that name and scrolling through the list of operators, transport pilots, collectors, no one had blue hair. 

“She wiped my AI! It must’ve been a time-bomb for my drive.”

“Or… drives fail sometimes. This, the elevator. You’re having a string of bad luck this week, but don’t start looking for conspiracies to explain it.” 

“Tele’ktrides is a science person, right? Randy?” Sam reeled from the lost, grasping at whatever might save this. “Does she work with computers? Could she recover?”

“One of her three degrees is computer engineering, but even if it were foul play, would it really be so easy to get it back?” 

“At least she could see if it’s tampered with.” 

“I don’t know. I use computers but I don’t understand them. I don’t know what leaves a ‘fingerprint’ of sorts.” 

“Please. I’ll buy you dinner every night this week.”

The way the boy looked at Ji-Ming… He still had a heart. He still had to try. If nothing else, this would bring a bitter closure. Evidence gone, case closed, failure.  

“All right, but I eat a lot.”

“That’s fine.” As they were walking down the hall, Sam asked, “Three degrees? Really?”

“Computers, mechanical and… Bio? Don’t tell her I forgot.”

~

The lab they’d found her in required clearance that Ji-Ming didn’t even have. The windowless door from the lab to vestibule had to close before the windowless door from the vestibule to the lobby could open, but she walked out with AR lenses still strapped to her face. 

“How long have you had this?” Tele’ktrides asked, waiting for her personal laptop to boot up. 

“I guess since university.”

The boot process took only a second. 

“I don’t know how long ago that was for you.” 

“Oh, right, sorry. Three or four years now? No issues with it until now.”

She pulled up the empty directory and with a few more buttons revealed hidden files.

Sam felt some hope.

“These are just the default AI directories. At the store, the machine will run you through set-up like you probably did three or four years ago and that’s how you name yours and program a summon phrase. For example, ‘Prometheus.’”

Her own lit up. She had the same watch as Ji-Ming but in red. 

“Call yours,” Ji-Ming suggested.

“It won’t work.”

“Sushi,” Sam tried. 

Ji-Ming smiled. Tele’ktrides scowled. 

“Based on your account of the incident, it’s possible the data wasn’t formatted but shredded. I’m not a recovery specialist so I can’t tell the difference on my computer, but if files are shredded, they’re deleted then the partition is overwritten. In running recovery, you’ll only come up with deleted junk files.”

“All of them are shredded?”

“Sorry, Sam, but next time leave the investigation up to professionals. We’ll keep investigating the woods and--”

“It’s not just the recent files shredded?”

“I’d imagine a malicious actor would shred everything not stock. Take some new pictures. Start fresh.”

“My family was on that.”

Ji-Ming felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe if you leave it with us, we can recover something.”

“That’s OK.” 

Sam left, not just with failure, but a harsh reminder that he was an orphan with fading memories. 

~

The first thing Sam did when he returned was hug Sushi. The AI may be gone, but the pup remained. They headed down the elevator, the other night a distant memory for the dog, and when they reached the lobby, there was Jean Beaumont fixing the security locker meant for packages. 

They saw Sushi and backed into the alcove for paper mail boxes that were unanimously stuffed by untouched fliers. “Did you need in here?” They waved at the dog. “Something funky happened with passcodes. You know yours, right? Perfect. Enter any other number and you can get your package.” 

Sam nodded and passed, then turned around to see Jean cautiously exiting the mail box fortress. “Are you good with computers?”

“The best! Anyway, bye! Have a nice walk.” 

Sam placed his drive on the security desk and stepped way. “I need your help.” 

~

According to Jean, the data recovery would take a few hours. Sam felt his hope live once more. He reached the edge of his rectangular territory, that corner that led to the park or to the restaurants. In truth, this rectangle was established by Sushi when they first arrived. It was all the three-legged boy could handle upon recovery. It’d take time to adjust and find new ways to move. By the time his prosthesis arrived, Sam had settled in that comfortable routine. 

For once, he went to the restaurants, then past them, then to the forest to find that shadow. He knew it was there. 

And Sushi loved every new step.

The mulberry trees with little snacks to keep his energy up. The deer hoofs imprinted in soft dirt. The occasional candy bar wrapper. So many things to mark as his new territory. A group of birds took off and Sushi squirmed against the harness to chase them with his tongue hanging out so far the black spot in back was visible. 

At the branch of a well-trodden path, Sushi let his nose decide. 

There came a point when he needed to rest and Sam carried him.  

Soon Sam needed his own tree to mark. Sam put him down. 

And it was around there that Sam heard the voices. Grumbling voices. 

“Another day, more nothing,” a woman said. “Next time, can’t we just kick back the whole shift with some beans and say we couldn’t find anything?”

“The comm units track movements,” another said. 

Peeking through the bushes, Sam saw it was a group of four soldiers stopped for dinner in a clearing. They huddled around a small camping stove with an empty pot. A search patrol! 

At first, Sam wanted to approach them and perhaps help out. They were looking for the shadow. Another person could cover more ground, right? 

And when Sam spotted Ji-Ming among them, the urge rose further. 

Until his stomach dropped. 

Sonya. 

The traitor. 

And in the world of fight or flight, Sam was torn between the two and froze. 

“Dark’s on its way. We should head back to base with a report.” 

The fork in the path had two trails. Theirs would converge with Sam. His feet finally worked and rushed to catch them before double-time proved too fast. He was heard. 

Good. 

“Hello!” another soldier called out. Her name badge said Al-Abidi. “Having a walk?”

“With the dog,” Sam said. “You’re not scared, right?”

“Not at all.” Al-Abidi approached and squatted down before Sushi who retreated. “It’s okay. Boy? Girl?” 

“Boy, Ji-Ming answered. He greeted them cautiously. “Sushi? Sam?” 

Recognizing the voice, the dog got excited but Sam held the leash firmly away from the traitor. Did he know Sam knew? “Are you scouring the woods for something?” When Sam glimpsed the others’ surprise, he added, “I was the one who reported a falling shadow to UEC Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. Find anything? Ceiling tile or something mundane, I assume?”

“Friends?” Al-Abidi asked.

“Same apartment building.”

Ji-Ming said, “Nothing to report.” He traced Sam’s eyes. They were went past the front three soldiers and locked on Sonya. 

It was around now that Sam noticed the side arms on everyone’s hip, and as guns often do, they made him process everything as a threat. Before, he had assumed Ji-Ming and Sonya were the only two infiltrators, that he had somehow sneaked her into the group so that she’d be one of the ones reporting back that they found nothing. But maybe all four of them were in on it. 

And Sam was in danger. 

“We should head back,” Sam said. “He gets pretty tired so far out.” 

“Let’s walk together,” Al-Abidi said. The others fell back. One was afraid of dogs and the other two were definitely traitors to the colony and maybe the entire UEC. 

But Al-Abidi did the heavy lifting to keep the walk from going suspiciously quiet. “My parents take care of the family dog back home—have you ever visited Luna 2? Anyway, she’s getting up there in years. Always hard to say goodbye. By the time I get back, who knows? Another year is a long time for an old gal.”

Sam, between polite but empty responses, glanced back on occasion wanting to see if anyone prepared to pull their guns and fire into the backs of him or even the other soldiers. 

The math was simple: 

Two traitors. Two questionables that even if trustworthy & armed themselves were unaware. Two shots at most to take out the threats and then Sam and Sushi would remain. 

She had already erased Sushi before. 

Would she try it again now in plain view?

They street lights came into view at the mouth of the woods. Restaurants that Tele’ktrides and Ji-Ming liked. And beyond that, their apartment. 

“Nice meeting you,” the friendly soldier said, specifically shaking Sushi’s paw. First one, then the other, telling him he was a good boy. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

~

Back in his apartment, he contacted maintenance to try to find Jean. Their shift had ended. Sam got an address, but wanted to drop Sushi off. He needed to refuel on more than mulberries. 

Sitting with their flash of red hair against the door, holding their own comm unit up to the light, playing games, was his technical hero—Jean Beaumont. 

Who backed away upon seeing Sushi. 

“Let me throw him inside and we can talk out here.” 

“Oh, please don’t throw him. Gently is fine.”

Sam gently placed Sushi inside and opened a can of wet food for him. Lamb & Peas, according to the tin, but it neither looked it or smelled it. He washed his hands then was back outside. “So…” Sam waited for Jean to update him. 

But Jean, polite as could be, waited for him to continue his statement. 

“Did you manage to recover the drive?” 

They shook their head. “The data is gone, but your unit actually has a backup partition that it stores main processes to during updates.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Recordings and documents and whatever are gone forever, but I managed to restore the AI from a recovery drive.” 

Footsteps echoed down the hall. 

In the figure-eight building, Sam lived in the northern half, and the steps walking toward the southern half were from Research & Development team leader on Deimos Military Base, Tele’ktrides C. Lee. 

Their eyes locked. 

“Sushi,” Sam said and the light on his AI drive turned on. “Set alarm for 7:00 am.” 

“Got it. Your alarm is set for tomorrow at 7:00 am.” 

~

The Earth Federation had sent three pilots to test the new machines, but that scientist talked them down to one. Regardless of the humiliation a few days back, Commander Reynolds donned his suit to prepare for the test flight--starting with the diaper. He’d show her who was unqualified. 

The next layer of long johns were from off the shelf of his local general store back home. He searched the shelves for a paper clip, then secured the folded-over elastic waistband to secure the oddly loose underwear.   

Next, another stretchy layer but no civilian store would sell these, but perhaps they should. These were specially engineered ages ago and only improved since. Throughout this special designed suit were intestines of tubes running water. The flow rate helped to maintain his body heat, task independent. 

Then a containment layer, then a protective layer, followed by a Snoopy cap with in-ear radios, simple cotton gloves, and the final outer layer with a helmet. The personal shielding would protect him and the suit’s electronics during turbulent flights, even should he get bounced around the cockpit. In this, he could go toe-to-toe with the heavyweight champion back on Earth and come out unscathed. A modern day suit of armor. 

The bubble over his face darkened automatically or on command and had a radiation visor that could lower. 

Once in the suit, it was hard to recognize which pilot was which, but Reynolds, a tall individual stood out, as did a short, bulky individual.

“Who do I have the pleasure of flying formation with today?” Reynolds asked. The voice transmitted over comms.  

“Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. The pleasure’s mine, sir.”

~

-Sam goes to military base

-The guard asks if he wants to see Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming

-Actually, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name.

-Sam heads off thinking he sneaked inside without alerting Ji-Ming or Sonya. 

-However, the guard watches Sam go and calls Ji-Ming anyway

-”You said you wanted to know if Nuwim returned to base. He just asked for Al-Abidi.”

At the military base, the guard Sam had been getting acquainted with via inspections asked for his ID.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Orders are orders and if something happens these days, I’m not getting blamed. Looking for Lee again?”

“Actually, a girl.”

The guard seemed interested in the development and Sam played into that. 

“Yeah, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name, but her uniform wasn’t quite the same so I think maybe a visiting soldier. If you could help me out.”

The guard radioed to the hut a few meters behind him and they found Alisha Al-Abidi, who arrived at the gate to escort him on. The guard waved playfully behind them. “Have fun, you two.”

The ever-extroverted Alisha was happy to have company, though she’d forgotten his name, and Sam looked around the base, just in case Ji-Ming was around, but he wasn’t. Sam’s infiltration plan had worked. The two walked off together.  

But once they were out of sight, the guard in the hut radioed. “I’m trying to reach Senior Airman Lee. When he’s free, give him the message, ‘His packaged just arrived.’”

~

They walked for a bit, enjoying pleasant chit-chat, mostly one-sided as Sam scoped out the activity around him. He saw neither Ji-Ming nor Sonya. Sam’s plan for this section wasn’t quite formed. In his mind, he’d catch them in the act of something, but where were they? What would they be doing so indiscreetly that onlookers would rally to his side? He was the civilian here. His word was already at a disadvantage. And even if he caught them, if there weren’t onlookers, was he, a trash collector, going to take down two trained soldiers on a mission? 

During the pause, Alisha asked, “So?”

“I need a toilet.” 

“Oh! Sure.” 

It gave him a little more time to think, but eventually he’d have to return to her and with an escort, his hands were tied on how much he could actually explore a secure military base worth infiltrating. 

The sounds of transport vehicles came through the open window. It was long and short and high up, but if he stood on the cistern, he could reach it. 

“You OK in there, um… Dan?” Alisha called. 

There was no answer. 

~

In the lobby of the Port Tram Station, the three test pilots waited for final preparations from the engineering team. 

“What the hell is this?” Commander Reynolds said when one pulled out a syringe for his blood. 

Tele’ktrides explained, “The AMPSystem uses biometric data to bind you with the on-board AI. It won’t be so different than your personal unit and you can even use the same name, if you like. However, the system is… particular. A bit of DNA goes a long way in getting it to accept you.”

“Sounds like we’re letting a new pet sniff us,” he grumbled to Ji-Ming.

“Thank god, pets don’t ask for blood.”

“You’ve never had an ocelot,” the commander said it with the coy expression that made Ji-Ming laugh but he wasn’t sure. “Can we hurry and get this under way?” 

“We’re all impatient,” Tele’ktrides said, though she knew from Ji-Ming that pilots always felt ill at ease in a jumpsuit and most at ease in a cockpit. She checked her watch. Two hours left. 

“Maybe we can pass the time by starting final briefing. The bulk of this will take place in the hangar so you can see the controls in-person, though obviously it’ll be similar to your time in the simulation.” Ji-Ming pulled up his AI unit. “The three units have been designated with call names already. Because I was fortunate enough to serve as the test pilot during development, I already know my AI. GX-001: Pronoia.”

“Let me guess: it means something.”

“From the ancient Greek myths, Pronoia was a minor goddess of foresight and wife of Prometheus.”

“The Fire Bringer?” 

“That’s the one. And I’m sure you also know the word ‘paranoia,’ right?”

“Of course.”

“The world’s cynicism teaches you that word but not its opposite. ‘Pronoia’ means the belief that the world conspires to do you good.” 

“Do you really believe that?” the commander asked. 

He shrugged. 

“Then what’s mine?”

Tele’ktrides brought up some a time line with three points highlighted. She pointed to the first. “Seeing as you’re our guest, the choice is yours. GX-000: Prometheus, as you said, ‘the Fire Bringer,’ was our first unit in development. A prototype with some quirks, but I believe is the easiest unit to pilot. The lowest skill floor but perhaps the lowest skill ceiling as well.”

“And the final one?”

“GX-002: Deucalion, hero of the flood.”

The commander smiled. “Fitting. I like that one. Guess that leaves our youngest with the oldest. What’s your name again, soldier?”

“Alkes, sir. Sonya Alkes. It’ll be a pleasure to fly beside you.”   

An alarm sounded. 

Commander Reynolds looked to his fellow pilots, but the three conspirators looked to each other. This wasn’t part of their plan. 

“Senior Airman Lee?” an escort approached. “We have a message from the security gate.”

~

Traipsing through the military base already put Sam on edge. 

He peeked around a corner. Two soldiers marched by with folks who appeared to be scientists. They were escorted from Hangar A into Laboratory A. While they didn’t appear to be under arrest, there was ice in the air. No one said a word. No one looked around. One clutched a hard shelled briefcase. 

He stepped out into the open and made his way toward Hangar A, reasoning that if they’d just come from there, there wouldn’t be anyone else. 

To Sam’s surprise, the soldiers weren’t out en force beyond the second security checkpoint. It was harder to get past the entrance gate. Sam had no idea the majority of soldiers were preparing for the test flight or sent elsewhere to preserve secrecy, but it worked to his advantage. 

He started to relax.

Then the alarm sounded with large holo-screens displaying both his identification photo and the security footage from the front gate, his heart raced. 

He ducked into the alleyway behind Hangar A to catch his breath behind some crates. 

The alley was between Hangar A where the people had just come from and a building marked Port Tram Station. 

~

At the command of a superior officer, the soldiers in the Port Tram Station fanned out around the base. Then the door went quiet. Those inside were instructed to remain. Test pilots had no business hunting down an intruder. However, that was boring and soldiers are creatures of action. 

“A friend of yours?” Commander Reynolds said as they stepped out. 

“Same apartment building.”

“So why’s he here?”

Tele’ktrides looked to Ji-Ming, but she kept her mouth sealed for the time being. “Don’t wander too far. We can’t delay this test.” 

The door closed and Commander Reynolds stepped out with his fellow test pilots.  

They hadn’t seen Sam yet. But Sam saw them from the shadows. The jumpsuits they wore were a more advanced version than his own at work, both out of necessity and out of preference from the higher-ups on who needed protection. It wasn’t collectors like him. 

His heart beat so loud they’d soon find him on sound alone. 

Ji-Ming went straight. Sonya right. And Commander Reynolds toward Sam. 

Now was the time. 

“There are traitors on this colony,” Sam said with his hands up. 

The Commander reached for his side arm, but kept it holstered. “Are you Sam Nuwim? People get lost on tours all the time. Follow my instructions and we’ll sort everything out. Keep your hands up. Turn around.”

“I have video evidence that proves Sonya Alkes is an infiltrator from the ISF. And Senior Airman--”

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he interrupted. 

Befuddled by the question, Sam started to approach. 

The soldier drew his own weapon and asked again, louder, “Do you have any weapons?”

“No! All I have is proof of danger to this colony. Sushi,” he started to summon his AI.  

A shot hit the wall. 

Commander Reynolds turned to see who had fired. 

The accused. 

Sonya Alkes.

Ji-Ming currently wrestled her to the ground but she was wily, familiar with the same type of hand-to-hand combat UEC Defense Force soldiers were trained in--and more. She scrambled to grab her pistol off the ground when Commander Reynolds joined the scuffle. This kid was not clear and present danger, but Sonya might be, if not to the colony, at least to Sam. And the commander knew civilians froze in situations like this. 

“Resistance is a clear sign of guilt. Thanks,” Ji-Ming said as the commander helped him pin the suspect down. “I got her. Where’s Sam?” 

The kid had run off. 

“Dammit.” 

He couldn’t have gone far. 

~

Tele’ktrides comm unit flicked on with its walkie-talkie function. Only Ji-Ming had access to that. 

“Sonya Alkes has had accusations laid against her as an infiltrator or defector.” 

“Allegedly,” Commander Reynolds said in the background. “But her response maybe tipped her hand.” 

“What about Sam?” Tele’ktrides asked. 

“Disappeared when Alkes fired a shot near him.” 

“She’s not saying anything?” 

“No.”

“I’ll recall some MPs to take her to a holding cell.” Tele’ktrides checked the time. “And I’ll let everyone know the test has been delayed due to rain.”

~

Sam found himself in Hangar A, a large room that immediately descended around the perimeter of the room so the exterior was deceptively short, only appearing three stories but with the depth, maybe clocked in closer to five or six. Nothing in the room warranted such height currently. Some boxes were stacked high, but nowhere near the ceiling. Stairs led up to a catwalk that had lines and harnesses akin to a Boatswain’s chair most often used in window washing. But there were no windows. 

All there was that stood out to Sam was a large flatbed covered in an uneven tarpaulin, which, as the door was thrown open behind him, seemed the only good place to hide. 

The tarp was too thick to see through except where wear and tear near the folds had formed pinpoints for light. He navigated against the odd geometric shapes of the metal, trying not to make noise or moving mounds beneath. He played this game with Sushi all the time. He put his hand under a blanket. Moved it slowly, carefully, then rose up like a shark fin and Sushi would pounce, trying to pin him down, only to find the shape had reappeared elsewhere. 

Now was no time to get pounced on. 

He moved slowly. Carefully. Following the odd shape. It was actually easy, though. The structure was like his apartment wall, maybe 9 or 10 feet tall. The empty space it created was more than enough to sidle through.

Curiosity started to get to him. 

He felt like an ant on a tractor tire, aware of the grooves and ridges, but unable to piece the mass together in his mind. It was too long. Or… If the wall he stood against was actually the depth of it, then perhaps it was not long, but tall. Probably the thing requiring such six stories of hangar. 

“Sam!” yelled a voice he knew as Ji-Ming’s. “I know you’re in here. There’s still time for this to all work out.” He threw up a corner of the tarp, but he picked the wrong corner. 

Suddenly, Sam could see the UEC colors on rough metal, but a paint job gave him no clearer mental picture. 

The tarp flapped down and he heard footsteps around the bend. A light shining. 

Ji-Ming made his way around, not hampered by a need to be stealthy, but he saw and heard nothing. 

Sam had pulled himself up to the roof of this thing.

But now the tarp rustled with Sam moving against the top of it. 

Less gracefully, Ji-Ming heaved himself up to grab the ledge and Sam knew it’d be a few seconds then till he was caught if nothing changed. 

His pursuer’s light showed a hatch. 

He groped the metal nearby looking for a handle or latch or something. A sharp edge cut his fingers. He swore but there was no time. Ji-Ming had seen him. 

“Freeze!” 

Sam rose to his feet. The two men formed tent poles under the canvas. Sam put his hands up. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t have a choice. I know now.”

“You don’t.”

Sam backed up. 

“Don’t move, Sam!” 

His heel caught a ledge. The hatch opened with a hydraulic pop and hiss. He could no longer see the other. 

Ji-Ming bolted. 

Sam stumbled inside, grabbing the inner handle, and using his weight and gravity to pull the heavy hatch door after him into the dark. 

~ 

The abyss wrapped around him as the last light snuffed out with a click. 

Then a crack as the handle broke off in his hand. It was not designed to support his full weight hanging on. 

And he fell. 

Down.

Down.

Down. 

Until his ankle caught on something, rolled, he yelped, crumpled, banged his head, bled.

And the light of a computer monitor bathed the cockpit in a soft blue. 

“DNA accepted.”

He found himself draped across the armrests of a pilot’s chair. Similar to the one he was used to in his collector ball but only enough to recognize what it was. This was military-grade. The difference between an old clunker in the scrapyard and some CEO’s seventh car. The monitors in his collector had microscopic bezels, but any amount of border created gaps in the paneling that your eyes honed in on before adjusting, but here, it really appeared that the entirety of the sphere around him was a single piece of material. The hole he’d fallen in had disappeared. He only knew where it probably was by the force of gravity. Even if he wanted to exit to his assailant above, he had no way of doing so. 

The screens, or single screen, showed him government information on himself. His ID, his address, a collection of CCTV photos, even some of him in the illegal fighting arena that by all logic he knew they knew about but still surprised him to see record of—but all the data flew by in a whirlwind.

“Samwise Nuwim: Welcome. Voice imprinting initialized. Default name: Deucalion.”

The phrase was less consumer friendly, but ultimately he recognized what was happening. Any AI store ran you through the same set-up. 

“Would you like to sync your personal AI to the AMPSystem?”

“Yes,” he sputtered, trying to keep up. “What is the AMPSystem?” 

“Registered. Changing default name to linked AI. The AMPSystem is the abbreviation of Augmented Magic Processing System. A tool discovered by Dr. Rey Lee Silvers that has been implemented into the GX-000, GX-001, and GX-002 units by the United Earth Colonies Research and Development Team on Deimos led by Dr. Tele’ktrides C. Lee.”

“What does it—” He was dying to know, but his mind went back. “Default name changed to linked AI?”

“Yes.”

“Please list this machines name.”

“New designation GX-002: Sushi.” 

~ 

“Bet you never expected them tested like this,” Commander Reynolds called across comms. 

“Focus, Prometheus,” Tele’ktrides said, though he was right. This was not according to plan. 

Tests were to take place off-colony in space and an ISF attack would throw a wrench in their socket. Things would turn dire, but a hero would approach on the horizon—the military escort UEC Scorpio. 

And yet, here they were scrambling personnel to launch two remaining prototypes under gravity. 

Just as a jet was not a submarine, starfighters were carefully designed to exist in space. And to fight in space. 

~

~

In the park, through the maintenance access hatch of the underpass, through some sewers, down three flights of stairs, past Francesca, with a password… Sam sought help. 

The swelling on Pete’s face had gone down but cuts and bruises remained. “We called a meeting. Follow me.” 

As Sam passed through the empty locker room, reeking of cleaning product as much it did stale sweat, Sam wasn’t sure he should be here. Just as Keen at work knew him only as the quiet off-worlder that asked too many questions, just as he was still iffy on the names of other pilots sitting in transport with him each morning, the folks here didn’t know Sam. They saw him once a month. They tried to cave each other’s heads in for extra cash and then they went home.  

Pete led him toward the challenger’s walk-up corridor toward the ring. 

No cheers. No announcer. No music. 

The silence clung to him.

If this was a set-up to turn him in to the authorities, and he had no reason to believe otherwise unless he subscribed to that silly notion of trust, then at least he’d go out in the ring where he actually made something of himself. 

He came to this colony a fragment of a shattered world. 

He had a dog. He had nightmares. He had nothing left ahead of him. And he thought he’d meet that end in the ring. Let them pummel him just so he felt something akin to alive. He didn’t have fans. He didn’t have his own corner team. He didn’t even have any rivalries. He stepped inside and lost.

“They don’t book punching bags,” Francesca had told him. 

So when he stepped back into the ring, he started hitting. And he lost, but slowly, the experience was building something. Every time he got hit, he felt tougher. Every time he hit, he felt more confident. And he lost again, even though he tried so hard, and he expected Francesca to tell him to go home and take up boxercise classes, but she said, “Next month?” 

It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t medicine. 

And he lost again. 

But he came back because it was some approximation of home.

Today, his community stood in the ring and he approached as the challenger. Some rookies, some big deals, the resident cutman and coach, even the announcer. Many of the gladiators had that between fight softness. They were dressed in their day-to-day clothes. Ruby was in a cheap suit like some sort of office worker. Pip in scrubs. And Lobelia wore spandex; she was a personal fitness trainer so that actually wasn’t so surprising. 

Even the outfits reminded him how little he knew these people outside, “She’s a swarmer,” or “He stays back early and dives in late,” or “They’ve got a big mouth and a heavy hook.”

Why had he come here?

He ascended the steps. 

Pete held the ropes for him.

And as he faced everyone, prepared with only the truth and he’d already seen how ineffective that was, from the red corner, the friendliest face came, carried by Francesca herself. He squirmed out of her arms halfway down the corridor, barked, and his little prosthetic leg clacked on the floor as he leapt over the stairs and into the Sam’s hands. 

“Sushi!” 

The other fighters circled the pair, warriors forming a shield wall around their brethren in need. A home for this wayward community of broken souls.

Sam wiped away the tears from Sushi’s fur. 

“Thank you.”

~

Week 3: 17,000 / 73 pages

“Attention all passengers. Outer Rim flights have been delayed. Please check the flight information display board or consult one of our friendly gate agents for more detailed information,” the PA announced and everyone began scouring the news for what happened. 

Then the large holo-screen up above addressed Port 7 with the following announcement: “We here at the Deimos Intercolony Spaceport would like to ask everyone to bow their heads in a moment of silence.” 

Most everyone did in remembrance of the Kharon Incident last year. Even one of the infiltrators, a young woman with blue hair, Sonya Alkes took a deep breath to steel herself for the mission ahead. 

But the mission leader strode forward among the bowed.

“Only cowards pray before the gates of Hell.”

They wore their face masks. If they stood out, it was as foreigners during flu season, raising only the hackles of the most conservative, but a space port was a place for foreigners even during these war-stricken times and the war lingered in the distance, among the starlight, a supernova of great destruction that for those at the viewing screen, looking out into the cosmos, was almost beautiful, a backdrop to their days.

In the year 2154 CE, humanity renewed efforts into its expansion into the solar system. Space was no longer the sole domain of scientists, but miners, cooks, families, every profession under the sun needed off our planet. At first, colony ships were sent up with enough for a sustainable population: 80. And once these 80 settled between high Earth orbit satellites and Luna, daily life began. Half of the first wave were critical systems professionals. Repairs, constructions, agricultural scientists (farmers), but even professionals want to start families. The first off-Earth child was born in 2155. 

It marked the start of an era. 

With a growth rate of 3%, that colony pod started to swell as more immigrants from Earth flocked star-ward for a new life and when the pilgrim pod’s population approached sustainable development goals, rather than send up a second colony and cluttering the (2.29 * 10^17) cubic kilometers of open space, they future-proofed the colony. 

Construction crews donned their space suits. Citizens were asked to ration manufactured goods for a few years. An annex was built then subsequently filled. The new sector became an industrial complex that continued adding onto the colony until the pilgrims in the first pod became the center of a beautiful, ever expanding flower.

Other colonies arrived, using a modified blueprint of the first.

These expensive, overcrowded colonies would become known as the Inner Rim. 

But the Earth’s resources were strained supporting such expansion and it became vital to excavate space. New colonies situated between Mars and the Asteroid Belt took half a year to reach and while the growth rate was a similar 3%, the birth rate was significantly higher. The companies who invested their fortune into this gamble saw great returns after a few years, but after several round trips, it became clear that the Outer Rim laborers would see little profit. 

Outer Rim colonies grew jealous of one another. Supply ships would be pirated. Earth-bound ships would be held for ransom. 

Eventually two major factions came to power.

The United Earth Colonies, popular but not ubiquitous in the Inner Rim, and the Independent Space Front, a loose confederation of Outer Rim colonies.

“And remember,” the PA concluded, “if you see something, say something.”

A common misconception is that shuttles, stations, and colonies need to be airtight to survive the vacuum of space. While that is functionally true--the little air leaking out does not endanger denizens--it is not absolutely true. The same principle applied to security. Blind spots existed and hampering travelers with excessive protocol was bad for business, so ports opted for a theater of security. A sign that said “Employees Only” would deter the weak-willed, but without a keypad, those that came on a mission just had to glance this way and that, then step through. 

The corridors led from the civilian access port to the military, where security was eased because soldiers had been vetted before enlistment. In the main hangar, a fighter had been disassembled to a puzzle-piece sphere with the main turbine out on blocks. Stripped to the chassis. Parts exposed. And the repairman stepped away to eat his lunch. He glanced at a nigh illegible maintenance request form for fixing the arm of a collector before tossing it into the pile. He had examined it yesterday. It was fine.  

The emtact, MTCT, military traffic control tower had dark windows. Not just tinted, but unattended. 

A call came in. 

A light switched on.

The sleepy ensign Lisa Maldoon slapped her face. Tested out her voice. Then answered. “DMS emtact. Call sign. Over.”

Silence lingered a moment and just as thoughts of her nap returned, the distant vessel replied, “UEC Defense Force escort carrier Scorpio en route to Ceres. Over…”

“…Purpose for dock? Over…”

“…Refuel and pick-up. Over…”

“…Transmit logs. ETA? Over…”

“…49 hours. Over… 

“…Roger. Over and out.”

It was the worst part of her shift. Shortly after a spacecraft entered detection range, transmissions took 1.22 minutes to cross the vast expanse. 1.22 minutes there, 1.22 minutes back. And once answered, like someone performing CPR, the operator was obligated to stay until all signs of life went quiet for good. The ensign went back to sleep.  

The busiest sector in this port was shielding. That needed constant attention. 

An asteroid the size of a grapefruit--manageable, low-energy--disintegrated before reaching the titanium coating. The shield, otherwise invisible, flickered when activated and the color depended largely on the metal ions present in the asteroid moving to an unstable, excited state. Copper: green. Strontium: red. Potassium: purple. Science teachers felt equal excitement demonstrating since they got to play with fire. This grapefruit flickered yellow: iron. 

Drones orbited the colony, armed with lasers and an emergency explosive ordinance. Their patrol detected no threats large enough to activate defense protocols, but once in a blue moon, a large asteroid turned up that needed to be broken into manageable, low-energy chunks.

“Goddamn litterbugs!” a new engineer cried as the data logger in his hands fried from overuse. “What are those junk rats doing?”

The real plight of laborers was pollution. 

Stray space waste lit one of hundreds of pale dots on a graph, charted by an arbitrary Earth-centric time or the objective place in orbit. Certain sections of the orbit had dense groupings of dots, and while a single piece of junk required no more attention than a single fruit fly, a swarm was an annoyance. Last week’s orbital position was officially called a series of long, boring coordinates but among the engineering staff, was collectively known as Tie-Dye Hell. Pretty. Sparkly. And a nightmare of overtime. 

“Cheer up, guy.”

“Cheer up?” The grouchy engineer took up his wrench in singed, bandaged hands to threaten the supervising mentor with. “Why the hell should I cheer up?”

“Think of the paycheck.”

His expression softened to one already a little drunk off celebration. 

Time-and-a-half or no, as shield surgeons reached seniority, they requested for cushier positions like emtact. The high turnover meant unfamiliar faces keeping the colony safe. 

“Hey, you.” The supervisor snapped her fingers, trying to grab the attention of a newbie. ”Fetch another data logger from maintenance.”

“Data logger?” Sonya asked.

“In the bird cage.”

She looked around. “Bird cage?” She looked to her mission leader who also shrugged.

The supervisor slapped her forehead. “I’ll get it myself.” 

She walked down the corridor, past a trash can overflowing with recyclables that when not properly sorted wound up giving Shielding more overtime and normally she’d do something about it, but not today. If she had, she’d have discovered the infiltrators’ civilian disguises buried beneath.

Every step after reaching shielding was a trade. A dollar for 2 quarters. 2 quarters for 3 dimes. 4 nickels. 5 pennies. Those pennies in the machines. Sudden maintenance. 

Then sneaking away in the cover of a rolling blackout.

~

As Sam carried his three-legged dachshund into the hall, he heard voices by the elevator. From the tone, clearly friendly chit-chat between long-time acquaintances, perhaps even friends, but he didn’t have his translator tapped on. He stopped to consider.

With the long day of paperwork he just had, with the earlier reprimand for filling it out incorrectly, with Sushi in his arms, Sam left it off. 

“So cute,” the short and athletic guy said. Sam had heard the phrase enough to understand it. 

The tall woman pushed up her glasses and said something like, “You think he’s handsome?” 

“Mhmm.” 

They couldn’t see Sushi’s prosthesis. 

Sam had seen them around. He assumed the two were dating. Always together, leaning on one another, heading into the same 50-square meter apartment--too tight of living quarters for friends. All three lived on floor 40, but their schedules rarely overlapped. They ran into each other on nights like tonight where they were taking out his bag of trash & her box of recycling, and Sam had Sushi. 

He smiled to be polite, but they only saw his eyebrows scrunch up since he was in a mask, beanie, and sunglasses. If they commented on his flu season protection, strange on this colony, it wasn’t with any words he knew off the top of his head, but they continued to chat amongst themselves.

The elevator arrived. Everyone got in. The man held the door open button until Sam was in, 23rd century chivalry.

“One?” the guy asked. 

He nodded. 

The guy pressed the 1 button then B1 then let Sushi sniff him--Lee Ji-Ming, 32, First City native, 3 tours, senior airman.

The dog averted his eyes and shuddered when the stranger pet him. A long whine let loose. He nestled deeper in Sam’s arms, settling by the time the affection stopped. 

The woman pushed the door close button--Tele’ktrides C. Lee, 37, Second City native, weapons R&D, team leader.

As the elevator descended, they were rocked by a sudden KA-CHUNK!

Rubber soles slapped the ground. 

Everyone looked to the door then each other. 

The collective thought that broke language barriers was, “Are we going to die?” followed immediately by “What should we do?” but the elevator soon started down again and somehow, having had the warning of the first drop, the second surprised everyone more—KA-CHUNK!—and Tele’ktrides box of cans scattered across the floor. 

Emergency brakes engaged immediately and though the drop felt like a few meters, a few centimeters was more realistic. The display said they were on floor 39 and in the local alphabet, ERROR. 

Ji-Ming pried open the doors to reveal they were between floors as the top half of the elevator was open to the 40th floor, marked by signage, but the bottom showed a shaft too small to squeeze into. 

Sam remembered a dream like this. In it, he had tossed Sushi out thinking it’d save the dog, but as he had tossed the dog, the elevator went into freefall, the lights went out, and because it was a dream, they had impossibly survived the crash but as the red emergency lights flicked on, Sam saw Sushi cut in two, down to a single front leg, whimpering, betrayed, and he desperately tried to apply pressure to the poor pup’s missing hindquarters. 

It was not a recurring dream. He’d had it once, back when nightmares were new, and yet it stuck with him, rearing its ugly head even during rare moments of tranquility and that ugly head now grinned with delight that the premonition seemed reality. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam cooed to the pup. The two seemed to tremble at the same frequency as he stroked his back, slowly, firmly, letting the dog hear his words through touch. “You know, it’s actually a good thing. We’ll get down much faster this way.”

The two strangers exchanged quizzical glances. Dogs don’t get dark humor, and neither do cochlear translators. 

“Did he just say…?”

Ji-Ming nodded.

Despite his attempts to soothe the boy, the anxiety must have been evident on Sam’s face, because a comforting hand touched his shoulder, grounding him as he did the dog. Ji-Ming said in English, “Should we crawl out?”

Sam slapped his ear in a fit, slamming his translator deeper in as it tapped on. “No!” 

“That’s correct,” the woman said. Tele’ktrides pressed the big yellow Emergency Call button. An alarm sounded. A voice broadcast in several languages that all got translated, imperfectly in their ears, to something like, “Stay where you are. Help is coming. Don’t worry.” 

“Guess we wait,” the guy said. “I’ve seen you around a few times, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so!” 

A thin disguise of politeness. Sam stood out on this colony. His muddled appearance relayed that he was human and little else of his ancestry on Earth, compared to here where not-so-distant segregation had led to a starker contrast in skin tones. This couple might feel judgmental eyes on them as the man’s parentage received privileged treatment that he still reaped the benefits from while the woman still felt the sting of prejudice in outdated laws. Regardless of their personal beliefs, he stood out as an individual as much as they stood out as a couple and there was no ignoring that. 

“You can call me Eddie if it’s easier.” His accent was thick and Sam realized it was because Ji-Ming was speaking rusty English and the translator wasn’t doing any work. 

“Tele’ktrides,” the woman said. She kept to the colony French. “Are you one of the recent cadets?”

Sam shook his head. “Collector. For about 3 months.” 

Ji-Ming’s eyes went up and over as he tried to recall when he first saw Sam, closer to 5 months prior, and the pieces started to snap in place when they heard a THUNK! overhead. 

The maintenance access panel opened and a bright young face popped into view--Jean Beaumont, 26, Second City native, repair person. “Hey, folks! Don’tcha worry. We’ll have y’all out of here in a jiffy,” they said. “Oh, it’s you two! I don’t know you, though. But your puppy!” If Jean were a cartoon, their eyes would have turned to hearts. “Are they okay? They’re very cute. They don’t bite, right? I’ll just stay up here and admire from afar but tell them the next head-pat is from me--THANK YOU!” 

As quickly as they popped into view, they popped out, their flash of red hair trailing behind them, and the sounds of tools on the metal roof echoed in the elevator. 

“It’s okay,” Ji-Ming said, clearly calming Tele’ktrides down, not from adrenaline-fueled fear, but from a boiling resentment of this buffoon. “Give them a chance.” 

“Oops!” A tool scraped the outer wall before it plummeted down the shaft. 

“Another chance.”

“How many do they need? They flunked out of grease monkey duty on base after their half-assed repairs nearly got you sucked out of an air-lock and now our lives are in their hands--again. It has to be intentional.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Maybe it’s an assassination that’ll look like an accident.”

Sushi began to whimper at all the stimulus--tools falling, mag-boots, feuding, and Sam squeezing too tightly. Tele’ktrides took an intentionally audible deep breath and shut up. 

Ji-Ming said to Sam, “These power outages happen occasionally. You’re just not usually in an elevator when they do.” 

Jean called down, “Actually, it’s city-wide. Maybe Second City, too.”

The couple exchanged looks. 

Sam noted it, but took it as a bad sign.  

A building outage was just the result of crappy repairs, complements of hiring a flunkie. A block outage was an easily-fixed fault in the grid. City-wide could only be the result of space debris making it through the barrier and the astronomical odds having a grudge against shield surgeons. But the electrical grid had separate blocks for situations like that. One goes out, another reroutes power to critical systems, and the lights go dim but stay on. If it was the whole colony… 

Was this Kharon all over again?

“Two muffins are sitting in an oven,” Sam whispered to Sushi. “One says, ‘Wow, it’s hot in here.’ The other yells, ‘Oh my god! A talking muffin!’” 

Sushi didn’t laugh.

Tele’ktrides didn’t either. 

Jean peeked down amid sparks. 

Ji-Ming chuckled, his eyes nervously darting to his partner then to Sam in the corner who leaned on the hand rail. Without it, there’d be no other reason Sam’s shaking legs supported him. Touch was no longer enough. 

The main lights flicked back on the and the alarm went silent. That emergency message turned to one of cheer. Jean hopped through the access panel and undid their belay line, which shot up the shaft, dinging the rim. They must’ve been wrong about the Second City. Nothing so widespread would get fixed that fast.

“Thanks, Jean,” Ji-Ming said while Tele’ktrides turned away.

The elevator stopped at the 12th floor. The short ride was smooth as butter, but everyone got off except Jean. “Should be all good. We have a form in the lobby for you to fill out and if you could give me 5 stars, it’d really help me... Where you going, Tele’ktrides?”

“Stairs.” 

“Don’t bother with that! It’s fixed.”

She didn’t stop. 

Jean reached toward Sushi and he turned his snout up to sniff their hand which frightened Jean into yanking it away which frightened Sushi into burying himself into Sam’s arms. 

“I need the exercise, too,” Sam said so Jean wouldn’t in an enclosed elevator with a trembling wiener dog. 

“Thanks, bud.” Ji-Ming pat Jean on the back, but already torn as Tele’ktrides left, he saw Sam go, too. “I guess I should as well, but you did great work--as always!” 

In the windowed stairwell, Sam gathered that Jean had apparently restarted the building’s systems before the AI had been able to. Probably by by-passing a few critical diagnostic checks that would almost certainly turn up green but were still there for a reason. Back-up generators and emergency personal lights dotted the First City. The streets were especially visible as cars fell into an algorithm of stopping at the flashing traffic lights. No scarlet dome rose from the horizon and Sam suspected Second City had indeed been hit as well. 

An early dark inspires nightmares. Ancient people died of shock upon witnessing an eclipse. Sam was not so primitive, but those overprotective instincts were, so perhaps that was why, out the window, he at least thought he saw a silhouette falling from the roof. 

No. 

Not falling, not a loose piece of paneling that spelled the doom of this colony, too. It descended too controlled for a fall. 

A landing.  

While he parsed the information, Tele’ktrides heard the door open, footsteps, and from half a flight below, yelled a bit hushed, “What the hell were you doing speaking English--” She stopped upon spotting Sam looking startled. “Apologies.”

Ji-Ming made it in time to watch a wave of lights roll through a dark city. He rushed toward Sam then seemed to usher him quicker toward his girlfriend so the trio could walk as a group.

Jean’s footsteps echoed in the stairs above them, opting for the company on the long trek down than an elevator ride alone. They did, however, stay a floor above Sushi, rushing down then stopping to let Sam get further then rushing more and repeating. 

By the time Sam saw out the next window, the silhouette was a figment of his imagination. There was no more dark. He couldn’t remember the shape or where it supposedly landed other than generally in the forest by the mountain where no one would witness it. 

He let the thought go--as much as he could. 

~

Tele’ktrides continued down to B1 with her remaining recycling, having left the top layer of aluminum cans in the elevator, but Sam, Jean, and Ji-Ming went to the security guard at the front desk. She spoke gruffly to Jean, “Rooftop needs you.” 

They hurried back to the stairwell, leaping up the first six in two steps. 

“Elevator, Jean,” she said with a sigh. 

One big hop down.

Ji-Ming mulled over the maintenance survey like a final exam and Sam wondered how long it’d take. His arms ached from holding Sushi for now 30 minutes of panic or stair climbing, but finally Ji-Ming signed it SrA Lee Ji-Ming and took the dog from Sam, quickly finding a paddle point that eased the poor boy’s trepidation while Sam took the stylus. The survey amounted to a few basic comments then some ratings. It took Sam 10 seconds. 

The entrance to the building faced a parallel entrance and the cigarette butt-filled courtyard between buildings with sparse plantings of grass and a symmetrical saplings propped up by stakes led to the shopping center to the right or a distant park to the left—where Sam took Sushi most mornings, nights, and afternoons he wasn’t working. The park had quite a few people out for strolls or bike rides or similarly walking their own dogs. 

However, to the left if you took another left into the alleyway by the building were the dumpsters--where Ji-Ming was headed. 

Adrenaline has a strange nature to it, in that as it recedes, it leaves a person, however shy, traumatized, or generally anti-social, craving bonding. So Sushi, not feeling this, automatically headed toward the park and felt only the harness tug at him to go a strange direction full of strange smells. Sam had not intended to follow Ji-Ming but they’d been together so long already and there hadn’t been an explicit goodbye so his feet moved on their own as the two chatted. Ji-Ming threw his bag into the pile and stood with the two lost puppy dogs, giving them the attention they all needed after that experience. 

“What happened?” When Sam was filling out the form, Ji-Ming had felt the prosthesis. But politeness meant asking later. Later was now. “Dogs never get the good ones unless you’re filthy rich. Lawyers, CEOs, arms dealers, and I guess soldiers too. We might be dogs of the government, but they still fit us with the latest and greatest.” 

He twitched his pointer and ring finger on his left hand. The movement was sharp and more to the point, the other fingers didn’t move. Complete isolation. 

“Long story.” Then Sam asked, “SrA?” 

“Senior Airman. Military rank probably holds more sway, and Jean does deserve someone pulling for them.” 

The Deimos colony was a part of the United Earth Colonies, but in name only. They were safely within the middle of the middle rings. The Goldilocks of Goldilocks. No active conflicts anywhere near here. No lucrative mining operations. Not even overcrowded enough with soft targets to become a spectacle during breaking news.  

“Why are military here?”

“Ask the brains of the operation. Sit!” he said to Sushi. “Dogs don’t know what orders mean. They just know how to get a treat. But it’s a cush assignment. Early morning runs and weekend drills. Otherwise, border patrol, policing, colony repairs, and Tele’ktrides is Randy.”

The lewd lingo threw Sam, some friendly hazing.

“R and D. Research and development.” He started lighting up a cigarette, but the wind fought him. 

“Does that mean she’s the ‘brains of the operation?’”

“Ha! I wish.” He turned his back to the alley entrance and finally got his light. “One day. One bright, sunny day after the long dark.”

“What kind of research?” 

Tele’ktrides appeared around the corner. “Sharing that would be treason.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam snapped out of his auto-pilot and realized he had followed a stranger into a dark alley and was sandwiched between another stranger, the first’s partner, and not only that, they were dressed for a date. Sam was the tag-along, playing third wheel, and apparently asking them to commit treason. 

“No harm done. Civilians often ask how their tax dollars might murder others,” she said. “Should we go?” 

“Where you headed, Sam?” Beyond the park was a set of restaurants the couple liked and often couldn’t decide between until they got a whiff of the specials. That’d decide their craving. “Walk with us.”

Tele’ktrides took a deep, calming breath as she looked at her partner with a strained but familiar expression. “Only if you want.” 

“Either we’ll awkwardly walk near each other or we can make some new friends.” 

Sam looked to Tele’ktrides for a sign. 

She nodded. “He’s hard to argue with.”

They walked past some construction of a new apartment building rumored to cost so much per month that only two neurosurgeons cohabitating could afford the rent. Sam, who purchased blackout curtains in a futile attempt to sleep till his alarm, often woke up at 6:00 am to the sound of hammers.  

“Have you met many people yet?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“I mostly stay in. Work, home, Sushi.” His comm AI lit up in his pocket, listening. 

“You really like fish, huh? But sushi does sound good right now. My treat if you want to join us for some.”

“They won’t let a dog into the restaurant,” Tele’ktrides reminded him. 

“There’s outdoor seating. Or we can get it to-go and have a picnic in the woods!” 

Tele’ktrides’s glare again.  

“My dog’s name is Sushi.”

“Aww.” Sushi had been on the far side of Sam, always a step behind. Perhaps the dog’s fear was eased by the newfound kinship of Sam and them, so when the soldier squat down to give pets, Sushi let him, then walked between the two instead.

Then they reached the corner that Sam had never tread beyond. Turn here and reach the park. Go another few blocks, turn right, and that accessed the spaceport where Sam worked. Another block beyond that was the grocery store and the final corner to Sam’s territory, a comfortable rectangle with everything he needed. 

But the two were heading the other way and while conversation wasn’t stellar--his fault--it scratched a long-standing itch. 

There were trees that way, too, a lot in the woods around the mountain, and there were restaurants with new smells and probably messages left by other dogs and most immediate, that direction had a few minutes longer with his new acquaintances, maybe even friends.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said as he turned toward his usual route. 

Ji-Ming, through a subtle set of questions, drawing on his own memory for other evidence, had been on the cusp of an epiphany since floor 40—an epiphany that Sam feared.

~

“Gentlefolks of all ages, are you ready for the opening match-up?” the announcer yelled, trilling his voice as it rose to scratchy peeks, fomenting the crowd with pure enthusiasm. “They may be rookies but their trash talk has been professional. And if the talk is to be believed, we might need to the police on standby!” 

The music changed to a song full of bravado that hyped his fans.  

“Our first fighter—you know him from the corner of your eye, that sense that something or someone is there, that brief glance in the mirror to see a shadowy figure behind you! The Gorgeous Ghost of Georgia!”

The crowd’s fervent energy bubbled over. The crowd didn’t pack the meager bleachers, but the few here wanted to see a fight. His fans loved the pure technique and speed he employed to get around his opponent like an assassin striking from behind then disappearing like a phantom. Some wanted to see this pretty boy get hit again after the first punch to ever land hit him last week, a lucky blow right to his nose. He was so stunned to have taken a clean hit that a follow-up almost clocked him before he put the opponent in his place. 

“With a win-loss record of 7 to 0 with 3 KOs, he’s a rising star for the rookie division of Deimos. Please, put your hands together for Peeete Holmes!”

The spotlight hit the blue corner’s entrance, but as many punches missed, the light found nothing. 

It started panning the corridor leading up to the ring. Fans held out there arms past the barriers hoping for a hand shake or autograph. 

The announcer made the call again with that same rote speech. 

He wasn’t there. 

The music stopped. 

An official ran up to the ring and the announcer leaned over to talk. The mic picked up a bit of it. His real voice was much softer, higher pitched. “Go fetch him from the dressing room. I’ll bring out the other guy.” Then the official went running down the walk-up. 

Another music change. Slow operatic chanting in some ancient language not standard on anyone’s translator.  

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec (anotehr fake latin anagram) 

  Fithos yusec wecos vinosec

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec

~

Back in the changing room, the fighters warming up for their fights after this opening match turned their eyes to the door. 

Knock, knock.

The fighters rushed to block it. 

The official only managed to crack it open enough to peek in. “Where is he?” 

The room collectively shrugged. 

“Can I see for myself?”

A broken telephone of hand signals passed from gladiator to gladiator. “Sure.” 

They opened the door completely let her step inside, but only to a point. 

From her vantage point just inside the door, there was nothing suspicious--boxing gloves, jump ropes, hand wraps, water bottles, egg shells--all perfectly normal. Nothing suspicious. Other than the fighters themselves. 

Then she spotted the closed door.

“I’ll check it and I’ll leave.”

The barricade of bodies hesitated, then finally let her pass through the throng. 

She put her hand to the doorknob when a toilet flushed.

The door opened. 

It wasn’t Pete Holmes. 

“Wash your hands,” she told them. 

The fighter looked at their perfectly done hand wraps then to the official in disbelief. 

With a sigh, she finally left down the hall, radioing others. “Not in the changing room. Have you checked the--”

A sudden bark caught her attention and she peeked back. “What was that noise?”

The fighters shrugged and she left for good.  

~

The music switched to a common language. The strings built to a crescendo. Fast-paced excitation. Cannon fire

“Huddle over the dying embers of this old world

Butterfly wings could extinguish with a small flap

But the tides of change are upon us

Watch as they crash down”

In stark contrast to the solemn voices and his own natural voice, the announcer resumed his duties. “Our next fighter is like a living tank. He gets hit and keeps on trucking! How long can this poor boy last taking so many hits?”

“Now,

You, who whisper to me, 

The mirage with wings,

The deja vu who wakes me up,

Surround me.

Holding me.

Wind,

A small flap

Starts inside the heart.

A hurricane”

“Hits or no, tonight’s blue corner fighter has been a hot streak these last few weeks. 5 wins, 3 losses, and all of them for better or worse by stunning knockout, give it up for Saaaam Nuwim!” 

“As stars sink into dreams,

Wake from your slumber

On this fated day. 

Deliver us from the Deluge.” 

~

Tippy-tap, tippy-tap, tippy-tap…

Sitting impatiently, his whole body wiggling, his tail polishing the bench, whacking everyone nearby, when the challenger’s name was finally called, Sushi stood on his hind legs and barked once more. 

Like watching a gym newbie trying to bench too much, the fighters rushed to spot him but he didn’t need it. He sat back down, waiting to see the close-up. 

~

Unlike on the other side of the ring, there were few hands reaching out for acknowledgment. He could have easily shaken them all. But Sam let them brush against him without breaking stride. He peeled off his beanie. Then his sunglasses. And finally, each ear strap of his face mask. 

He was bared faced he ascended the steps into the ring.  

Alone. 

The announcer caught his expression. He shrugged. The official at the gate shook her head. 

Then a murmur swelled to a cacophony behind Sam. Coming from the challenger’s entrance. They had found Pete Holmes, backing up to get a running start. He sprinted down the corridor, the throng of hands slapping him in what sounded like applause, he leaped over the stairs, flipped over the ropes, and landed between Sam and the stunned announcer. 

“Don’t wear yourself out,” Sam said. 

“Don’t worry your little self. I’ve got plenty of gas in the tank.”

“Now that’s how you make an entrance,” the announcer called. “We finally have our two gladiators in the ring and the fight will commence shortly. Gentlemen, to your corners. A reminder, Holmes, your corner’s over there.”

After some last minute pep talk and strategy discussion from their coaches and cutmen, it was time for the two to touch gloves and get this started. 

The two approached and the referee went over the rules. 

“Pretty fitting match-up, eh?” Holmes said. The ref’s mic picked up his words for the crowd. “A wild bull taking every spear and arrow thrown his way and someone who’s never hit?”

“How’s your nose?”

He sucked on his mouth guard in frustration. “How’s your mom?” 

~

“Sam, they’re two-minute rounds and you couldn’t even let one go by? It’s not exciting that way.”

He sat on the bench and stroked Sushi’s back. The pup worked off his excited energy by doing circles on Sam’s lap, then occasionally standing up to lick his face. Sam was back in his flu weather protection. 

A hardly recognizable man, beaten and bruised, approached Sam. 

“Hey, you know, it was just for the show,” Pete Holmes said, his voice no longer swollen with bravado. “I really didn’t know.”

“Next time, ask about my sister.”

“You got it, bud. Again, really sorry.” 

They hugged it out, then walked together to get their purses, Sam with the lion’s share.

~

The couple chose outdoor seats, but not for fish. Their new furry contact turned them off, momentarily, to sushi, and instead they opted for warm oxtail soup on the chilly evening. Their table had the perfect view of the mirrors as they angled away the sunlight and the day came to a rest. The mirrors perhaps mimicked the day cycle, but the mirrors were functional and the sun divine. Maybe one day they’d see a real sunset together. 

“What if he had accepted?” she asked. 

He rubbed the scar on her knuckle, drawing her back to an old memory, first bitter then sweet, when while dissecting the rotor of a defunct, early model starfighter, her pristine knuckle caught on a bolt. She wanted to shake it off and keep working, but while shaking, a droplet splashed on the canopy he had just polished. He hopped down from the ladder and stuck her hand in his armpit. It kind of worked at applying pressure while he fetched liquid stitches from the medkit. Bitter, sweet, and a little smelly. They’d been married two years at that time. “Then we’d excuse ourselves for some alone time.”

They smiled across the table.

“He just seemed like he needed a friend. And almost getting dropped from an elevator, that’s scary for most people in their bubble-wrapped lives.”

They finished their soup. Ji-Ming summoned his comm’s AI assistant. “Pronoia, can dogs safely gnaw on oxtail?” 

Cooked bones might splinter so, against Tele’ktrides wishes, he talked to kitchen staff for some raw ones that they had to charge him for, but the bag was full of about ten full of marrow, then the two headed off. 

According to CCTV footage on the street, after finishing their meal, the two turned right to walk hand-in-hand to her one-room, off-base apartment and even the building footage, doorbell’s camera, and keypad log showed the same. 

But those would be discrepancies with reality. 

They turned off their comms.

Deep in the woods, Sonya Alkes tugged on her face mask painted orange by the light of the small fire. 

Tele’ktrides wiped her brow. 

“Nice weather for camping.”

“If you’re okay with the cold.”

Sonya said in a sharp tone, “You’re late. Kill a deer en route?”

“They’re for a friend’s dog,” Ji-Ming said. 

“Shouldn’t be making friends,” their contact said. 

Tele’ktrides gave her a flash drive. “If all goes as planned, this will save the colony.”

“And they’ll hate you for it. How soon do we move?”

“They’re doing final diagnostics tomorrow, so the first test flight is slated for the day after, off colony of course. Pick-up arrives in 47 hours. That’s our window.”

“During test?” 

“Before.”

~

As Sam lay in bed, his dreams spilled over to reality. The sound of collapsing buildings, that cacophony of voices and materials crashing into one another, were confused by the erection of the new apartment building next door. 

Breathe. 

“Sushi,” he called and his comm lit up as well as the AI panel on the wall and the dog. It was a constant source of confusion for machine and mammal. “Time.”

Deep breath. 

“7:06 on a bright sunny morning. Would you like to hear headlines?”

Sushi jumped from the spare pillow on the floor to bed, then settled in the same coiled dragon position he always did, his fluffy tail draped over his nose. 

“Yes. Lights on. Curtains up. Music.”

Some generic background music played, harkening back to spring in a meadow with birds chirping and apparently strumming a harp as the friendly voice, not at all how he imagined his dog’s, read off, “Kharon Gone but Not Forgotten,” a pause, “Pollution Predicates Power Outage according to Officials,” followed by a few innocuous accusations of corruption, wasting tax dollars, and the usual government criticisms. 

He could not settle. 

“Sushi. Call police non-emergency number.”

The dream was familiar. Except for the not-falling silhouette. 

The convincingly human operator listed several options. Personal extension. Press inquiry. Case inquiry. Appointments. Tip line. 

“Tip line.”

“Please leave your name, address, and contact information along with any relevant information to an open case or suspicious activity and an officer will get back to you.” 

Sam remembered a similar message when he first arrived on Deimos. The hospital said they’d contact him with test results and clearance to exit quarantine, but they never did, and every attempt to contact them had him leaving a similar message that went unreturned. 

It was probably nothing. 

“Remember, if you see something, say something.”

But due diligence. 

~

A month ago, an announcement spoke of visiting soldiers from the United Earth Federation, the head of the Commonwealth known as the UEC. Soldiers, clerks, and factory workers knew of the visit regardless of clearance, but only a percentage knew why they were on layover. Tele’ktrides was at the top of that list.

And even she was not informed that the Feddies would be sending their own test pilot, an ace from a long-running and long-over civil conflict on Earth. Low-gravity space travel was hard on the body and he was given a week to get his space legs underneath him. The spin of the colony threw Earthlings.  

Today, it’d been a week and Tele’ktrides would be his tour guide around the Deimos military base. 

As was too often required, she held her tongue, letting her opinion known only through barbs of logic. 

“A war hero, you say?” She made faces like she was impressed as he recounted a battle on Earth. 

Commander Reynolds was in his late 30s with rough skin that sagged. His build was large, but the flesh atop it had gone soft. “Deserts of the Gobi--do you know it?” 

Of course not. No more than he knew the streets of Deimos. 

“Five men. Two ATVs. Surrounded on all side by enemy drones. Tac-Com told us, ‘It was an honor.’ No one expected us to make it out. Maybe if they had sent evac when requested, Scratchy would still be with us.”

“Well, you’re with us now. Our test pilot. How was the journey here? Did you stop anywhere interesting?”

“No offense intended, but all the colonies look the same. I’m happy to see each and every after a month in flight, but if you were to ask me whether I won it big at slots on Artemis or Freija…” He shrugged. 

“Perhaps you remember the shape of the colony? Was it a Torus like Deimos? Or perhaps a cylinder or sphere? Most Inner and Goldilocks colonies use these shapes to create artificial gravity through rotation.”

“Like on Earth. Otherwise, we’d all go flying off into space.”

She stopped in the path for a breath. “Only in a poorly researched piece of science fiction. It’d be almost impossible to stop the Earth’s rotation instantly, but if that were to happen, people would fly off in spite of gravity. The Earth creates gravity via a mass.”

The commander had been the kid in the back of class with doodles instead of notes. “Have you ever had the chance to go abroad?”

“Yes. For our honeymoon, we went to the popular gambling district on Freija.”

Their tour had taken them to the training grounds. Soldiers sprinted down the obstacle course to low netting that needed crawling underneath, then tractor tires, a fence to scale, and at the end, a pull-up bar next to a bulletin board. Each month, whoever scored the fastest got a prize and whoever got the most pull-ups got a prize, but each week, the slowest and the lowest got significantly less desirable prizes: latrine duty and KP, respectively.

Tele’ktrides continued her tactical assessment. “It’s taxing keeping up with the exercise as well. Even civilians need an hour or two on machines to maintain their physical condition, and soldiers… Well, motivation’s tough when you’re too high ranked for drill sergeants.” 

“I did what I could.” 

“Of course. You can always tell which soldiers have been on-colony, though.” 

“It’s true this simulated gravity can’t compete with Earth’s,” he shot back. “You colony folks can’t even draw a straight line.” 

They approached the starting line where some grunts in fatigues saluted the higher officers. 

“Would you like to show them what real gravity does to a man?”

“Another time.”

“And your experience with cosmic combat is…”

“Cosmic? Fancy term for flying without restriction.” 

“So simulation only.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, starting to sense her objective. “I have a sixth sense that’s gotten me this far.”

“This far completes the tour.” And her assessment of this ace pilot. They rejoined the group in the hangar, but Tele’ktrides had bad news. “He’s unqualified.” 

The shock radiated out from her superiors but her assistants had expected such a scene. Commander Reynolds himself spoke above the others with indignation. “Unqualified? I’ll have you—”

“Shut up and listen. First, his physical conditioning from his peak on Earth I’d estimate is less than 70%, and I’m trying to be nice with that, but he refused physical testing. It could be lower. Do you think succumbing to half a year of sloth can be rectified in a week? I’d posit that even 90% would be a challenge with this machine. 

“Second, his mental acuity took him the entire conversation to realize the test pilot was being tested. A slow mind and slow body equal bad reflexes and with hundreds of billions invested into a single machine, you don’t want him crashing on take-off due to poor condition. 

“Finally, and most importantly, the reason we hand-selected pilots was because growing up off-Earth forces the mind to develop a real sixth sense. Because you’ve grown accustomed to real Earth gravity, you can only think in two dimensions: forward-back, left-right, right? You probably expect this fighter to look like a plane, but there’s no atmosphere out here. There are no reasons for wings. 

“Even if you were at peak conditioning, the moment an enemy pilot comes from below, you and, more importantly, my prototype will be space dust. 

“Trash collectors have a better sense than you do for space flights. Enjoy your vacation here. Take some pictures. Do your best to remember this trip.”

Tele’ktrides walked away. Her assistants knew she was right, as did her superiors, but they didn’t want to admit it. All they could admit was that without her approval, the test wouldn’t be happening. 

~

Some dazzling description of the vastness of space. 

Infinite and open. The vastness of space stretches on to this day. Humanity, as humanity does, continues to consume all that is before it. Manifest Destiny. But not one light in that direction was man-made. Even our insatiable appetite is meaningless before infinity. One day, civilization will reach so far that a child might be born en route and die before ever seeing the edge of our own borders, and yet, the stars that light our night are even further beyond that. It is painful yet beautiful silence. 

An alarm sounded.

“Look alive, rat,” his operator snapped.  

A piece of junk pinged off the rear camera panel. Was that an egg carton?  

The three-axes of the debris collecting unit--a ball with mechanical arms--spun and for veteran pilots, they felt the whirl and steadied their eyes on the panel ahead of them and went about their business, but for Sam, even after three months in this ball, he gripped the throttle’s foam pads till he felt bones. Collectors often gabbed about rumored newly manufactured units in the Inner Rim that had inertia dampeners so magic that a sleeping baby wouldn’t wake up. Things would have to break before Sam ever saw one of those, and chances are, they’d break with him inside and he wouldn’t get to see. 

The mask hooked up to his face, feeding out through his helmet into a waste collection pack, kept the expensive--if outdated--cockpit controls clean and working, but the tube still reeked of old nausea, further sending him back to his first, soul-suckingly embarrassing day in training when of the three candidates, he’d been the only one to vomit. 

Yet here he was. 

“Transport is waiting.” Sam’s operator didn’t like him, but to be fair, Keen grouched at everyone. He was old with bad eyes and sometimes forgot his glasses. “Finish already so you can brush the stink out your mouth.” 

Was he here because of that? 

Had the other applicants been rewarded with less twirling, whirling work and the one with the weak stomach been punished in an attempt to train it out of him? 

No. 

When he steadied, when his eyes focused, when the tide in his throat ebbed, Sushi was still running analysis on material and orbital trajectory of the swarm of debris. He had collected junk that would be useful to recycling, the raw materials going to the plant, melted down and made again into junk that’d wind up here. Factoring in how long the recycling process took, time on the shelf waiting for purchase, the forgettable instant it was chucked in the trash, the 487 days of orbit, he’d be out here collecting it again in some form in two years. Then again in four, ten. Twenty if he lasted that long.  

Sam waited for permission.

“Whatcha waiting for?” 

The main screen changed. 

What reflected on the screen was the same vision he saw, but his eyes were closed. He was no longer, Sam, rookie of the year space janitor, but at one with the bit drones in his territory. The drones locked onto the largest pieces of trash. Their single dot lasers fired. Space debris now space dust. 

Space is infinite. But the space around us is not.

An alarm.

Transport’s final call.

His shift was up.

Nausea returned as he returned to the sickening, aged smell of his helmet. 

~

With the colony laid out on a grid, self-driving cars make travel efficient and safe. They communicate with each other faster than humans can even register another presence, but beyond that, they reach everyone. Where as a single person gets confused by the bustle of a conference call, the AI can coordinate approaching lanes so that wait times are minimal. 

This was not fast enough for delivery. 

And thus the food delivery industry continued among the stars. 

It took a daring, selfless or self-destructive individual to even apply but to flourish, took complete disregard for not just their own life, but everyone’s lives. Technically outlawed, even the law hated room-temp pizza. 

A scooter careened onto the sidewalk, squeezing their handle bar, not to decelerate with the brakes, but to warn pedestrians with the horn as they rounded the corner into the corridor between apartment buildings, decorated with symmetrical saplings and cigarette butts. 

Tele’ktrides was walking through the security vestibule when she heard the horn, but the echo of the corridor didn’t give any effective warning as to which way to look and so the screeching scooter, trying to stop centimeters from the door, hip-checked her with the last of its momentum. 

She sprung to her feet and grabbed the driver by the jacket collar. 

This was such a common occurrence that drivers wore break-away clothes. The collar came off in her hands and he slid through the door that was closing behind her. Again, she was on the pavement. 

By the time she scanned her comm unit’s NFC to let her back in, the driver was up the stairs and on the elevator, having pressed every button so the irate non-customer wouldn’t know where to corner them. Again, a common enough occurrence that there was a plan in place. 

However, in the lobby, was Sam getting his mail. 

Tele’ktrides had her eyes glued to her comm unit as she punched in commands and so didn’t notice him even after they stepped into the elevator together. He waited a polite amount of time of peeking over her shoulder at the comm’s display screen before he asked, “Is that the elevator camera?” He looked up their own little bubble in the corner. 

“Yes.”

The display showed the driver in a helmet and non-descript jumpsuit. It must have been the other elevator. Digital readings also showed the floor they stopped at. The 13th. 

“Should you have access to that?” Sam asked. 

“Yes.”

This elevator was already beyond that, not hampered by the constant stopping, so Tele’ktrides pressed the already lit 40F button and the elevator speaker said, “40th Floor canceled,” followed shortly by an announcement of their new destination, “13th Floor.” 

The elevator descended. 

“I actually really need to get home.”

The elevator stopped. “13th Floor. Please exit.”

“Hold the elevator.” She threw break-away jacket in front of the door sensors, then peeked down each side of the figure-eight halls, even as the door dinged that there was an obstruction. 

“I think I should--”

“Hold it.” She punched in a few more commands on her comms and the dings stopped. 

It was about then that she found the driver and chased them down the hall, but they were well trained in the art of escape and made it to the elevator Sam was holding before she caught up. They grabbed their jacket and punched the door close button. 

The doors closed. 

Again, Sam heard, “40th Floor canceled,” and they hit the G key. 

But the doors immediately reopened. 

No one was at the door the entrance yet but Tele’ktrides strode toward them and unmasked them, expecting a dumb kid she could yell at beneath the helmet, but it was an old woman. 

Suddenly caught, she began to apologize. 

“That’s all I wanted,” Tele’ktrides said and unlocked the elevator. 

Sam stepped out. 

The second elevator returned to their floor, but to both of their surprise, out stepped Jean Beaumont. 

“Hi y’all. So it wouldn’t have happened to be you who hacked the elevators?” they asked Sam. After he shook his head, they continued, “That’s what I was afraid. You really can’t be doing that, Deez. Um… Dr. Deez.” 

“I shredded the video files already.” 

“That’s kind of the main problem. Without video of original problem, the boss thinks I made a mistake or something and then I get lectured by folks who can’t even reprogram their AI summon command. Luckily, I added back-up recordings to a hidden partition that saves locally.”

Tele’ktrides, technically outmaneuvered by a flunky, let out an audible sigh. “I’m not the problem here.” 

“Well, you did kind of let them into the building, too.” Jean pulled up the footage of Tele’ktrides exiting the building and not waiting for the first security door to close before exiting the second one as was suggested on posters all over the apartment complex. 

“Can I go?” she asked. 

“Promise not to hack into systems again and I can delete this footage.”

“Fine.”

Their bright expression returned. “How’s your puppy? Can you pull up some pictures? I like pictures!” 

“Sure.” 

All three of them stepped onto the elevator and since both were heading down and only Sam was heading up, the elevator went down as Jean cooed over the cute and safe photos on Sam’s AI drive, then once Jean and Tele’ktrides stepped off, Sam finally headed back upstairs where he could grab the real Sushi and head to the park. 

While waiting for the light at the corner of his territory, he peeked over at the mountain with the forest around it. 

The shadow stuck with him during the whole walk. 

~

Sam took a taxi to the military base, but the car wasn’t allowed past a certain point by signage or its programming, and he walked the last bit near the chain-link fence. He gawked at the expected vignettes of military life. 

Soldiers ran laps in sharp formation, chanting with bravado between breaths. Beyond the corner, a firing range aimed at the broadside of the mountain. Stray shots might hit a squirrel, but that was just protein. 

Beyond those superficial necessities for military life, the design of the base stuck out. On some colonies, the military base was like a Third City with home supply stores and restaurants and suburbs. You could find kids in the park. Movie theaters played the latest hits.  

However, on Deimos, the base reminded Sam of an industrial complex. The ugly aesthetic of function. Every building laid out on a grid. A candy cane-striped smoke stack piped toxic fumes into the infinity outside the colony. Four water tower-type structures were marked with a series of warnings. A transport vehicle parked against one with a polytetrafluoroethylene hose hooked up. It was slightly translucent and whatever dark liquid inside had stopped flowing, but the driver waited for the dregs that might disintegrate, drop by drop if, the outer coating of the colony if protocol was ignored, until finally she could drive along oddly wide roads, hauling her trailer to a building designated by an alphabet. To civilians, each letter on a near-identical building meant nothing, but to inhabitants, the difference was obvious.

The fence became a vestibule with a guard booth inside. A camera scanned for license plates and would open automatically for the guard to then check credentials and wave them past the boom barrier. 

When Sam approached, in his usual flu season get-up: face mask, beanie, and sunglasses, the guard approached. The pattern of chains separated them and while this guard had no weapon in hand, a guard standing at the far gate was armed with a rifle. Sam felt her eyes, too. 

“Identification.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Sam said. 

“Civilian ID,” he barked with a commanding gruffness that sent Sam into a panic of patting his pockets to find it. He handed it over without a thought. “Remove your face coverings.” 

First his sunglasses.

Then his hat.

His dark hair had natural highlights. 

Then a pause.

Then he started to do his mask, when the soldier nodded that that was enough.

“What’s your business on base?”

Sam hadn’t really thought about it. And definitely not how to explain it. He sputtered, “Um, I—well…” while he prepared it in his head. “I’m looking for someone named Ji-Ming. Eddie, maybe. Airman. Senior airman. He lives in my building.”

The soldier stayed silent as a short-range radio on his shoulder buzzed with background noise. Low, whispering voices not directed at this soldier but another one elsewhere. Finally the static-masked voice rose to an intelligible level. “Senior Airman Lee is in recreation.”

“Samwise Nuwim at the gate.”

“He’d just know it as Sam.”

“Sam.”

Low voices again before the gate separating the soldier and bundle of nerves slid slowly along a rickety track and Sam was looking the soldier in the eye. He remained silent but returned Sam’s ID.   

“Can I go in?” 

“Wait for escort.”

~

Ji-Ming threw his arm around Sam as they walked deeper into the base. He peeked over their shoulders before shaking his head. “Security these days. But it’s good to see you.”

After the pleasantries, there was a noticeable silence between them as they continued the walk. He was a bit sweaty from double-timing it over, but the colony fans blew a nice breeze today. 

“Was I expecting—did we make plans?”

Sam shook his head. 

“I’m happy to give you a tour. At least of the visitor friendly section. How about some lunch? It ain’t great but that’s part of the fun.” 

“I saw something.” Sam’s feet moved on auto-pilot and before he realized it, his escort’s friendly arm no longer draped across his shoulders. 

“Gonna need you to be more specific than that.” Ji-Ming’s tone changed. “This isn’t a friend-thing, is it?” 

“There are just all these posters and announcements these days—’See something, say something,’ right?” Sam was suddenly feeling very silly. 

A blackout? 

A shadow? 

A dream? 

And he was making reports like he stumbled on some conspiracy. It was arrogance to think two monumental events would happen in his vicinity. “Forget it. I should go. It was probably nothing.”

“Let me be the judge. Pronoia, voice recording.” His wrist watch had a red light and the screen showed the sound waves rise and fall with his each sound. “This is United Earth Colony Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming on Deimois military base with Samwise Nuwim. Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine.”

“Tell me what happened.” 

Sam recounted the blackout last night and the elevator and taking the stairs. “It was end of the day so only a little natural light and everything else was dark and I thought I saw a shadow fall into the woods. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something. But it looked controlled. Like a landing. Or something, I don’t know. I called the police department this morning and left similar information, but who knows how many tips they get.” 

A long pause as Ji-Ming waited.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Probably nothing.” 

“Any specific place it touched down? Mountain-side? City-side?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of it when we kept heading down.” 

“It won’t hurt to check it out. I’ll report this immediately to superiors. Pronoia, stop recording.” The wrist watch screen faded to standby. The soldier’s tone was back to friendly apartment dweller. “And it’s always nice to get off base.”

“Should I submit a written report or anything?” 

“Not necessary, but if you want a paper trail in addition to the recording, we can arrange that. We’ll have to ask around for a notary. Might take a bit, but if you want.”

“No, the recording’s fine. I should go.”

“What about lunch? I can’t promise it’s good, but that’s half the fun for civilians. Freeze-dried ice cream,” Ji-Ming said in an attempt to tempt. 

~

For Alisha Al-Abidi, search patrol was a fine way to spend the afternoon. The base got so cramped, sometimes feeling more cramped than the transport vessel she came in on with Commander Reynolds. Transport felt like a cruise. While all the food came from cans or dehydrated powders, the chefs aboard were expert at making that work. A poor in-flight cuisine for months of travel spelled danger. The crew needed hope and the best way for that was gourmet meals. 

Here, food was fine, but it was just fine. Always the same kind of fine. Never spectacular, never interesting, never even bad. Maybe if it were bad every once in a while, the rest would seem better by comparison. 

So when an officer came into the dorms asking for four volunteers to search the forests by the mountains yesterday, she thought it’d be taking full advantage of colony-life by seeing nature, however artificially transplanted, and to her surprise, toward the end, the patrol leader named Lee Ji-Ming had stopped as dark approached to make dinner over a three-pronged camping stove. 

The smell… 

It was… 

Terrible! 

She got so excited by it that she began falling into friendly chit-chat with the crew she’d only really just met, or met a few times and forgot. 

“Alisha, this like our third time meeting,” Ji-Ming said as he stirred the burning the beans. 

It was easy to forget names with so many on the colony. 

“Sorry, sorry, I know. Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming. C. Ji-Ming.”

“Lee,” Sonya corrected her. “Come on. I’ve been here as long as you and even I remember. Remember in transport when you kept calling Commander Reynolds ‘Commander Reynard?’”

“Wait, it’s Reynolds?” 

The three other soldiers had a laugh. Everyone took a scoop of beans, not wanting to take more than their fair share, leaving plenty for the cook and Alisha to finish, which they did with delighted disgust. 

~

How little the third shift meant during arbitrary time, and yet, even for debris collectors, it was the least desirable position. Instinctual lethargy dragging their movement down. And though data showed that rare accidents happened equally across shifts, it was widely known that strange things happened at the witching hour. 

“Careful tonight,” the transport pilot warned their crew. “Comms are finicky. Downed satellite in Sector 7. Repairs at 0900.” Then they held up crossed fingers—Hoping? Or lying?  

Each member had a name for their collector Ball, and as even Balls were expensive, the dozen of Balls used by the first shift were the same dozen used by the second shift and so each Ball had several names depending on the pilot. 

“Macbeth 7 reporting a reading at perimeter.” 

It was just Junie in the dispatch room, staring at the feed of the remaining collectors as well as last year’s charts. Without closeness of drifting debris or the data coordinates transmitted, the feed would be black dotted by starlight. Whether the pilot was moving at all was hard to parse, and even the faded green numbers in the corner relaying vitals, coordinates, and the like fell to background noise. Only a yellow sphere inside a red sphere made of vector graphics indicated a visual. After reaching the yellow, an alarm beeped warning the pilot and operator that they were leaving colony space. The first transport carrying 1 through 5 had already begun docking procedures, a bit early, but with paperwork and clean-up, it’d even out. 

She wheeled her desk chair over to Station 7 for a better look at the reading. The object sat on the far side of the downed satellite. It wasn’t on a collision course. It wasn’t en route for the docking procedures. And it was too far for a proper reading of elemental composition. She made a note of it on the chart for next year. 

“There’s no overtime,” radio replied. 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

If this maverick pilot took too long, it delayed 6 through 12 from docking on time, they took longer with paperwork, and then Junie is stuck sitting around when she was supposed to be on a pancake breakfast date with Nic.

“You could be the goddamn Red Star of Deimos after this but you’re still not getting an extra cent.”

7 Comms went silent. 

She reported it to the other Balls and the transport pilots, who groaned.

7 Comms stayed silent.  

“Well?” Junie buzzed impatiently. The reading had intrigued her as nothing was listed on the previous chart. 

“En route! Hold your horses.”

Junie put a remote headpiece on to take with her as she fetched coffee, certain she’d late now. But remote work always went silly in the break room and it’d been too long since last report. 

“7, report?”

Nothing.

“What’d you find?”

No answer.

“Macbeth 7, do you copy?”

Impatience gave way to dread.

“Nic! Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

The feed for Macbeth 7 cut then returned then cut again. 

“Still out. Get back here and we’ll requisition repairs. Repeat. Return to colony for repairs, Macbeth 7. Return ASAP. Macbeth 7, come back to base and we’ll have pancakes. Macbeth 7!” 

~

Tele’ktrides ran her diagnostics, waiting for the results to compile into a 3D image she’d seen a dozen times in various shades. A new actuator here, a different circuit there, an algorithmically upgraded AMPSystem that even at a slowed pace made only partial sense to her. No one could explain it. 

The software engineers had made the testers. The testers had ran infinite number of fledgling AI through an infinite number of data points. The AI who passed made other fledgling AI who were run through improved tests. And so on, into infinity, until all tests were aced and they had the AMPSystem. 

The screen she stared so intently at suddenly turned from code to a friendly, smiling face of home. 

“Dinner tonight,” Ji-Ming called her comm. 

“Did we have plans?”

“No.” His voice was not smiling. 

~

Usually when they placed Sam in a different collector unit than usual, they told him in a single word: Repairs. Today, the comms operator used two: “Can’t say.” 

It wasn’t Keen, either. 

It was some new lady with blue hair. Sonya. 

He crossed his fingers that he’d missed Keen’s retirement party. 

He might not have minded the different unit had it included a different suction mask with a better smelling hose, but those were pilot-fitted, not unit-fitted, and the smell remained. 

No more was said on the subject. 

On a normal day, in the blackness of space with empty sectors, only numbers indicated the distance from Deimos at (0, 0, 0) and those were background noise on a screen, not vital like your fuel levels, O2, or distance from objects. No trash collector ever turned back at that warning rope to notice the colony was slightly larger than last time they heard the beeps, which might’ve been months ago as most debris came from the colony--it stayed near the colony, and thus collectors did, too. 

But Sam, perhaps already suspicious, noticed. 

He had the coordinates memorized, but they only confirmed the whisper calling him further. 

The perimeter had been reduced to 75%.

60%

“Deucalion here,” he called to Sonya. “Satellite down?”

“Shouldn’t be. Maintenance went out at 0700 and already came back. Are you getting weird readings?” 

“Sort of.” The gages on his dash indicated normal. “Did they confirm repairs?”

65%

Sonya left the channel open as she typed away. “Seems so. Comms are fine so just leave it. You’re at perimeter. Go no farther.”

70%

“Why is Sat 7 outside perimeter? Why is the perimeter reduced?” 

“Can’t say.”

He took that to mean she didn’t know earlier, but now, it seemed more like code for confidential. 

75%

“Return to transport.” 

“Operator.”

“What?”

80%

“I found Ball 7.” 

“Return to port via emergency transport ASAP.”

70% 

~

After a demerit on his record signed by him and his operator—her handwriting almost as bad as his, Sonya took him into a private room. She lit up a cigarette and turned some music on—loud. If anyone was outside, their conversation would go unheard.  

“The official story is Macbeth 7 collided with Sat7.”

There’d been no crumpling. Most of the damage seemed aimed at the cockpit. And an arm was dislodged, defensive wounds of someone instinctually trying to defend themselves. “Damage was inconsistent with that.”

“Sat7 would’ve been 95% out, but according to communication recordings, she was beyond perimeter. She saw something.”

“What was she looking for?” 

“Don’t know. Her feed had interference.”

“Did she save the local recording?”

“She was instructed to,” the operator said. She blew out a puff of smoke into the ventilation shaft. “Why?”

Sam had never had to sift through any of the debris he brought back before. “How can we get access to the trash?” 

~ 

*V2 - tense after a long wait, kicks it off sooner, better written conflict*

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility. 

“Samwise Nuwim, hands on your head,” Sonya commanded quietly from behind. 

When he started to turn around, she placed the muzzle of her pistol to him and he froze. 

“You’re not in any danger if you do as you’re instructed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will you resist?”

“No.”

She removed the muzzle, but he still felt it trained on him. 

“Wipe the file. Hard reboot the computer. And eject the drive. Hand it to me.” 

Sam did each slowly and carefully. 

“You live on Floor 40, Door 18, correct? Your room overlooks the park with the little river.”

“Yes.”

“What happened today?” 

“Nothing.”

“You requisitioned an inspection of some debris. What was it?”

“Nothing. Just junk.”

“Good. Your dog is very cute.”

She left the room and Sam stayed in the chair, waiting for his heart to settle, before looking into the hall. No trace of her. 

~

*V1 - funny and ironic, better setup for later, stealthier* 

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility.

“We have to report this,” Sonya said. She reached over Sam and plugged something into the desktop. Her fingers flew with the grace of a data-entry professional. “I’m copying this to a secure drive with a decryption key that’ll match only our AI. You find the person you trust most in this colony and you show them, copy it, but do not let them have your original. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” The purpose filled Sam with a feverish energy. 

She plugged her comm unit into the second slot. Sam did, too. Three drives into this machine that’d save the colony. And he had helped. 

“Summon your AI. Bahamut, copy.”   

“Um…” 

“Let’s go.”

A wave of embarrassment swept Sam up, but national security was at stake. “Sushi, copy.” 

The blue-haired woman glanced over. 

“My dog, not the food.” He hoped that made it better. 

~

At the military base, Sam knew the drill now and waited with impatient, dancing feet for Ji-Ming to escort him. He looked haggard and waved it off as having the night shift, though he was dressed in fatigues today. Maybe just getting off the shift. 

“How’d the pup like his bones? Quality, eh?”

“He wanted me to say thanks.”

“Wish I had an update on the case for you, bud, but we’ve turned up nothing.” 

“Actually… can we go somewhere secure? Private?”

Ji-Ming almost laughed at his demeanor but Sam was dead serious, jumpy, like a kid at a cookie jar. “Sure.” 

Inside his dorm room, he locked the door and offered Sam the bed or the desk chair. There wasn’t much else. A closet. Dresser. A desk with scrolling precious memories with Tele’ktrides, the two of them slowly aging through the years, as adults do. Widening, thinning, regrettable hair styles, but mostly the deep strain wrinkling their flesh and the smiles appearing more tired until the final photo from just the other night with oxtail soup and a jump cut to 10 years ago.  

“See any more shadows?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“Is your computer hard wired to the Internet? Or can we go offline and view things locally?” 

“Internet cuts out all the time, so I guess the latter.” 

“I have evidence now.”

He crawled under the desk, both to take the Ethernet cord out the back and to take a moment to process. “Of the shadow?”

“Of something that has to be connected to it. But if the investigation lists me as reporting, I’m worried about what’ll happen next.”

“We could redact your name from the initial report? Or withdraw it completely?”

“You’re a senior airman, right? You said military rank holds more sway. For the good of the colony and the people on it, I need that sway.”

He crawled out of the darkness, his friendly face looking serious. “OK, you got my support. What’s this evidence?”   

“We’re unplugged?”

“Off-the-grid.” 

Sam plugged in his AI drive. Usually it took a few seconds to go through start-up on a new computer, but it popped up with command prompt immediately. “Sushi, open file Evidence.” 

The drive didn’t light up with the usual recognition light at its summon phrase. “Sushi,” Sam said again more clearly. 

He reached over the mouse to manually open the file. 

This Computer > External Drive (F:)

Empty. 

“Maybe because we’re offline,” Ji-Ming suggested.

Sam unplugged it and tried again while disconnected. “Sushi, what time is it?” 

“Sushi, time.” 

“Sushi!”

“Sam, what’s up?”

The woman! What did she…?

“Can you pull up personnel files on this?” Sam frantically started groping in the back of the PC, trying to reconnect the Ethernet. 

“Public ones, sure.”

“Pull up Collecting Unit operator Sonya Alkes.”

Ji-Ming typed it in with the old hunt-and-peck method. “There’s no one by that name.”

“Can you pull up me? Samwise Nuwim.” 

Yes. 

“Keen Okyere.” 

Yes.

There was no one working in the Sanitation & Collection Department by that name and scrolling through the list of operators, transport pilots, collectors, no one had blue hair. 

“She wiped my AI! It must’ve been a time-bomb for my drive.”

“Or… drives fail sometimes. This, the elevator. You’re having a string of bad luck this week, but don’t start looking for conspiracies to explain it.” 

“Tele’ktrides is a science person, right? Randy?” Sam reeled from the lost, grasping at whatever might save this. “Does she work with computers? Could she recover?”

“One of her three degrees is computer engineering, but even if it were foul play, would it really be so easy to get it back?” 

“At least she could see if it’s tampered with.” 

“I don’t know. I use computers but I don’t understand them. I don’t know what leaves a ‘fingerprint’ of sorts.” 

“Please. I’ll buy you dinner every night this week.”

The way the boy looked at Ji-Ming… He still had a heart. He still had to try. If nothing else, this would bring a bitter closure. Evidence gone, case closed, failure.  

“All right, but I eat a lot.”

“That’s fine.” As they were walking down the hall, Sam asked, “Three degrees? Really?”

“Computers, mechanical and… Bio? Don’t tell her I forgot.”

~

The lab they’d found her in required clearance that Ji-Ming didn’t even have. The windowless door from the lab to vestibule had to close before the windowless door from the vestibule to the lobby could open, but she walked out with AR lenses still strapped to her face. 

“How long have you had this?” Tele’ktrides asked, waiting for her personal laptop to boot up. 

“I guess since university.”

The boot process took only a second. 

“I don’t know how long ago that was for you.” 

“Oh, right, sorry. Three or four years now? No issues with it until now.”

She pulled up the empty directory and with a few more buttons revealed hidden files.

Sam felt some hope.

“These are just the default AI directories. At the store, the machine will run you through set-up like you probably did three or four years ago and that’s how you name yours and program a summon phrase. For example, ‘Prometheus.’”

Her own lit up. She had the same watch as Ji-Ming but in red. 

“Call yours,” Ji-Ming suggested.

“It won’t work.”

“Sushi,” Sam tried. 

Ji-Ming smiled. Tele’ktrides scowled. 

“Based on your account of the incident, it’s possible the data wasn’t formatted but shredded. I’m not a recovery specialist so I can’t tell the difference on my computer, but if files are shredded, they’re deleted then the partition is overwritten. In running recovery, you’ll only come up with deleted junk files.”

“All of them are shredded?”

“Sorry, Sam, but next time leave the investigation up to professionals. We’ll keep investigating the woods and--”

“It’s not just the recent files shredded?”

“I’d imagine a malicious actor would shred everything not stock. Take some new pictures. Start fresh.”

“My family was on that.”

Ji-Ming felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe if you leave it with us, we can recover something.”

“That’s OK.” 

Sam left, not just with failure, but a harsh reminder that he was an orphan with fading memories. 

~

The first thing Sam did when he returned was hug Sushi. The AI may be gone, but the pup remained. They headed down the elevator, the other night a distant memory for the dog, and when they reached the lobby, there was Jean Beaumont fixing the security locker meant for packages. 

They saw Sushi and backed into the alcove for paper mail boxes that were unanimously stuffed by untouched fliers. “Did you need in here?” They waved at the dog. “Something funky happened with passcodes. You know yours, right? Perfect. Enter any other number and you can get your package.” 

Sam nodded and passed, then turned around to see Jean cautiously exiting the mail box fortress. “Are you good with computers?”

“The best! Anyway, bye! Have a nice walk.” 

Sam placed his drive on the security desk and stepped way. “I need your help.” 

~

According to Jean, the data recovery would take a few hours. Sam felt his hope live once more. He reached the edge of his rectangular territory, that corner that led to the park or to the restaurants. In truth, this rectangle was established by Sushi when they first arrived. It was all the three-legged boy could handle upon recovery. It’d take time to adjust and find new ways to move. By the time his prosthesis arrived, Sam had settled in that comfortable routine. 

For once, he went to the restaurants, then past them, then to the forest to find that shadow. He knew it was there. 

And Sushi loved every new step.

The mulberry trees with little snacks to keep his energy up. The deer hoofs imprinted in soft dirt. The occasional candy bar wrapper. So many things to mark as his new territory. A group of birds took off and Sushi squirmed against the harness to chase them with his tongue hanging out so far the black spot in back was visible. 

At the branch of a well-trodden path, Sushi let his nose decide. 

There came a point when he needed to rest and Sam carried him.  

Soon Sam needed his own tree to mark. Sam put him down. 

And it was around there that Sam heard the voices. Grumbling voices. 

“Another day, more nothing,” a woman said. “Next time, can’t we just kick back the whole shift with some beans and say we couldn’t find anything?”

“The comm units track movements,” another said. 

Peeking through the bushes, Sam saw it was a group of four soldiers stopped for dinner in a clearing. They huddled around a small camping stove with an empty pot. A search patrol! 

At first, Sam wanted to approach them and perhaps help out. They were looking for the shadow. Another person could cover more ground, right? 

And when Sam spotted Ji-Ming among them, the urge rose further. 

Until his stomach dropped. 

Sonya. 

The traitor. 

And in the world of fight or flight, Sam was torn between the two and froze. 

“Dark’s on its way. We should head back to base with a report.” 

The fork in the path had two trails. Theirs would converge with Sam. His feet finally worked and rushed to catch them before double-time proved too fast. He was heard. 

Good. 

“Hello!” another soldier called out. Her name badge said Al-Abidi. “Having a walk?”

“With the dog,” Sam said. “You’re not scared, right?”

“Not at all.” Al-Abidi approached and squatted down before Sushi who retreated. “It’s okay. Boy? Girl?” 

“Boy, Ji-Ming answered. He greeted them cautiously. “Sushi? Sam?” 

Recognizing the voice, the dog got excited but Sam held the leash firmly away from the traitor. Did he know Sam knew? “Are you scouring the woods for something?” When Sam glimpsed the others’ surprise, he added, “I was the one who reported a falling shadow to UEC Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. Find anything? Ceiling tile or something mundane, I assume?”

“Friends?” Al-Abidi asked.

“Same apartment building.”

Ji-Ming said, “Nothing to report.” He traced Sam’s eyes. They were went past the front three soldiers and locked on Sonya. 

It was around now that Sam noticed the side arms on everyone’s hip, and as guns often do, they made him process everything as a threat. Before, he had assumed Ji-Ming and Sonya were the only two infiltrators, that he had somehow sneaked her into the group so that she’d be one of the ones reporting back that they found nothing. But maybe all four of them were in on it. 

And Sam was in danger. 

“We should head back,” Sam said. “He gets pretty tired so far out.” 

“Let’s walk together,” Al-Abidi said. The others fell back. One was afraid of dogs and the other two were definitely traitors to the colony and maybe the entire UEC. 

But Al-Abidi did the heavy lifting to keep the walk from going suspiciously quiet. “My parents take care of the family dog back home—have you ever visited Luna 2? Anyway, she’s getting up there in years. Always hard to say goodbye. By the time I get back, who knows? Another year is a long time for an old gal.”

Sam, between polite but empty responses, glanced back on occasion wanting to see if anyone prepared to pull their guns and fire into the backs of him or even the other soldiers. 

The math was simple: 

Two traitors. Two questionables that even if trustworthy & armed themselves were unaware. Two shots at most to take out the threats and then Sam and Sushi would remain. 

She had already erased Sushi before. 

Would she try it again now in plain view?

They street lights came into view at the mouth of the woods. Restaurants that Tele’ktrides and Ji-Ming liked. And beyond that, their apartment. 

“Nice meeting you,” the friendly soldier said, specifically shaking Sushi’s paw. First one, then the other, telling him he was a good boy. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

~

Back in his apartment, he contacted maintenance to try to find Jean. Their shift had ended. Sam got an address, but wanted to drop Sushi off. He needed to refuel on more than mulberries. 

Sitting with their flash of red hair against the door, holding their own comm unit up to the light, playing games, was his technical hero—Jean Beaumont. 

Who backed away upon seeing Sushi. 

“Let me throw him inside and we can talk out here.” 

“Oh, please don’t throw him. Gently is fine.”

Sam gently placed Sushi inside and opened a can of wet food for him. Lamb & Peas, according to the tin, but it neither looked it or smelled it. He washed his hands then was back outside. “So…” Sam waited for Jean to update him. 

But Jean, polite as could be, waited for him to continue his statement. 

“Did you manage to recover the drive?” 

They shook their head. “The data is gone, but your unit actually has a backup partition that it stores main processes to during updates.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Recordings and documents and whatever are gone forever, but I managed to restore the AI from a recovery drive.” 

Footsteps echoed down the hall. 

In the figure-eight building, Sam lived in the northern half, and the steps walking toward the southern half were from Research & Development team leader on Deimos Military Base, Tele’ktrides C. Lee. 

Their eyes locked. 

“Sushi,” Sam said and the light on his AI drive turned on. “Set alarm for 7:00 am.” 

“Got it. Your alarm is set for tomorrow at 7:00 am.” 

~

The Earth Federation had sent three pilots to test the new machines, but that scientist talked them down to one. Regardless of the humiliation a few days back, Commander Reynolds donned his suit to prepare for the test flight--starting with the diaper. He’d show her who was unqualified. 

The next layer of long johns were from off the shelf of his local general store back home. He searched the shelves for a paper clip, then secured the folded-over elastic waistband to secure the oddly loose underwear.   

Next, another stretchy layer but no civilian store would sell these, but perhaps they should. These were specially engineered ages ago and only improved since. Throughout this special designed suit were intestines of tubes running water. The flow rate helped to maintain his body heat, task independent. 

Then a containment layer, then a protective layer, followed by a Snoopy cap with in-ear radios, simple cotton gloves, and the final outer layer with a helmet. The personal shielding would protect him and the suit’s electronics during turbulent flights, even should he get bounced around the cockpit. In this, he could go toe-to-toe with the heavyweight champion back on Earth and come out unscathed. A modern day suit of armor. 

The bubble over his face darkened automatically or on command and had a radiation visor that could lower. 

Once in the suit, it was hard to recognize which pilot was which, but Reynolds, a tall individual stood out, as did a short, bulky individual.

“Who do I have the pleasure of flying formation with today?” Reynolds asked. The voice transmitted over comms.  

“Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. The pleasure’s mine, sir.”

~

-Sam goes to military base

-The guard asks if he wants to see Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming

-Actually, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name.

-Sam heads off thinking he sneaked inside without alerting Ji-Ming or Sonya. 

-However, the guard watches Sam go and calls Ji-Ming anyway

-”You said you wanted to know if Nuwim returned to base. He just asked for Al-Abidi.”

At the military base, the guard Sam had been getting acquainted with via inspections asked for his ID.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Orders are orders and if something happens these days, I’m not getting blamed. Looking for Lee again?”

“Actually, a girl.”

The guard seemed interested in the development and Sam played into that. 

“Yeah, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name, but her uniform wasn’t quite the same so I think maybe a visiting soldier. If you could help me out.”

The guard radioed to the hut a few meters behind him and they found Alisha Al-Abidi, who arrived at the gate to escort him on. The guard waved playfully behind them. “Have fun, you two.”

The ever-extroverted Alisha was happy to have company, though she’d forgotten his name, and Sam looked around the base, just in case Ji-Ming was around, but he wasn’t. Sam’s infiltration plan had worked. The two walked off together.  

But once they were out of sight, the guard in the hut radioed. “I’m trying to reach Senior Airman Lee. When he’s free, give him the message, ‘His packaged just arrived.’”

~

They walked for a bit, enjoying pleasant chit-chat, mostly one-sided as Sam scoped out the activity around him. He saw neither Ji-Ming nor Sonya. Sam’s plan for this section wasn’t quite formed. In his mind, he’d catch them in the act of something, but where were they? What would they be doing so indiscreetly that onlookers would rally to his side? He was the civilian here. His word was already at a disadvantage. And even if he caught them, if there weren’t onlookers, was he, a trash collector, going to take down two trained soldiers on a mission? 

During the pause, Alisha asked, “So?”

“I need a toilet.” 

“Oh! Sure.” 

It gave him a little more time to think, but eventually he’d have to return to her and with an escort, his hands were tied on how much he could actually explore a secure military base worth infiltrating. 

The sounds of transport vehicles came through the open window. It was long and short and high up, but if he stood on the cistern, he could reach it. 

“You OK in there, um… Dan?” Alisha called. 

There was no answer. 

~

In the lobby of the Port Tram Station, the three test pilots waited for final preparations from the engineering team. 

“What the hell is this?” Commander Reynolds said when one pulled out a syringe for his blood. 

Tele’ktrides explained, “The AMPSystem uses biometric data to bind you with the on-board AI. It won’t be so different than your personal unit and you can even use the same name, if you like. However, the system is… particular. A bit of DNA goes a long way in getting it to accept you.”

“Sounds like we’re letting a new pet sniff us,” he grumbled to Ji-Ming.

“Thank god, pets don’t ask for blood.”

“You’ve never had an ocelot,” the commander said it with the coy expression that made Ji-Ming laugh but he wasn’t sure. “Can we hurry and get this under way?” 

“We’re all impatient,” Tele’ktrides said, though she knew from Ji-Ming that pilots always felt ill at ease in a jumpsuit and most at ease in a cockpit. She checked her watch. Two hours left. 

“Maybe we can pass the time by starting final briefing. The bulk of this will take place in the hangar so you can see the controls in-person, though obviously it’ll be similar to your time in the simulation.” Ji-Ming pulled up his AI unit. “The three units have been designated with call names already. Because I was fortunate enough to serve as the test pilot during development, I already know my AI. GX-001: Pronoia.”

“Let me guess: it means something.”

“From the ancient Greek myths, Pronoia was a minor goddess of foresight and wife of Prometheus.”

“The Fire Bringer?” 

“That’s the one. And I’m sure you also know the word ‘paranoia,’ right?”

“Of course.”

“The world’s cynicism teaches you that word but not its opposite. ‘Pronoia’ means the belief that the world conspires to do you good.” 

“Do you really believe that?” the commander asked. 

He shrugged. 

“Then what’s mine?”

Tele’ktrides brought up some a time line with three points highlighted. She pointed to the first. “Seeing as you’re our guest, the choice is yours. GX-000: Prometheus, as you said, ‘the Fire Bringer,’ was our first unit in development. A prototype with some quirks, but I believe is the easiest unit to pilot. The lowest skill floor but perhaps the lowest skill ceiling as well.”

“And the final one?”

“GX-002: Deucalion, hero of the flood.”

The commander smiled. “Fitting. I like that one. Guess that leaves our youngest with the oldest. What’s your name again, soldier?”

“Alkes, sir. Sonya Alkes. It’ll be a pleasure to fly beside you.”   

An alarm sounded. 

Commander Reynolds looked to his fellow pilots, but the three conspirators looked to each other. This wasn’t part of their plan. 

“Senior Airman Lee?” an escort approached. “We have a message from the security gate.”

~

Traipsing through the military base already put Sam on edge. 

He peeked around a corner. Two soldiers marched by with folks who appeared to be scientists. They were escorted from Hangar A into Laboratory A. While they didn’t appear to be under arrest, there was ice in the air. No one said a word. No one looked around. One clutched a hard shelled briefcase. 

He stepped out into the open and made his way toward Hangar A, reasoning that if they’d just come from there, there wouldn’t be anyone else. 

To Sam’s surprise, the soldiers weren’t out en force beyond the second security checkpoint. It was harder to get past the entrance gate. Sam had no idea the majority of soldiers were preparing for the test flight or sent elsewhere to preserve secrecy, but it worked to his advantage. 

He started to relax.

Then the alarm sounded with large holo-screens displaying both his identification photo and the security footage from the front gate, his heart raced. 

He ducked into the alleyway behind Hangar A to catch his breath behind some crates. 

The alley was between Hangar A where the people had just come from and a building marked Port Tram Station. 

~

At the command of a superior officer, the soldiers in the Port Tram Station fanned out around the base. Then the door went quiet. Those inside were instructed to remain. Test pilots had no business hunting down an intruder. However, that was boring and soldiers are creatures of action. 

“A friend of yours?” Commander Reynolds said as they stepped out. 

“Same apartment building.”

“So why’s he here?”

Tele’ktrides looked to Ji-Ming, but she kept her mouth sealed for the time being. “Don’t wander too far. We can’t delay this test.” 

The door closed and Commander Reynolds stepped out with his fellow test pilots.  

They hadn’t seen Sam yet. But Sam saw them from the shadows. The jumpsuits they wore were a more advanced version than his own at work, both out of necessity and out of preference from the higher-ups on who needed protection. It wasn’t collectors like him. 

His heart beat so loud they’d soon find him on sound alone. 

Ji-Ming went straight. Sonya right. And Commander Reynolds toward Sam. 

Now was the time. 

“There are traitors on this colony,” Sam said with his hands up. 

The Commander reached for his side arm, but kept it holstered. “Are you Sam Nuwim? People get lost on tours all the time. Follow my instructions and we’ll sort everything out. Keep your hands up. Turn around.”

“I have video evidence that proves Sonya Alkes is an infiltrator from the ISF. And Senior Airman--”

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he interrupted. 

Befuddled by the question, Sam started to approach. 

The soldier drew his own weapon and asked again, louder, “Do you have any weapons?”

“No! All I have is proof of danger to this colony. Sushi,” he started to summon his AI.  

A shot hit the wall. 

Commander Reynolds turned to see who had fired. 

The accused. 

Sonya Alkes.

Ji-Ming currently wrestled her to the ground but she was wily, familiar with the same type of hand-to-hand combat UEC Defense Force soldiers were trained in--and more. She scrambled to grab her pistol off the ground when Commander Reynolds joined the scuffle. This kid was not clear and present danger, but Sonya might be, if not to the colony, at least to Sam. And the commander knew civilians froze in situations like this. 

“Resistance is a clear sign of guilt. Thanks,” Ji-Ming said as the commander helped him pin the suspect down. “I got her. Where’s Sam?” 

The kid had run off. 

“Dammit.” 

He couldn’t have gone far. 

~

Tele’ktrides comm unit flicked on with its walkie-talkie function. Only Ji-Ming had access to that. 

“Sonya Alkes has had accusations laid against her as an infiltrator or defector.” 

“Allegedly,” Commander Reynolds said in the background. “But her response maybe tipped her hand.” 

“What about Sam?” Tele’ktrides asked. 

“Disappeared when Alkes fired a shot near him.” 

“She’s not saying anything?” 

“No.”

“I’ll recall some MPs to take her to a holding cell.” Tele’ktrides checked the time. “And I’ll let everyone know the test has been delayed due to rain.”

~

Sam found himself in Hangar A, a large room that immediately descended around the perimeter of the room so the exterior was deceptively short, only appearing three stories but with the depth, maybe clocked in closer to five or six. Nothing in the room warranted such height currently. Some boxes were stacked high, but nowhere near the ceiling. Stairs led up to a catwalk that had lines and harnesses akin to a Boatswain’s chair most often used in window washing. But there were no windows. 

All there was that stood out to Sam was a large flatbed covered in an uneven tarpaulin, which, as the door was thrown open behind him, seemed the only good place to hide. 

The tarp was too thick to see through except where wear and tear near the folds had formed pinpoints for light. He navigated against the odd geometric shapes of the metal, trying not to make noise or moving mounds beneath. He played this game with Sushi all the time. He put his hand under a blanket. Moved it slowly, carefully, then rose up like a shark fin and Sushi would pounce, trying to pin him down, only to find the shape had reappeared elsewhere. 

Now was no time to get pounced on. 

He moved slowly. Carefully. Following the odd shape. It was actually easy, though. The structure was like his apartment wall, maybe 9 or 10 feet tall. The empty space it created was more than enough to sidle through.

Curiosity started to get to him. 

He felt like an ant on a tractor tire, aware of the grooves and ridges, but unable to piece the mass together in his mind. It was too long. Or… If the wall he stood against was actually the depth of it, then perhaps it was not long, but tall. Probably the thing requiring such six stories of hangar. 

“Sam!” yelled a voice he knew as Ji-Ming’s. “I know you’re in here. There’s still time for this to all work out.” He threw up a corner of the tarp, but he picked the wrong corner. 

Suddenly, Sam could see the UEC colors on rough metal, but a paint job gave him no clearer mental picture. 

The tarp flapped down and he heard footsteps around the bend. A light shining. 

Ji-Ming made his way around, not hampered by a need to be stealthy, but he saw and heard nothing. 

Sam had pulled himself up to the roof of this thing.

But now the tarp rustled with Sam moving against the top of it. 

Less gracefully, Ji-Ming heaved himself up to grab the ledge and Sam knew it’d be a few seconds then till he was caught if nothing changed. 

His pursuer’s light showed a hatch. 

He groped the metal nearby looking for a handle or latch or something. A sharp edge cut his fingers. He swore but there was no time. Ji-Ming had seen him. 

“Freeze!” 

Sam rose to his feet. The two men formed tent poles under the canvas. Sam put his hands up. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t have a choice. I know now.”

“You don’t.”

Sam backed up. 

“Don’t move, Sam!” 

His heel caught a ledge. The hatch opened with a hydraulic pop and hiss. He could no longer see the other. 

Ji-Ming bolted. 

Sam stumbled inside, grabbing the inner handle, and using his weight and gravity to pull the heavy hatch door after him into the dark. 

~ 

Week 2: 14,000 words / 60 pages

“Attention all passengers. Outer Rim flights have been delayed. Please check the flight information display board or consult one of our friendly gate agents for more detailed information,” the PA announced and everyone began scouring the news for what happened. 

Then the large holo-screen up above addressed Port 7 with the following announcement: “We here at the Deimos Intercolony Spaceport would like to ask everyone to bow their heads in a moment of silence.” 

Most everyone did in remembrance of the Kharon Incident last year. Even one of the infiltrators, a young woman with blue hair, Sonya Alkes took a deep breath to steel herself for the mission ahead. 

But the mission leader strode forward among the bowed.

“Only cowards pray before the gates of Hell.”

They wore their face masks. If they stood out, it was as foreigners during flu season, raising only the hackles of the most conservative, but a space port was a place for foreigners even during these war-stricken times and the war lingered in the distance, among the starlight, a supernova of great destruction that for those at the viewing screen, looking out into the cosmos, was almost beautiful, a backdrop to their days.

In the year 2154 CE, humanity renewed efforts into its expansion into the solar system. Space was no longer the sole domain of scientists, but miners, cooks, families, every profession under the sun needed off our planet. At first, colony ships were sent up with enough for a sustainable population: 80. And once these 80 settled between high Earth orbit satellites and Luna, daily life began. Half of the first wave were critical systems professionals. Repairs, constructions, agricultural scientists (farmers), but even professionals want to start families. The first off-Earth child was born in 2155. 

It marked the start of an era. 

With a growth rate of 3%, that colony pod started to swell as more immigrants from Earth flocked star-ward for a new life and when the pilgrim pod’s population approached sustainable development goals, rather than send up a second colony and cluttering the (2.29 * 10^17) cubic kilometers of open space, they future-proofed the colony. 

Construction crews donned their space suits. Citizens were asked to ration manufactured goods for a few years. An annex was built then subsequently filled. The new sector became an industrial complex that continued adding onto the colony until the pilgrims in the first pod became the center of a beautiful, ever expanding flower.

Other colonies arrived, using a modified blueprint of the first.

These expensive, overcrowded colonies would become known as the Inner Rim. 

But the Earth’s resources were strained supporting such expansion and it became vital to excavate space. New colonies situated between Mars and the Asteroid Belt took half a year to reach and while the growth rate was a similar 3%, the birth rate was significantly higher. The companies who invested their fortune into this gamble saw great returns after a few years, but after several round trips, it became clear that the Outer Rim laborers would see little profit. 

Outer Rim colonies grew jealous of one another. Supply ships would be pirated. Earth-bound ships would be held for ransom. 

Eventually two major factions came to power.

The United Earth Colonies, popular but not ubiquitous in the Inner Rim, and the Independent Space Front, a loose confederation of Outer Rim colonies.

“And remember,” the PA concluded, “if you see something, say something.”

A common misconception is that shuttles, stations, and colonies need to be airtight to survive the vacuum of space. While that is functionally true--the little air leaking out does not endanger denizens--it is not absolutely true. The same principle applied to security. Blind spots existed and hampering travelers with excessive protocol was bad for business, so ports opted for a theater of security. A sign that said “Employees Only” would deter the weak-willed, but without a keypad, those that came on a mission just had to glance this way and that, then step through. 

The corridors led from the civilian access port to the military, where security was eased because soldiers had been vetted before enlistment. In the main hangar, a fighter had been disassembled to a puzzle-piece sphere with the main turbine out on blocks. Stripped to the chassis. Parts exposed. And the repairman stepped away to eat his lunch. He glanced at a nigh illegible maintenance request form for fixing the arm of a collector before tossing it into the pile. He had examined it yesterday. It was fine.  

The emtact, MTCT, military traffic control tower had dark windows. Not just tinted, but unattended. 

A call came in. 

A light switched on.

The sleepy ensign Lisa Maldoon slapped her face. Tested out her voice. Then answered. “DMS emtact. Call sign. Over.”

Silence lingered a moment and just as thoughts of her nap returned, the distant vessel replied, “UEC Defense Force escort carrier Scorpio en route to Ceres. Over…”

“…Purpose for dock? Over…”

“…Refuel and pick-up. Over…”

“…Transmit logs. ETA? Over…”

“…49 hours. Over… 

“…Roger. Over and out.”

It was the worst part of her shift. Shortly after a spacecraft entered detection range, transmissions took 1.22 minutes to cross the vast expanse. 1.22 minutes there, 1.22 minutes back. And once answered, like someone performing CPR, the operator was obligated to stay until all signs of life went quiet for good. The ensign went back to sleep.  

The busiest sector in this port was shielding. That needed constant attention. 

An asteroid the size of a grapefruit--manageable, low-energy--disintegrated before reaching the titanium coating. The shield, otherwise invisible, flickered when activated and the color depended largely on the metal ions present in the asteroid moving to an unstable, excited state. Copper: green. Strontium: red. Potassium: purple. Science teachers felt equal excitement demonstrating since they got to play with fire. This grapefruit flickered yellow: iron. 

Drones orbited the colony, armed with lasers and an emergency explosive ordinance. Their patrol detected no threats large enough to activate defense protocols, but once in a blue moon, a large asteroid turned up that needed to be broken into manageable, low-energy chunks.

“Goddamn litterbugs!” a new engineer cried as the data logger in his hands fried from overuse. “What are those junk rats doing?”

The real plight of laborers was pollution. 

Stray space waste lit one of hundreds of pale dots on a graph, charted by an arbitrary Earth-centric time or the objective place in orbit. Certain sections of the orbit had dense groupings of dots, and while a single piece of junk required no more attention than a single fruit fly, a swarm was an annoyance. Last week’s orbital position was officially called a series of long, boring coordinates but among the engineering staff, was collectively known as Tie-Dye Hell. Pretty. Sparkly. And a nightmare of overtime. 

“Cheer up, guy.”

“Cheer up?” The grouchy engineer took up his wrench in singed, bandaged hands to threaten the supervising mentor with. “Why the hell should I cheer up?”

“Think of the paycheck.”

His expression softened to one already a little drunk off celebration. 

Time-and-a-half or no, as shield surgeons reached seniority, they requested for cushier positions like emtact. The high turnover meant unfamiliar faces keeping the colony safe. 

“Hey, you.” The supervisor snapped her fingers, trying to grab the attention of a newbie. ”Fetch another data logger from maintenance.”

“Data logger?” Sonya asked.

“In the bird cage.”

She looked around. “Bird cage?” She looked to her mission leader who also shrugged.

The supervisor slapped her forehead. “I’ll get it myself.” 

She walked down the corridor, past a trash can overflowing with recyclables that when not properly sorted wound up giving Shielding more overtime and normally she’d do something about it, but not today. If she had, she’d have discovered the infiltrators’ civilian disguises buried beneath.

Every step after reaching shielding was a trade. A dollar for 2 quarters. 2 quarters for 3 dimes. 4 nickels. 5 pennies. Those pennies in the machines. Sudden maintenance. 

Then sneaking away in the cover of a rolling blackout.

~

As Sam carried his three-legged dachshund into the hall, he heard voices by the elevator. From the tone, clearly friendly chit-chat between long-time acquaintances, perhaps even friends, but he didn’t have his translator tapped on. He stopped to consider.

With the long day of paperwork he just had, with the earlier reprimand for filling it out incorrectly, with Sushi in his arms, Sam left it off. 

“So cute,” the short and athletic guy said. Sam had heard the phrase enough to understand it. 

The tall woman pushed up her glasses and said something like, “You think he’s handsome?” 

“Mhmm.” 

They couldn’t see Sushi’s prosthesis. 

Sam had seen them around. He assumed the two were dating. Always together, leaning on one another, heading into the same 50-square meter apartment--too tight of living quarters for friends. All three lived on floor 40, but their schedules rarely overlapped. They ran into each other on nights like tonight where they were taking out his bag of trash & her box of recycling, and Sam had Sushi. 

He smiled to be polite, but they only saw his eyebrows scrunch up since he was in a mask, beanie, and sunglasses. If they commented on his flu season protection, strange on this colony, it wasn’t with any words he knew off the top of his head, but they continued to chat amongst themselves.

The elevator arrived. Everyone got in. The man held the door open button until Sam was in, 23rd century chivalry.

“One?” the guy asked. 

He nodded. 

The guy pressed the 1 button then B1 then let Sushi sniff him--Lee Ji-Ming, 32, First City native, 3 tours, senior airman.

The dog averted his eyes and shuddered when the stranger pet him. A long whine let loose. He nestled deeper in Sam’s arms, settling by the time the affection stopped. 

The woman pushed the door close button--Tele’ktrides C. Lee, 37, Second City native, weapons R&D, team leader.

As the elevator descended, they were rocked by a sudden KA-CHUNK!

Rubber soles slapped the ground. 

Everyone looked to the door then each other. 

The collective thought that broke language barriers was, “Are we going to die?” followed immediately by “What should we do?” but the elevator soon started down again and somehow, having had the warning of the first drop, the second surprised everyone more—KA-CHUNK!—and Tele’ktrides box of cans scattered across the floor. 

Emergency brakes engaged immediately and though the drop felt like a few meters, a few centimeters was more realistic. The display said they were on floor 39 and in the local alphabet, ERROR. 

Ji-Ming pried open the doors to reveal they were between floors as the top half of the elevator was open to the 40th floor, marked by signage, but the bottom showed a shaft too small to squeeze into. 

Sam remembered a dream like this. In it, he had tossed Sushi out thinking it’d save the dog, but as he had tossed the dog, the elevator went into freefall, the lights went out, and because it was a dream, they had impossibly survived the crash but as the red emergency lights flicked on, Sam saw Sushi cut in two, down to a single front leg, whimpering, betrayed, and he desperately tried to apply pressure to the poor pup’s missing hindquarters. 

It was not a recurring dream. He’d had it once, back when nightmares were new, and yet it stuck with him, rearing its ugly head even during rare moments of tranquility and that ugly head now grinned with delight that the premonition seemed reality. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam cooed to the pup. The two seemed to tremble at the same frequency as he stroked his back, slowly, firmly, letting the dog hear his words through touch. “You know, it’s actually a good thing. We’ll get down much faster this way.”

The two strangers exchanged quizzical glances. Dogs don’t get dark humor, and neither do cochlear translators. 

“Did he just say…?”

Ji-Ming nodded.

Despite his attempts to soothe the boy, the anxiety must have been evident on Sam’s face, because a comforting hand touched his shoulder, grounding him as he did the dog. Ji-Ming said in English, “Should we crawl out?”

Sam slapped his ear in a fit, slamming his translator deeper in as it tapped on. “No!” 

“That’s correct,” the woman said. Tele’ktrides pressed the big yellow Emergency Call button. An alarm sounded. A voice broadcast in several languages that all got translated, imperfectly in their ears, to something like, “Stay where you are. Help is coming. Don’t worry.” 

“Guess we wait,” the guy said. “I’ve seen you around a few times, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so!” 

A thin disguise of politeness. Sam stood out on this colony. His muddled appearance relayed that he was human and little else of his ancestry on Earth, compared to here where not-so-distant segregation had led to a starker contrast in skin tones. This couple might feel judgmental eyes on them as the man’s parentage received privileged treatment that he still reaped the benefits from while the woman still felt the sting of prejudice in outdated laws. Regardless of their personal beliefs, he stood out as an individual as much as they stood out as a couple and there was no ignoring that. 

“You can call me Eddie if it’s easier.” His accent was thick and Sam realized it was because Ji-Ming was speaking rusty English and the translator wasn’t doing any work. 

“Tele’ktrides,” the woman said. She kept to the colony French. “Are you one of the recent cadets?”

Sam shook his head. “Collector. For about 3 months.” 

Ji-Ming’s eyes went up and over as he tried to recall when he first saw Sam, closer to 5 months prior, and the pieces started to snap in place when they heard a THUNK! overhead. 

The maintenance access panel opened and a bright young face popped into view--Jean Beaumont, 26, Second City native, repair person. “Hey, folks! Don’tcha worry. We’ll have y’all out of here in a jiffy,” they said. “Oh, it’s you two! I don’t know you, though. But your puppy!” If Jean were a cartoon, their eyes would have turned to hearts. “Are they okay? They’re very cute. They don’t bite, right? I’ll just stay up here and admire from afar but tell them the next head-pat is from me--THANK YOU!” 

As quickly as they popped into view, they popped out, their flash of red hair trailing behind them, and the sounds of tools on the metal roof echoed in the elevator. 

“It’s okay,” Ji-Ming said, clearly calming Tele’ktrides down, not from adrenaline-fueled fear, but from a boiling resentment of this buffoon. “Give them a chance.” 

“Oops!” A tool scraped the outer wall before it plummeted down the shaft. 

“Another chance.”

“How many do they need? They flunked out of grease monkey duty on base after their half-assed repairs nearly got you sucked out of an air-lock and now our lives are in their hands--again. It has to be intentional.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Maybe it’s an assassination that’ll look like an accident.”

Sushi began to whimper at all the stimulus--tools falling, mag-boots, feuding, and Sam squeezing too tightly. Tele’ktrides took an intentionally audible deep breath and shut up. 

Ji-Ming said to Sam, “These power outages happen occasionally. You’re just not usually in an elevator when they do.” 

Jean called down, “Actually, it’s city-wide. Maybe Second City, too.”

The couple exchanged looks. 

Sam noted it, but took it as a bad sign.  

A building outage was just the result of crappy repairs, complements of hiring a flunkie. A block outage was an easily-fixed fault in the grid. City-wide could only be the result of space debris making it through the barrier and the astronomical odds having a grudge against shield surgeons. But the electrical grid had separate blocks for situations like that. One goes out, another reroutes power to critical systems, and the lights go dim but stay on. If it was the whole colony… 

Was this Kharon all over again?

“Two muffins are sitting in an oven,” Sam whispered to Sushi. “One says, ‘Wow, it’s hot in here.’ The other yells, ‘Oh my god! A talking muffin!’” 

Sushi didn’t laugh.

Tele’ktrides didn’t either. 

Jean peeked down amid sparks. 

Ji-Ming chuckled, his eyes nervously darting to his partner then to Sam in the corner who leaned on the hand rail. Without it, there’d be no other reason Sam’s shaking legs supported him. Touch was no longer enough. 

The main lights flicked back on the and the alarm went silent. That emergency message turned to one of cheer. Jean hopped through the access panel and undid their belay line, which shot up the shaft, dinging the rim. They must’ve been wrong about the Second City. Nothing so widespread would get fixed that fast.

“Thanks, Jean,” Ji-Ming said while Tele’ktrides turned away.

The elevator stopped at the 12th floor. The short ride was smooth as butter, but everyone got off except Jean. “Should be all good. We have a form in the lobby for you to fill out and if you could give me 5 stars, it’d really help me... Where you going, Tele’ktrides?”

“Stairs.” 

“Don’t bother with that! It’s fixed.”

She didn’t stop. 

Jean reached toward Sushi and he turned his snout up to sniff their hand which frightened Jean into yanking it away which frightened Sushi into burying himself into Sam’s arms. 

“I need the exercise, too,” Sam said so Jean wouldn’t in an enclosed elevator with a trembling wiener dog. 

“Thanks, bud.” Ji-Ming pat Jean on the back, but already torn as Tele’ktrides left, he saw Sam go, too. “I guess I should as well, but you did great work--as always!” 

In the windowed stairwell, Sam gathered that Jean had apparently restarted the building’s systems before the AI had been able to. Probably by by-passing a few critical diagnostic checks that would almost certainly turn up green but were still there for a reason. Back-up generators and emergency personal lights dotted the First City. The streets were especially visible as cars fell into an algorithm of stopping at the flashing traffic lights. No scarlet dome rose from the horizon and Sam suspected Second City had indeed been hit as well. 

An early dark inspires nightmares. Ancient people died of shock upon witnessing an eclipse. Sam was not so primitive, but those overprotective instincts were, so perhaps that was why, out the window, he at least thought he saw a silhouette falling from the roof. 

No. 

Not falling, not a loose piece of paneling that spelled the doom of this colony, too. It descended too controlled for a fall. 

A landing.  

While he parsed the information, Tele’ktrides heard the door open, footsteps, and from half a flight below, yelled a bit hushed, “What the hell were you doing speaking English--” She stopped upon spotting Sam looking startled. “Apologies.”

Ji-Ming made it in time to watch a wave of lights roll through a dark city. He rushed toward Sam then seemed to usher him quicker toward his girlfriend so the trio could walk as a group.

Jean’s footsteps echoed in the stairs above them, opting for the company on the long trek down than an elevator ride alone. They did, however, stay a floor above Sushi, rushing down then stopping to let Sam get further then rushing more and repeating. 

By the time Sam saw out the next window, the silhouette was a figment of his imagination. There was no more dark. He couldn’t remember the shape or where it supposedly landed other than generally in the forest by the mountain where no one would witness it. 

He let the thought go--as much as he could. 

~

Tele’ktrides continued down to B1 with her remaining recycling, having left the top layer of aluminum cans in the elevator, but Sam, Jean, and Ji-Ming went to the security guard at the front desk. She spoke gruffly to Jean, “Rooftop needs you.” 

They hurried back to the stairwell, leaping up the first six in two steps. 

“Elevator, Jean,” she said with a sigh. 

One big hop down.

Ji-Ming mulled over the maintenance survey like a final exam and Sam wondered how long it’d take. His arms ached from holding Sushi for now 30 minutes of panic or stair climbing, but finally Ji-Ming signed it SrA Lee Ji-Ming and took the dog from Sam, quickly finding a paddle point that eased the poor boy’s trepidation while Sam took the stylus. The survey amounted to a few basic comments then some ratings. It took Sam 10 seconds. 

The entrance to the building faced a parallel entrance and the cigarette butt-filled courtyard between buildings with sparse plantings of grass and a symmetrical saplings propped up by stakes led to the shopping center to the right or a distant park to the left—where Sam took Sushi most mornings, nights, and afternoons he wasn’t working. The park had quite a few people out for strolls or bike rides or similarly walking their own dogs. 

However, to the left if you took another left into the alleyway by the building were the dumpsters--where Ji-Ming was headed. 

Adrenaline has a strange nature to it, in that as it recedes, it leaves a person, however shy, traumatized, or generally anti-social, craving bonding. So Sushi, not feeling this, automatically headed toward the park and felt only the harness tug at him to go a strange direction full of strange smells. Sam had not intended to follow Ji-Ming but they’d been together so long already and there hadn’t been an explicit goodbye so his feet moved on their own as the two chatted. Ji-Ming threw his bag into the pile and stood with the two lost puppy dogs, giving them the attention they all needed after that experience. 

“What happened?” When Sam was filling out the form, Ji-Ming had felt the prosthesis. But politeness meant asking later. Later was now. “Dogs never get the good ones unless you’re filthy rich. Lawyers, CEOs, arms dealers, and I guess soldiers too. We might be dogs of the government, but they still fit us with the latest and greatest.” 

He twitched his pointer and ring finger on his left hand. The movement was sharp and more to the point, the other fingers didn’t move. Complete isolation. 

“Long story.” Then Sam asked, “SrA?” 

“Senior Airman. Military rank probably holds more sway, and Jean does deserve someone pulling for them.” 

The Deimos colony was a part of the United Earth Colonies, but in name only. They were safely within the middle of the middle rings. The Goldilocks of Goldilocks. No active conflicts anywhere near here. No lucrative mining operations. Not even overcrowded enough with soft targets to become a spectacle during breaking news.  

“Why are military here?”

“Ask the brains of the operation. Sit!” he said to Sushi. “Dogs don’t know what orders mean. They just know how to get a treat. But it’s a cush assignment. Early morning runs and weekend drills. Otherwise, border patrol, policing, colony repairs, and Tele’ktrides is Randy.”

The lewd lingo threw Sam, some friendly hazing.

“R and D. Research and development.” He started lighting up a cigarette, but the wind fought him. 

“Does that mean she’s the ‘brains of the operation?’”

“Ha! I wish.” He turned his back to the alley entrance and finally got his light. “One day. One bright, sunny day after the long dark.”

“What kind of research?” 

Tele’ktrides appeared around the corner. “Sharing that would be treason.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam snapped out of his auto-pilot and realized he had followed a stranger into a dark alley and was sandwiched between another stranger, the first’s partner, and not only that, they were dressed for a date. Sam was the tag-along, playing third wheel, and apparently asking them to commit treason. 

“No harm done. Civilians often ask how their tax dollars might murder others,” she said. “Should we go?” 

“Where you headed, Sam?” Beyond the park was a set of restaurants the couple liked and often couldn’t decide between until they got a whiff of the specials. That’d decide their craving. “Walk with us.”

Tele’ktrides took a deep, calming breath as she looked at her partner with a strained but familiar expression. “Only if you want.” 

“Either we’ll awkwardly walk near each other or we can make some new friends.” 

Sam looked to Tele’ktrides for a sign. 

She nodded. “He’s hard to argue with.”

They walked past some construction of a new apartment building rumored to cost so much per month that only two neurosurgeons cohabitating could afford the rent. Sam, who purchased blackout curtains in a futile attempt to sleep till his alarm, often woke up at 6:00 am to the sound of hammers.  

“Have you met many people yet?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“I mostly stay in. Work, home, Sushi.” His comm AI lit up in his pocket, listening. 

“You really like fish, huh? But sushi does sound good right now. My treat if you want to join us for some.”

“They won’t let a dog into the restaurant,” Tele’ktrides reminded him. 

“There’s outdoor seating. Or we can get it to-go and have a picnic in the woods!” 

Tele’ktrides’s glare again.  

“My dog’s name is Sushi.”

“Aww.” Sushi had been on the far side of Sam, always a step behind. Perhaps the dog’s fear was eased by the newfound kinship of Sam and them, so when the soldier squat down to give pets, Sushi let him, then walked between the two instead.

Then they reached the corner that Sam had never tread beyond. Turn here and reach the park. Go another few blocks, turn right, and that accessed the spaceport where Sam worked. Another block beyond that was the grocery store and the final corner to Sam’s territory, a comfortable rectangle with everything he needed. 

But the two were heading the other way and while conversation wasn’t stellar--his fault--it scratched a long-standing itch. 

There were trees that way, too, a lot in the woods around the mountain, and there were restaurants with new smells and probably messages left by other dogs and most immediate, that direction had a few minutes longer with his new acquaintances, maybe even friends.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said as he turned toward his usual route. 

Ji-Ming, through a subtle set of questions, drawing on his own memory for other evidence, had been on the cusp of an epiphany since floor 40—an epiphany that Sam feared.

~

The couple chose outdoor seats, but not for fish. Their new furry contact turned them off, momentarily, to sushi, and instead they opted for warm oxtail soup on the chilly evening. Their table had the perfect view of the mirrors as they angled away the sunlight and the day came to a rest. The mirrors perhaps mimicked the day cycle, but the mirrors were functional and the sun divine. Maybe one day they’d see a real sunset together. 

“What if he had accepted?” she asked. 

He rubbed the scar on her knuckle, drawing her back to an old memory, first bitter then sweet, when while dissecting the rotor of a defunct, early model starfighter, her pristine knuckle caught on a bolt. She wanted to shake it off and keep working, but while shaking, a droplet splashed on the canopy he had just polished. He hopped down from the ladder and stuck her hand in his armpit. It kind of worked at applying pressure while he fetched liquid stitches from the medkit. Bitter, sweet, and a little smelly. They’d been married two years at that time. “Then we’d excuse ourselves for some alone time.”

They smiled across the table.

“He just seemed like he needed a friend. And almost getting dropped from an elevator, that’s scary for most people in their bubble-wrapped lives.”

They finished their soup. Ji-Ming summoned his comm’s AI assistant. “Pronoia, can dogs safely gnaw on oxtail?” 

Cooked bones might splinter so, against Tele’ktrides wishes, he talked to kitchen staff for some raw ones that they had to charge him for, but the bag was full of about ten full of marrow, then the two headed off. 

According to CCTV footage on the street, after finishing their meal, the two turned right to walk hand-in-hand to her one-room, off-base apartment and even the building footage, doorbell’s camera, and keypad log showed the same. 

But those would be discrepancies with reality. 

They turned off their comms.

Deep in the woods, Sonya Alkes tugged on her face mask painted orange by the light of the small fire. 

Tele’ktrides wiped her brow. 

“Nice weather for camping.”

“If you’re okay with the cold.”

Sonya said in a sharp tone, “You’re late. Kill a deer en route?”

“They’re for a friend’s dog,” Ji-Ming said. 

“Shouldn’t be making friends,” their contact said. 

Tele’ktrides gave her a flash drive. “If all goes as planned, this will save the colony.”

“And they’ll hate you for it. How soon do we move?”

“They’re doing final diagnostics tomorrow, so the first test flight is slated for the day after, off colony of course. Pick-up arrives in 47 hours. That’s our window.”

“During test?” 

“Before.”

~

As Sam lay in bed, his dreams spilled over to reality. The sound of collapsing buildings, that cacophony of voices and materials crashing into one another, were confused by the erection of the new apartment building next door. 

Breathe. 

“Sushi,” he called and his comm lit up as well as the AI panel on the wall and the dog. It was a constant source of confusion for machine and mammal. “Time.”

Deep breath. 

“7:06 on a bright sunny morning. Would you like to hear headlines?”

Sushi jumped from the spare pillow on the floor to bed, then settled in the same coiled dragon position he always did, his fluffy tail draped over his nose. 

“Yes. Lights on. Curtains up. Music.”

Some generic background music played, harkening back to spring in a meadow with birds chirping and apparently strumming a harp as the friendly voice, not at all how he imagined his dog’s, read off, “Kharon Gone but Not Forgotten,” a pause, “Pollution Predicates Power Outage according to Officials,” followed by a few innocuous accusations of corruption, wasting tax dollars, and the usual government criticisms. 

He could not settle. 

“Sushi. Call police non-emergency number.”

The dream was familiar. Except for the not-falling silhouette. 

The convincingly human operator listed several options. Personal extension. Press inquiry. Case inquiry. Appointments. Tip line. 

“Tip line.”

“Please leave your name, address, and contact information along with any relevant information to an open case or suspicious activity and an officer will get back to you.” 

Sam remembered a similar message when he first arrived on Deimos. The hospital said they’d contact him with test results and clearance to exit quarantine, but they never did, and every attempt to contact them had him leaving a similar message that went unreturned. 

It was probably nothing. 

“Remember, if you see something, say something.”

But due diligence. 

~

A month ago, an announcement spoke of visiting soldiers from the United Earth Federation, the head of the Commonwealth known as the UEC. Soldiers, clerks, and factory workers knew of the visit regardless of clearance, but only a percentage knew why they were on layover. Tele’ktrides was at the top of that list.

And even she was not informed that the Feddies would be sending their own test pilot, an ace from a long-running and long-over civil conflict on Earth. Low-gravity space travel was hard on the body and he was given a week to get his space legs underneath him. The spin of the colony threw Earthlings.  

Today, it’d been a week and Tele’ktrides would be his tour guide around the Deimos military base. 

As was too often required, she held her tongue, letting her opinion known only through barbs of logic. 

“A war hero, you say?” She made faces like she was impressed as he recounted a battle on Earth. 

Commander Reynolds was in his late 30s with rough skin that sagged. His build was large, but the flesh atop it had gone soft. “Deserts of the Gobi--do you know it?” 

Of course not. No more than he knew the streets of Deimos. 

“Five men. Two ATVs. Surrounded on all side by enemy drones. Tac-Com told us, ‘It was an honor.’ No one expected us to make it out. Maybe if they had sent evac when requested, Scratchy would still be with us.”

“Well, you’re with us now. Our test pilot. How was the journey here? Did you stop anywhere interesting?”

“No offense intended, but all the colonies look the same. I’m happy to see each one after a month in flight, but if you were to ask me whether I won it big at slots on Artemis or Freija…” He shrugged. “Have you ever had the chance to go abroad?”

“Yes. For our honeymoon, we went to the popular gambling district on Freija.”

Their tour had taken them to the training grounds. Soldiers sprinted down the obstacle course to low netting that needed crawling underneath, then tractor tires, a fence to scale, and at the end, a pull-up bar next to a bulletin board. Each month, whoever scored the fastest got a prize and whoever got the most pull-ups got a prize, but each week, the slowest and the lowest got significantly less desirable prizes: latrine duty and KP, respectively.

Tele’ktrides continued her tactical assessment. “It’s taxing keeping up with the exercise as well. Even civilians need an hour or two on machines to maintain their physical condition, and soldiers… Well, motivation’s tough when you’re too high ranked for drill sergeants.” 

“I did what I could.” 

“Of course. You can always tell which soldiers have been on-colony, though.” 

“It’s true this simulated gravity can’t compete with Earth’s,” he shot back. “You colony folks can’t even draw a straight line.” 

They approached the starting line where some grunts in fatigues saluted the higher officers. 

“Would you like to show them what real gravity does to a man?”

“Another time.”

“And your experience with cosmic combat is…”

“Cosmic? Fancy term for flying without restriction.” 

“So simulation only.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, starting to sense her objective. “I have a sixth sense that’s gotten me this far.”

“This far completes the tour.” And her assessment of this ace pilot. They rejoined the group in the hangar, but Tele’ktrides had bad news. “He’s unqualified.” 

The shock radiated out from her superiors but her assistants had expected such a scene. Commander Reynolds himself spoke above the others with indignation. “Unqualified? I’ll have you—”

“Shut up and listen. First, his physical conditioning from his peak on Earth I’d estimate is less than 70%, and I’m trying to be nice with that, but he refused physical testing. It could be lower. Do you think succumbing to half a year of sloth can be rectified in a week? I’d posit that even 90% would be a challenge with this machine. 

“Second, his mental acuity took him the entire conversation to realize the test pilot was being tested. A slow mind and slow body equal bad reflexes and with hundreds of billions invested into a single machine, you don’t want him crashing on take-off due to poor condition. 

“Finally, and most importantly, the reason we hand-selected pilots was because growing up off-Earth forces the mind to develop a real sixth sense. Because you’ve grown accustomed to real Earth gravity, you can only think in two dimensions: forward-back, left-right, right? You probably expect this fighter to look like a plane, but there’s no atmosphere out here. There are no reasons for wings. 

“Even if you were at peak conditioning, the moment an enemy pilot comes from below, you and, more importantly, my prototype will be space dust. 

“Trash collectors have a better sense than you do for space flights. Enjoy your vacation here. Take some pictures. Do your best to remember this trip.”

Tele’ktrides walked away. Her assistants knew she was right, as did her superiors, but they didn’t want to admit it. All they could admit was that without her approval, the test wouldn’t be happening. 

~

Some dazzling description of the vastness of space. 

Infinite and open. The vastness of space stretches on to this day. Humanity, as humanity does, continues to consume all that is before it. Manifest Destiny. But not one light in that direction was man-made. Even our insatiable appetite is meaningless before infinity. One day, civilization will reach so far that a child might be born en route and die before ever seeing the edge of our own borders, and yet, the stars that light our night are even further beyond that. It is painful yet beautiful silence. 

An alarm sounded.

“Look alive, rat,” his operator snapped.  

A piece of junk pinged off the rear camera panel. Was that an egg carton?  

The three-axes of the debris collecting unit--a ball with mechanical arms--spun and for veteran pilots, they felt the whirl and steadied their eyes on the panel ahead of them and went about their business, but for Sam, even after three months in this ball, he gripped the throttle’s foam pads till he felt bones. Collectors often gabbed about rumored newly manufactured units in the Inner Rim that had inertia dampeners so magic that a sleeping baby wouldn’t wake up. Things would have to break before Sam ever saw one of those, and chances are, they’d break with him inside and he wouldn’t get to see. 

The mask hooked up to his face, feeding out through his helmet into a waste collection pack, kept the expensive--if outdated--cockpit controls clean and working, but the tube still reeked of old nausea, further sending him back to his first, soul-suckingly embarrassing day in training when of the three candidates, he’d been the only one to vomit. 

Yet here he was. 

“Transport is waiting.” Sam’s operator didn’t like him, but to be fair, Keen grouched at everyone. He was old with bad eyes and sometimes forgot his glasses. “Finish already so you can brush the stink out your mouth.” 

Was he here because of that? 

Had the other applicants been rewarded with less twirling, whirling work and the one with the weak stomach been punished in an attempt to train it out of him? 

No. 

When he steadied, when his eyes focused, when the tide in his throat ebbed, Sushi was still running analysis on material and orbital trajectory of the swarm of debris. He had collected junk that would be useful to recycling, the raw materials going to the plant, melted down and made again into junk that’d wind up here. Factoring in how long the recycling process took, time on the shelf waiting for purchase, the forgettable instant it was chucked in the trash, the 487 days of orbit, he’d be out here collecting it again in some form in two years. Then again in four, ten. Twenty if he lasted that long.  

Sam waited for permission.

“Whatcha waiting for?” 

The main screen changed. 

What reflected on the screen was the same vision he saw, but his eyes were closed. He was no longer, Sam, rookie of the year space janitor, but at one with the bit drones in his territory. The drones locked onto the largest pieces of trash. Their single dot lasers fired. Space debris now space dust. 

Space is infinite. But the space around us is not.

An alarm.

Transport’s final call.

His shift was up.

Nausea returned as he returned to the sickening, aged smell of his helmet. 

~

With the colony laid out on a grid, self-driving cars make travel efficient and safe. They communicate with each other faster than humans can even register another presence, but beyond that, they reach everyone. Where as a single person gets confused by the bustle of a conference call, the AI can coordinate approaching lanes so that wait times are minimal. 

This was not fast enough for delivery. 

And thus the food delivery industry continued among the stars. 

It took a daring, selfless or self-destructive individual to even apply but to flourish, took complete disregard for not just their own life, but everyone’s lives. Technically outlawed, even the law hated room-temp pizza. 

A scooter careened onto the sidewalk, squeezing their handle bar, not to decelerate with the brakes, but to warn pedestrians with the horn as they rounded the corner into the corridor between apartment buildings, decorated with symmetrical saplings and cigarette butts. 

Tele’ktrides was walking through the security vestibule when she heard the horn, but the echo of the corridor didn’t give any effective warning as to which way to look and so the screeching scooter, trying to stop centimeters from the door, hip-checked her with the last of its momentum. 

She sprung to her feet and grabbed the driver by the jacket collar. 

This was such a common occurrence that drivers wore break-away clothes. The collar came off in her hands and he slid through the door that was closing behind her. Again, she was on the pavement. 

By the time she scanned her comm unit’s NFC to let her back in, the driver was up the stairs and on the elevator, having pressed every button so the irate non-customer wouldn’t know where to corner them. Again, a common enough occurrence that there was a plan in place. 

However, in the lobby, was Sam getting his mail. 

Tele’ktrides had her eyes glued to her comm unit as she punched in commands and so didn’t notice him even after they stepped into the elevator together. He waited a polite amount of time of peeking over her shoulder at the comm’s display screen before he asked, “Is that the elevator camera?” He looked up their own little bubble in the corner. 

“Yes.”

The display showed the driver in a helmet and non-descript jumpsuit. It must have been the other elevator. Digital readings also showed the floor they stopped at. The 13th. 

“Should you have access to that?” Sam asked. 

“Yes.”

This elevator was already beyond that, not hampered by the constant stopping, so Tele’ktrides pressed the already lit 40F button and the elevator speaker said, “40th Floor canceled,” followed shortly by an announcement of their new destination, “13th Floor.” 

The elevator descended. 

“I actually really need to get home.”

The elevator stopped. “13th Floor. Please exit.”

“Hold the elevator.” She threw break-away jacket in front of the door sensors, then peeked down each side of the figure-eight halls, even as the door dinged that there was an obstruction. 

“I think I should--”

“Hold it.” She punched in a few more commands on her comms and the dings stopped. 

It was about then that she found the driver and chased them down the hall, but they were well trained in the art of escape and made it to the elevator Sam was holding before she caught up. They grabbed their jacket and punched the door close button. 

The doors closed. 

Again, Sam heard, “40th Floor canceled,” and they hit the G key. 

But the doors immediately reopened. 

No one was at the door the entrance yet but Tele’ktrides strode toward them and unmasked them, expecting a dumb kid she could yell at beneath the helmet, but it was an old woman. 

Suddenly caught, she began to apologize. 

“That’s all I wanted,” Tele’ktrides said and unlocked the elevator. 

Sam stepped out. 

The second elevator returned to their floor, but to both of their surprise, out stepped Jean Beaumont. 

“Hi y’all. So it wouldn’t have happened to be you who hacked the elevators?” they asked Sam. After he shook his head, they continued, “That’s what I was afraid. You really can’t be doing that, Deez. Um… Dr. Deez.” 

“I shredded the video files already.” 

“That’s kind of the main problem. Without video of original problem, the boss thinks I made a mistake or something and then I get lectured by folks who can’t even reprogram their AI summon command. Luckily, I added back-up recordings to a hidden partition that saves locally.”

Tele’ktrides, technically outmaneuvered by a flunky, let out an audible sigh. “I’m not the problem here.” 

“Well, you did kind of let them into the building, too.” Jean pulled up the footage of Tele’ktrides exiting the building and not waiting for the first security door to close before exiting the second one as was suggested on posters all over the apartment complex. 

“Can I go?” she asked. 

“Promise not to hack into systems again and I can delete this footage.”

“Fine.”

Their bright expression returned. “How’s your puppy? Can you pull up some pictures? I like pictures!” 

“Sure.” 

All three of them stepped onto the elevator and since both were heading down and only Sam was heading up, the elevator went down as Jean cooed over the cute and safe photos on Sam’s AI drive, then once Jean and Tele’ktrides stepped off, Sam finally headed back upstairs where he could grab the real Sushi and head to the park. 

While waiting for the light at the corner of his territory, he peeked over at the mountain with the forest around it. 

The shadow stuck with him during the whole walk. 

~

Sam took a taxi to the military base, but the car wasn’t allowed past a certain point by signage or its programming, and he walked the last bit near the chain-link fence. He gawked at the expected vignettes of military life. 

Soldiers ran laps in sharp formation, chanting with bravado between breaths. Beyond the corner, a firing range aimed at the broadside of the mountain. Stray shots might hit a squirrel, but that was just protein. 

Beyond those superficial necessities for military life, the design of the base stuck out. On some colonies, the military base was like a Third City with home supply stores and restaurants and suburbs. You could find kids in the park. Movie theaters played the latest hits.  

However, on Deimos, the base reminded Sam of an industrial complex. The ugly aesthetic of function. Every building laid out on a grid. A candy cane-striped smoke stack piped toxic fumes into the infinity outside the colony. Four water tower-type structures were marked with a series of warnings. A transport vehicle parked against one with a polytetrafluoroethylene hose hooked up. It was slightly translucent and whatever dark liquid inside had stopped flowing, but the driver waited for the dregs that might disintegrate, drop by drop if, the outer coating of the colony if protocol was ignored, until finally she could drive along oddly wide roads, hauling her trailer to a building designated by an alphabet. To civilians, each letter on a near-identical building meant nothing, but to inhabitants, the difference was obvious.

The fence became a vestibule with a guard booth inside. A camera scanned for license plates and would open automatically for the guard to then check credentials and wave them past the boom barrier. 

When Sam approached, in his usual flu season get-up: face mask, beanie, and sunglasses, the guard approached. The pattern of chains separated them and while this guard had no weapon in hand, a guard standing at the far gate was armed with a rifle. Sam felt her eyes, too. 

“Identification.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Sam said. 

“Civilian ID,” he barked with a commanding gruffness that sent Sam into a panic of patting his pockets to find it. He handed it over without a thought. “Remove your face coverings.” 

First his sunglasses.

Then his hat.

His dark hair had natural highlights. 

Then a pause.

Then he started to do his mask, when the soldier nodded that that was enough.

“What’s your business on base?”

Sam hadn’t really thought about it. And definitely not how to explain it. He sputtered, “Um, I—well…” while he prepared it in his head. “I’m looking for someone named Ji-Ming. Eddie, maybe. Airman. Senior airman. He lives in my building.”

The soldier stayed silent as a short-range radio on his shoulder buzzed with background noise. Low, whispering voices not directed at this soldier but another one elsewhere. Finally the static-masked voice rose to an intelligible level. “Senior Airman Lee is in recreation.”

“Samwise Nuwim at the gate.”

“He’d just know it as Sam.”

“Sam.”

Low voices again before the gate separating the soldier and bundle of nerves slid slowly along a rickety track and Sam was looking the soldier in the eye. He remained silent but returned Sam’s ID.   

“Can I go in?” 

“Wait for escort.”

~

Ji-Ming threw his arm around Sam as they walked deeper into the base. He peeked over their shoulders before shaking his head. “Security these days. But it’s good to see you.”

After the pleasantries, there was a noticeable silence between them as they continued the walk. He was a bit sweaty from double-timing it over, but the colony fans blew a nice breeze today. 

“Was I expecting—did we make plans?”

Sam shook his head. 

“I’m happy to give you a tour. At least of the visitor friendly section. How about some lunch? It ain’t great but that’s part of the fun.” 

“I saw something.” Sam’s feet moved on auto-pilot and before he realized it, his escort’s friendly arm no longer draped across his shoulders. 

“Gonna need you to be more specific than that.” Ji-Ming’s tone changed. “This isn’t a friend-thing, is it?” 

“There are just all these posters and announcements these days—’See something, say something,’ right?” Sam was suddenly feeling very silly. 

A blackout? 

A shadow? 

A dream? 

And he was making reports like he stumbled on some conspiracy. It was arrogance to think two monumental events would happen in his vicinity. “Forget it. I should go. It was probably nothing.”

“Let me be the judge. Pronoia, voice recording.” His wrist watch had a red light and the screen showed the sound waves rise and fall with his each sound. “This is United Earth Colony Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming on Deimois military base with Samwise Nuwim. Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine.”

“Tell me what happened.” 

Sam recounted the blackout last night and the elevator and taking the stairs. “It was end of the day so only a little natural light and everything else was dark and I thought I saw a shadow fall into the woods. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something. But it looked controlled. Like a landing. Or something, I don’t know. I called the police department this morning and left similar information, but who knows how many tips they get.” 

A long pause as Ji-Ming waited.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Probably nothing.” 

“Any specific place it touched down? Mountain-side? City-side?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of it when we kept heading down.” 

“It won’t hurt to check it out. I’ll report this immediately to superiors. Pronoia, stop recording.” The wrist watch screen faded to standby. The soldier’s tone was back to friendly apartment dweller. “And it’s always nice to get off base.”

“Should I submit a written report or anything?” 

“Not necessary, but if you want a paper trail in addition to the recording, we can arrange that. We’ll have to ask around for a notary. Might take a bit, but if you want.”

“No, the recording’s fine. I should go.”

“What about lunch? I can’t promise it’s good, but that’s half the fun for civilians. Freeze-dried ice cream,” Ji-Ming said in an attempt to tempt. 

~

For Alisha Al-Abidi, search patrol was a fine way to spend the afternoon. The base got so cramped, sometimes feeling more cramped than the transport vessel she came in on with Commander Reynolds. Transport felt like a cruise. While all the food came from cans or dehydrated powders, the chefs aboard were expert at making that work. A poor in-flight cuisine for months of travel spelled danger. The crew needed hope and the best way for that was gourmet meals. 

Here, food was fine, but it was just fine. Always the same kind of fine. Never spectacular, never interesting, never even bad. Maybe if it were bad every once in a while, the rest would seem better by comparison. 

So when an officer came into the dorms asking for four volunteers to search the forests by the mountains yesterday, she thought it’d be taking full advantage of colony-life by seeing nature, however artificially transplanted, and to her surprise, toward the end, the patrol leader named Lee Ji-Ming had stopped as dark approached to make dinner over a three-pronged camping stove. 

The smell… 

It was… 

Terrible! 

She got so excited by it that she began falling into friendly chit-chat with the crew she’d only really just met, or met a few times and forgot. 

“Alisha, this like our third time meeting,” Ji-Ming said as he stirred the burning the beans. 

It was easy to forget names with so many on the colony. 

“Sorry, sorry, I know. Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming. C. Ji-Ming.”

“Lee,” Sonya corrected her. “Come on. I’ve been here as long as you and even I remember. Remember in transport when you kept calling Commander Reynolds ‘Commander Reynard?’”

“Wait, it’s Reynolds?” 

The three other soldiers had a laugh. Everyone took a scoop of beans, not wanting to take more than their fair share, leaving plenty for the cook and Alisha to finish, which they did with delighted disgust. 

~

How little the third shift meant during arbitrary time, and yet, even for debris collectors, it was the least desirable position. Instinctual lethargy dragging their movement down. And though data showed that rare accidents happened equally across shifts, it was widely known that strange things happened at the witching hour. 

“Careful tonight,” the transport pilot warned their crew. “Comms are finicky. Downed satellite in Sector 7. Repairs at 0900.” Then they held up crossed fingers—Hoping? Or lying?  

Each member had a name for their collector Ball, and as even Balls were expensive, the dozen of Balls used by the first shift were the same dozen used by the second shift and so each Ball had several names depending on the pilot. 

“Macbeth 7 reporting a reading at perimeter.” 

It was just Junie in the dispatch room, staring at the feed of the remaining collectors as well as last year’s charts. Without closeness of drifting debris or the data coordinates transmitted, the feed would be black dotted by starlight. Whether the pilot was moving at all was hard to parse, and even the faded green numbers in the corner relaying vitals, coordinates, and the like fell to background noise. Only a yellow sphere inside a red sphere made of vector graphics indicated a visual. After reaching the yellow, an alarm beeped warning the pilot and operator that they were leaving colony space. The first transport carrying 1 through 5 had already begun docking procedures, a bit early, but with paperwork and clean-up, it’d even out. 

She wheeled her desk chair over to Station 7 for a better look at the reading. The object sat on the far side of the downed satellite. It wasn’t on a collision course. It wasn’t en route for the docking procedures. And it was too far for a proper reading of elemental composition. She made a note of it on the chart for next year. 

“There’s no overtime,” radio replied. 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

If this maverick pilot took too long, it delayed 6 through 12 from docking on time, they took longer with paperwork, and then Junie is stuck sitting around when she was supposed to be on a pancake breakfast date with Nic.

“You could be the goddamn Red Star of Deimos after this but you’re still not getting an extra cent.”

7 Comms went silent. 

She reported it to the other Balls and the transport pilots, who groaned.

7 Comms stayed silent.  

“Well?” Junie buzzed impatiently. The reading had intrigued her as nothing was listed on the previous chart. 

“En route! Hold your horses.”

Junie put a remote headpiece on to take with her as she fetched coffee, certain she’d late now. But remote work always went silly in the break room and it’d been too long since last report. 

“7, report?”

Nothing.

“What’d you find?”

No answer.

“Macbeth 7, do you copy?”

Impatience gave way to dread.

“Nic! Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

The feed for Macbeth 7 cut then returned then cut again. 

“Still out. Get back here and we’ll requisition repairs. Repeat. Return to colony for repairs, Macbeth 7. Return ASAP. Macbeth 7, come back to base and we’ll have pancakes. Macbeth 7!” 

~

Tele’ktrides ran her diagnostics, waiting for the results to compile into a 3D image she’d seen a dozen times in various shades. A new actuator here, a different circuit there, an algorithmically upgraded AMPSystem that even at a slowed pace made only partial sense to her. No one could explain it. 

The software engineers had made the testers. The testers had ran infinite number of fledgling AI through an infinite number of data points. The AI who passed made other fledgling AI who were run through improved tests. And so on, into infinity, until all tests were aced and they had the AMPSystem. 

The screen she stared so intently at suddenly turned from code to a friendly, smiling face of home. 

“Dinner tonight,” Ji-Ming called her comm. 

“Did we have plans?”

“No.” His voice was not smiling. 

~

Usually when they placed Sam in a different collector unit than usual, they told him in a single word: Repairs. Today, the comms operator used two: “Can’t say.” 

It wasn’t Keen, either. 

It was some new lady with blue hair. Sonya. 

He crossed his fingers that he’d missed Keen’s retirement party. 

He might not have minded the different unit had it included a different suction mask with a better smelling hose, but those were pilot-fitted, not unit-fitted, and the smell remained. 

No more was said on the subject. 

On a normal day, in the blackness of space with empty sectors, only numbers indicated the distance from Deimos at (0, 0, 0) and those were background noise on a screen, not vital like your fuel levels, O2, or distance from objects. No trash collector ever turned back at that warning rope to notice the colony was slightly larger than last time they heard the beeps, which might’ve been months ago as most debris came from the colony--it stayed near the colony, and thus collectors did, too. 

But Sam, perhaps already suspicious, noticed. 

He had the coordinates memorized, but they only confirmed the whisper calling him further. 

The perimeter had been reduced to 75%.

60%

“Deucalion here,” he called to Sonya. “Satellite down?”

“Shouldn’t be. Maintenance went out at 0700 and already came back. Are you getting weird readings?” 

“Sort of.” The gages on his dash indicated normal. “Did they confirm repairs?”

65%

Sonya left the channel open as she typed away. “Seems so. Comms are fine so just leave it. You’re at perimeter. Go no farther.”

70%

“Why is Sat 7 outside perimeter? Why is the perimeter reduced?” 

“Can’t say.”

He took that to mean she didn’t know earlier, but now, it seemed more like code for confidential. 

75%

“Return to transport.” 

“Operator.”

“What?”

80%

“I found Ball 7.” 

“Return to port via emergency transport ASAP.”

70% 

~

After a demerit on his record signed by him and his operator—her handwriting almost as bad as his, Sonya took him into a private room. She lit up a cigarette and turned some music on—loud. If anyone was outside, their conversation would go unheard.  

“The official story is Macbeth 7 collided with Sat7.”

There’d been no crumpling. Most of the damage seemed aimed at the cockpit. And an arm was dislodged, defensive wounds of someone instinctually trying to defend themselves. “Damage was inconsistent with that.”

“Sat7 would’ve been 95% out, but according to communication recordings, she was beyond perimeter. She saw something.”

“What was she looking for?” 

“Don’t know. Her feed had interference.”

“Did she save the local recording?”

“She was instructed to,” the operator said. She blew out a puff of smoke into the ventilation shaft. “Why?”

Sam had never had to sift through any of the debris he brought back before. “How can we get access to the trash?” 

~ 

*V2 - tense after a long wait, kicks it off sooner, better written conflict*

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility. 

“Samwise Nuwim, hands on your head,” Sonya commanded quietly from behind. 

When he started to turn around, she placed the muzzle of her pistol to him and he froze. 

“You’re not in any danger if you do as you’re instructed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will you resist?”

“No.”

She removed the muzzle, but he still felt it trained on him. 

“Wipe the file. Hard reboot the computer. And eject the drive. Hand it to me.” 

Sam did each slowly and carefully. 

“You live on Floor 40, Door 18, correct? Your room overlooks the park with the little river.”

“Yes.”

“What happened today?” 

“Nothing.”

“You requisitioned an inspection of some debris. What was it?”

“Nothing. Just junk.”

“Good. Your dog is very cute.”

She left the room and Sam stayed in the chair, waiting for his heart to settle, before looking into the hall. No trace of her. 

~

*V1 - funny and ironic, better setup for later, stealthier* 

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help. 

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7. 

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion. 

“There’s no overtime.” 

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam. 

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right. 

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio. 

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?” 

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility.

“We have to report this,” Sonya said. She reached over Sam and plugged something into the desktop. Her fingers flew with the grace of a data-entry professional. “I’m copying this to a secure drive with a decryption key that’ll match only our AI. You find the person you trust most in this colony and you show them, copy it, but do not let them have your original. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” The purpose filled Sam with a feverish energy. 

She plugged her comm unit into the second slot. Sam did, too. Three drives into this machine that’d save the colony. And he had helped. 

“Summon your AI. Bahamut, copy.”   

“Um…” 

“Let’s go.”

A wave of embarrassment swept Sam up, but national security was at stake. “Sushi, copy.” 

The blue-haired woman glanced over. 

“My dog, not the food.” He hoped that made it better. 

~

At the military base, Sam knew the drill now and waited with impatient, dancing feet for Ji-Ming to escort him. He looked haggard and waved it off as having the night shift, though he was dressed in fatigues today. Maybe just getting off the shift. 

“How’d the pup like his bones? Quality, eh?”

“He wanted me to say thanks.”

“Wish I had an update on the case for you, bud, but we’ve turned up nothing.” 

“Actually… can we go somewhere secure? Private?”

Ji-Ming almost laughed at his demeanor but Sam was dead serious, jumpy, like a kid at a cookie jar. “Sure.” 

Inside his dorm room, he locked the door and offered Sam the bed or the desk chair. There wasn’t much else. A closet. Dresser. A desk with scrolling precious memories with Tele’ktrides, the two of them slowly aging through the years, as adults do. Widening, thinning, regrettable hair styles, but mostly the deep strain wrinkling their flesh and the smiles appearing more tired until the final photo from just the other night with oxtail soup and a jump cut to 10 years ago.  

“See any more shadows?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“Is your computer hard wired to the Internet? Or can we go offline and view things locally?” 

“Internet cuts out all the time, so I guess the latter.” 

“I have evidence now.”

He crawled under the desk, both to take the Ethernet cord out the back and to take a moment to process. “Of the shadow?”

“Of something that has to be connected to it. But if the investigation lists me as reporting, I’m worried about what’ll happen next.”

“We could redact your name from the initial report? Or withdraw it completely?”

“You’re a senior airman, right? You said military rank holds more sway. For the good of the colony and the people on it, I need that sway.”

He crawled out of the darkness, his friendly face looking serious. “OK, you got my support. What’s this evidence?”   

“We’re unplugged?”

“Off-the-grid.” 

Sam plugged in his AI drive. Usually it took a few seconds to go through start-up on a new computer, but it popped up with command prompt immediately. “Sushi, open file Evidence.” 

The drive didn’t light up with the usual recognition light at its summon phrase. “Sushi,” Sam said again more clearly. 

He reached over the mouse to manually open the file. 

This Computer > External Drive (F:)

Empty. 

“Maybe because we’re offline,” Ji-Ming suggested.

Sam unplugged it and tried again while disconnected. “Sushi, what time is it?” 

“Sushi, time.” 

“Sushi!”

“Sam, what’s up?”

The woman! What did she…?

“Can you pull up personnel files on this?” Sam frantically started groping in the back of the PC, trying to reconnect the Ethernet. 

“Public ones, sure.”

“Pull up Collecting Unit operator Sonya Alkes.”

Ji-Ming typed it in with the old hunt-and-peck method. “There’s no one by that name.”

“Can you pull up me? Samwise Nuwim.” 

Yes. 

“Keen Okyere.” 

Yes.

There was no one working in the Sanitation & Collection Department by that name and scrolling through the list of operators, transport pilots, collectors, no one had blue hair. 

“She wiped my AI! It must’ve been a time-bomb for my drive.”

“Or… drives fail sometimes. This, the elevator. You’re having a string of bad luck this week, but don’t start looking for conspiracies to explain it.” 

“Tele’ktrides is a science person, right? Randy?” Sam reeled from the lost, grasping at whatever might save this. “Does she work with computers? Could she recover?”

“One of her three degrees is computer engineering, but even if it were foul play, would it really be so easy to get it back?” 

“At least she could see if it’s tampered with.” 

“I don’t know. I use computers but I don’t understand them. I don’t know what leaves a ‘fingerprint’ of sorts.” 

“Please. I’ll buy you dinner every night this week.”

The way the boy looked at Ji-Ming… He still had a heart. He still had to try. If nothing else, this would bring a bitter closure. Evidence gone, case closed, failure.  

“All right, but I eat a lot.”

“That’s fine.” As they were walking down the hall, Sam asked, “Three degrees? Really?”

“Computers, mechanical and… Bio? Don’t tell her I forgot.”

~

The lab they’d found her in required clearance that Ji-Ming didn’t even have. The windowless door from the lab to vestibule had to close before the windowless door from the vestibule to the lobby could open, but she walked out with AR lenses still strapped to her face. 

“How long have you had this?” Tele’ktrides asked, waiting for her personal laptop to boot up. 

“I guess since university.”

The boot process took only a second. 

“I don’t know how long ago that was for you.” 

“Oh, right, sorry. Three or four years now? No issues with it until now.”

She pulled up the empty directory and with a few more buttons revealed hidden files.

Sam felt some hope.

“These are just the default AI directories. At the store, the machine will run you through set-up like you probably did three or four years ago and that’s how you name yours and program a summon phrase. For example, ‘Prometheus.’”

Her own lit up. She had the same watch as Ji-Ming but in red. 

“Call yours,” Ji-Ming suggested.

“It won’t work.”

“Sushi,” Sam tried. 

Ji-Ming smiled. Tele’ktrides scowled. 

“Based on your account of the incident, it’s possible the data wasn’t formatted but shredded. I’m not a recovery specialist so I can’t tell the difference on my computer, but if files are shredded, they’re deleted then the partition is overwritten. In running recovery, you’ll only come up with deleted junk files.”

“All of them are shredded?”

“Sorry, Sam, but next time leave the investigation up to professionals. We’ll keep investigating the woods and--”

“It’s not just the recent files shredded?”

“I’d imagine a malicious actor would shred everything not stock. Take some new pictures. Start fresh.”

“My family was on that.”

Ji-Ming felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe if you leave it with us, we can recover something.”

“That’s OK.” 

Sam left, not just with failure, but a harsh reminder that he was an orphan with fading memories. 

~

The first thing Sam did when he returned was hug Sushi. The AI may be gone, but the pup remained. They headed down the elevator, the other night a distant memory for the dog, and when they reached the lobby, there was Jean Beaumont fixing the security locker meant for packages. 

They saw Sushi and backed into the alcove for paper mail boxes that were unanimously stuffed by untouched fliers. “Did you need in here?” They waved at the dog. “Something funky happened with passcodes. You know yours, right? Perfect. Enter any other number and you can get your package.” 

Sam nodded and passed, then turned around to see Jean cautiously exiting the mail box fortress. “Are you good with computers?”

“The best! Anyway, bye! Have a nice walk.” 

Sam placed his drive on the security desk and stepped way. “I need your help.” 

~

According to Jean, the data recovery would take a few hours. Sam felt his hope live once more. He reached the edge of his rectangular territory, that corner that led to the park or to the restaurants. In truth, this rectangle was established by Sushi when they first arrived. It was all the three-legged boy could handle upon recovery. It’d take time to adjust and find new ways to move. By the time his prosthesis arrived, Sam had settled in that comfortable routine. 

For once, he went to the restaurants, then past them, then to the forest to find that shadow. He knew it was there. 

And Sushi loved every new step.

The mulberry trees with little snacks to keep his energy up. The deer hoofs imprinted in soft dirt. The occasional candy bar wrapper. So many things to mark as his new territory. A group of birds took off and Sushi squirmed against the harness to chase them with his tongue hanging out so far the black spot in back was visible. 

At the branch of a well-trodden path, Sushi let his nose decide. 

There came a point when he needed to rest and Sam carried him.  

Soon Sam needed his own tree to mark. Sam put him down. 

And it was around there that Sam heard the voices. Grumbling voices. 

“Another day, more nothing,” a woman said. “Next time, can’t we just kick back the whole shift with some beans and say we couldn’t find anything?”

“The comm units track movements,” another said. 

Peeking through the bushes, Sam saw it was a group of four soldiers stopped for dinner in a clearing. They huddled around a small camping stove with an empty pot. A search patrol! 

At first, Sam wanted to approach them and perhaps help out. They were looking for the shadow. Another person could cover more ground, right? 

And when Sam spotted Ji-Ming among them, the urge rose further. 

Until his stomach dropped. 

Sonya. 

The traitor. 

And in the world of fight or flight, Sam was torn between the two and froze. 

“Dark’s on its way. We should head back to base with a report.” 

The fork in the path had two trails. Theirs would converge with Sam. His feet finally worked and rushed to catch them before double-time proved too fast. He was heard. 

Good. 

“Hello!” another soldier called out. Her name badge said Al-Abidi. “Having a walk?”

“With the dog,” Sam said. “You’re not scared, right?”

“Not at all.” Al-Abidi approached and squatted down before Sushi who retreated. “It’s okay. Boy? Girl?” 

“Boy, Ji-Ming answered. He greeted them cautiously. “Sushi? Sam?” 

Recognizing the voice, the dog got excited but Sam held the leash firmly away from the traitor. Did he know Sam knew? “Are you scouring the woods for something?” When Sam glimpsed the others’ surprise, he added, “I was the one who reported a falling shadow to UEC Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. Find anything? Ceiling tile or something mundane, I assume?”

“Friends?” Al-Abidi asked.

“Same apartment building.”

Ji-Ming said, “Nothing to report.” He traced Sam’s eyes. They were went past the front three soldiers and locked on Sonya. 

It was around now that Sam noticed the side arms on everyone’s hip, and as guns often do, they made him process everything as a threat. Before, he had assumed Ji-Ming and Sonya were the only two infiltrators, that he had somehow sneaked her into the group so that she’d be one of the ones reporting back that they found nothing. But maybe all four of them were in on it. 

And Sam was in danger. 

“We should head back,” Sam said. “He gets pretty tired so far out.” 

“Let’s walk together,” Al-Abidi said. The others fell back. One was afraid of dogs and the other two were definitely traitors to the colony and maybe the entire UEC. 

But Al-Abidi did the heavy lifting to keep the walk from going suspiciously quiet. “My parents take care of the family dog back home—have you ever visited Luna 2? Anyway, she’s getting up there in years. Always hard to say goodbye. By the time I get back, who knows? Another year is a long time for an old gal.”

Sam, between polite but empty responses, glanced back on occasion wanting to see if anyone prepared to pull their guns and fire into the backs of him or even the other soldiers. 

The math was simple: 

Two traitors. Two questionables that even if trustworthy & armed themselves were unaware. Two shots at most to take out the threats and then Sam and Sushi would remain. 

She had already erased Sushi before. 

Would she try it again now in plain view?

They street lights came into view at the mouth of the woods. Restaurants that Tele’ktrides and Ji-Ming liked. And beyond that, their apartment. 

“Nice meeting you,” the friendly soldier said, specifically shaking Sushi’s paw. First one, then the other, telling him he was a good boy. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

~

Back in his apartment, he contacted maintenance to try to find Jean. Their shift had ended. Sam got an address, but wanted to drop Sushi off. He needed to refuel on more than mulberries. 

Sitting with their flash of red hair against the door, holding their own comm unit up to the light, playing games, was his technical hero—Jean Beaumont. 

Who backed away upon seeing Sushi. 

“Let me throw him inside and we can talk out here.” 

“Oh, please don’t throw him. Gently is fine.”

Sam gently placed Sushi inside and opened a can of wet food for him. Lamb & Peas, according to the tin, but it neither looked it or smelled it. He washed his hands then was back outside. “So…” Sam waited for Jean to update him. 

But Jean, polite as could be, waited for him to continue his statement. 

“Did you manage to recover the drive?” 

They shook their head. “The data is gone, but your unit actually has a backup partition that it stores main processes to during updates.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Recordings and documents and whatever are gone forever, but I managed to restore the AI from a recovery drive.” 

Footsteps echoed down the hall. 

In the figure-eight building, Sam lived in the northern half, and the steps walking toward the southern half were from Research & Development team leader on Deimos Military Base, Tele’ktrides C. Lee. 

Their eyes locked. 

“Sushi,” Sam said and the light on his AI drive turned on. “Set alarm for 7:00 am.” 

“Got it. Your alarm is set for tomorrow at 7:00 am.” 

~

The Earth Federation had sent three pilots to test the new machines, but that scientist talked them down to one. Regardless of the humiliation a few days back, Commander Reynolds donned his suit to prepare for the test flight--starting with the diaper. He’d show her who was unqualified. 

The next layer of long johns were from off the shelf of his local general store back home. The underwear had his pit stains and it fit a little loose around his shoulders considering the material was designed to hug and expand even if he put on a few pounds. He tried not to read into it. 

Next, another stretchy layer but no civilian store would sell these, but perhaps they should. These were specially engineered ages ago and only improved since. Throughout this special designed suit were intestines of tubes running water. The flow rate helped to maintain his body heat, task independent. 

Then a containment layer, then a protective layer, followed by a Snoopy cap with in-ear radios, simple cotton gloves, and the final outer layer with a helmet. The personal shielding would protect him and the suit’s electronics during turbulent flights, even should he get bounced around the cockpit. In this, he could go toe-to-toe with the heavyweight champion back on Earth and come out unscathed. A modern day suit of armor. 

The bubble over his face darkened automatically or on command and had a radiation visor that could lower. 

Once in the suit, it was hard to recognize which pilot was which, but Reynolds, a tall individual stood out, as did a short, bulky individual.

“Who do I have the pleasure of flying formation with today?” Reynolds asked. The voice transmitted over comms.  

“Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. The pleasure’s mine, sir.”

~

-Sam goes to military base

-The guard asks if he wants to see Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming

-Actually, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name.

-Sam heads off thinking he sneaked inside without alerting Ji-Ming or Sonya. 

-However, the guard watches Sam go and calls Ji-Ming anyway

-”You said you wanted to know if Nuwim returned to base. He just asked for Al-Abidi.”

At the military base, the guard Sam had been getting acquainted with via inspections asked for his ID.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Orders are orders and if something happens these days, I’m not getting blamed. Looking for Lee again?”

“Actually, a girl.”

The guard seemed interested in the development and Sam played into that. 

“Yeah, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name, but her uniform wasn’t quite the same so I think maybe a visiting soldier. If you could help me out.”

The guard radioed to the hut a few meters behind him and they found Alisha Al-Abidi, who arrived at the gate to escort him on. The guard waved playfully behind them. “Have fun, you two.”

The ever-extroverted Alisha was happy to have company, though she’d forgotten his name, and Sam looked around the base, just in case Ji-Ming was around, but he wasn’t. Sam’s infiltration plan had worked. The two walked off together.  

But once they were out of sight, the guard in the hut radioed. “I’m trying to reach Senior Airman Lee. When he’s free, give him the message, ‘His packaged just arrived.’”

~

They walked for a bit, enjoying pleasant chit-chat, mostly one-sided as Sam scoped out the activity around him. He saw neither Ji-Ming nor Sonya. Sam’s plan for this section wasn’t quite formed. In his mind, he’d catch them in the act of something, but where were they? What would they be doing so indiscreetly that onlookers would rally to his side? He was the civilian here. His word was already at a disadvantage. And even if he caught them, if there weren’t onlookers, was he, a trash collector, going to take down two trained soldiers on a mission? 

During the pause, Alisha asked, “So?”

“I need a toilet.” 

“Oh! Sure.” 

It gave him a little more time to think, but eventually he’d have to return to her and with an escort, his hands were tied on how much he could actually explore a secure military base worth infiltrating. 

The sounds of transport vehicles came through the open window. It was long and short and high up, but if he stood on the cistern, he could reach it. 

“You OK in there, um… Dan?” Alisha called. 

There was no answer. 

~

Week 1 Progress: ~7,000 words / 30 pages

“Attention all passengers. Outer Rim flights have been delayed. Please check the flight information display board or one of our friendly gate agents for more detailed information,” the PA announced and everyone began scouring the news for what happened. 

Then the large holo-screen up above asked everyone in Port 7, “We here at the Deimos Space Colony Interplanetary Spaceport would like to ask everyone to take a moment of silence.” 

Most everyone did in remembrance of the Kharon Incident last year. Even one of the infiltrators, a young woman with blue hair, Sonya Alkes took a deep breath to steel herself for the mission ahead. 

But the mission leader strode forward among the bowed heads.  

“Only cowards pray before the gates of Hell.”

They wore their face masks. If they stood out, it was as foreigners during flu season, raising only the hackles of the most conservative, but a space port was a place for foreigners even during these war-stricken times and the war lingered in the distance, among the starlight, a supernova of great destruction that for those at the viewing screen, looking out into the cosmos, was almost beautiful, a backdrop to their days.

“And remember,” the PA concluded, “if you see something, say something.”

A common misconception is that shuttles, stations, colonies need to be airtight to survive the vacuum of space. While that is functionally true--the little air leaking out does not endanger denizens--it is not absolutely true. The same principle applied to security. Blind spots existed and hampering travelers with excessive protocol was bad for business, so ports opted for a theater of security. A sign that said “Employees Only” would deter the weak-willed, but without a keypad, those that came on a mission just had to glance this way and that, then step through. 

The corridors led from the civilian access port to the military, where security was eased because soldiers had been vetted before enlistment. In the main hangar, a fighter had been disassembled to a puzzle-piece sphere with the main turbine out on blocks. The shielding stripped. Parts exposed. And repairman stepped away to eat his lunch. He glanced at a nigh illegible maintenance request form for fixing the arm of a collector before tossing it into the pile. He had examined it yesterday. It was fine.  

The emtact, MTCT, military traffic control tower had dark windows. Not just tinted, but unattended. 

A call came in. 

A light switched on.

The sleepy ensign Lisa Maldoon slapped her face. Tested out her voice. Then answered. “DMS emtact. Call sign. Over.”

Silence lingered a moment and just as thoughts of her nap returned, the distant vessel replied, “UEC Defense Force escort carrier Scorpio en route to Ceres. Over…”

“…Purpose for dock? Over…”

“…Refuel and pick-up. Over…”

“…Transmit logs. ETA? Over…”

“…49 hours. Over… 

“…Roger. Over and out.”

It was the worst part of her shift. Shortly after a spacecraft entered detection range, transmissions took 1.22 minutes to cross the vast expanse. 1.22 minutes there, 1.22 minutes back. And once answered, like someone performing CPR, the operator was obligated to stay until all signs of life went quiet for good. The ensign went back to sleep.  

The busiest sector in this port was shielding. That needed constant attention. 

An asteroid the size of a grapefruit—manageable, low-energy—disintegrated before reaching the titanium coating. The shield, otherwise invisible, flickered when activated and the color depended largely on the metal ions present in the asteroid moving to an unstable, excited state. Copper: green. Strontium: red. Potassium: purple. Science teachers felt equal excitement demonstrating since they got to play with fire. This grapefruit flickered yellow: iron. 

Drones orbited the colony, armed with lasers and an emergency explosive ordinance. Their patrol detected no threats large enough to activate defense protocols, but once in a blue moon, a large asteroid turned up that needed to be broken into manageable, low-energy chunks.

“Goddamn litterbugs!” a new engineer cried as the data logger in his hands fried from overuse.

The real plight of laborers was pollution. 

Stray space waste lit one of hundreds of pale dots on a graph, charted by an arbitrary Earth-centric time or the objective place in orbit. Certain sections of the orbit had dense groupings of dots, and while a single piece of junk required no more attention than a single fruit fly, a swarm was an annoyance. Last week’s orbital position was officially called a series of long, boring coordinates but among the engineering staff, was collectively known as Tie-Dye Hell. Pretty. Sparkly. And a nightmare of overtime. 

“Cheer up, guy.”

“Cheer up?” The grouchy engineer took up his wrench in singed, bandaged hands to smack the supervising mentor with. “Why the hell should I cheer up?”

“Think of the paycheck.”

His expression softened to one already a little drunk off celebration. 

Time-and-a-half or no, as shield surgeons reached seniority, they requested for cushier positions like emtact. The high turnover meant unfamiliar faces keeping the colony safe. 

“Hey, you.” The supervisor snapped her fingers, trying to grab the attention of a newbie. ”Fetch another data logger from maintenance.”

“Data logger?” he asked.

“In the bird cage.”

He looked around. “Bird cage?” He looked to Sonya who also shrugged.

The supervisor slapped her forehead. “I’ll get it myself.” 

She walked down the corridor, past a trash can overflowing with recyclables that when not properly sorted wound up giving Shielding more overtime and normally she’d do something about it, but not today. If she had, she’d have discovered the infiltrators’ civilian disguises buried beneath.

Every step after reaching shielding was a trade. A dollar for 2 quarters. 2 quarters for 3 dimes. 4 nickels. 5 pennies. Those pennies in the machines. Sudden maintenance. 

Then sneaking away in the cover of a rolling blackout. 

~

HOOK 2

As Sam carried his three-legged dachshund into the hall, he heard voices by the elevator. From the tone, clearly friendly chit-chat between long-time acquaintances, perhaps even friends, but he didn’t have his translator tapped on. He stopped to consider.

With the long day of paperwork he just had, with the earlier reprimand for filling it out incorrectly, with Sushi in his arms, Sam left it off. 

“So cute,” the short and athletic guy said. Sam had heard the phrase enough to understand it. 

The tall woman pushed up her glasses and said something like, “You think he’s handsome?” 

“Mhmm.” 

They couldn’t see Sushi’s prosthesis. 

Sam had seen them around. He assumed the two were dating. Always together, leaning on one another, heading into the same 50 square meter apartment—too tight of living quarters for friends. All three lived on floor 40, but their schedules didn’t really overlap. Mostly they ran into each other on nights like tonight where they were taking out his bag of trash & her box of recycling, and Sam had Sushi. 

He smiled to be polite, but they only saw his eyebrows scrunch up since he was in a mask, beanie, and sunglasses. If they commented on his flu season protection, strange on this colony, it wasn’t with any words he knew off the top of his head, but they continued to chat amongst themselves.

The elevator arrived. Everyone got in. The man held the door open button until Sam was in. 

“One?” the guy asked. 

He nodded. 

The guy pressed the 1 button then B1 then let Sushi sniff him—Lee Ji-Ming, 32, First City native, 3 tours, senior airman.  

The dog averted his eyes and shuddered when the stranger pet him. A long whine let loose. He nestled deeper in Sam’s arms, settling by the time the affection stopped. 

The woman pushed the door close button—Tele’ktrides C. Lee, 37, Second City native, weapons R&D, team leader.  

As the elevator descended, they were rocked by a sudden KA-CHUNK!

Rubber soles slapped the ground. 

Everyone looked to the door then each other. 

The collective thought that broke language barriers was, “Are we going to die?” followed immediately by “What should we do?” but the elevator soon started down again and somehow, having had the warning of the first drop, the second surprised everyone more—KA-CHUNK!—and Tele’ktrides box of cans scattered across the floor. 

Emergency brakes engaged immediately and though the drop felt like a few meters, a few centimeters was more realistic. The display said they were on floor 39 and in the local alphabet, ERROR. 

Ji-Ming pried open the doors to reveal they were between floors as the top half of the elevator was open to the 40th floor, marked by signage, but the bottom showed a shaft too small to squeeze into. 

Sam remembered a dream like this. In it, he had tossed Sushi out thinking it’d save the dog, but as he had tossed the dog, the elevator went into freefall, the lights went out, and because it was a dream, they had impossibly survived the crash but as the red emergency lights flicked on, Sam saw Sushi cut in two, down to a single front leg, whimpering, betrayed, and he desperately tried to apply pressure to the poor pup’s missing hindquarters. 

It was not a recurring dream. He’d had it once, back when nightmares were new, and yet it stuck with him, rearing its ugly head even during rare moments of tranquility and that ugly head now grinned with delight that the premonition seemed reality. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam cooed to the pup. The two seemed to tremble at the same frequency as he stroked his back, slowly, firmly, letting the dog hear his words through touch. “You know, it’s actually a good thing. We’ll get down much faster this way.”

The two strangers exchanged quizzical glances. Dogs don’t get dark humor, and neither do cochlear translators. 

“Did he just say…?”

Ji-Ming nodded.

Despite his attempts to soothe the boy, the anxiety must have been evident on Sam’s face, because a comforting hand touched his shoulder, grounding him as he did the dog. Ji-Ming said in English, “Should we crawl out?”

Sam slapped his ear in a fit, slamming his translator deeper in as it tapped on. “No!” 

“That’s correct,” the woman said. Tele’ktrides pressed the big yellow Emergency Call button. An alarm sounded. A voice broadcast in several languages that all got translated, imperfectly in their ears, to something like, “Stay where you are. Help is coming. Don’t worry.” 

“Guess we wait,” the guy said. “I’ve seen you around a few times, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so!” 

A thin disguise of politeness. Sam stood out on this colony. His muddled appearance relayed that he was human and little else of his ancestry on Earth, compared to here where not-so-distant segregation had led to a starker contrast in skin tones. This couple might feel judgmental eyes on them as the man’s parentage received privileged treatment that he still reaped the benefits from while the woman still felt the sting of prejudice in outdated laws. Regardless of their personal beliefs, he stood out as an individual as much as they stood out as a couple and there was no ignoring that. 

“You can call me Eddie if it’s easier.” His accent was thick and Sam realized it was because Ji-Ming was speaking rusty English and the translator wasn’t doing any work. 

“Tele’ktrides,” the woman said. She kept to the colony French. “Are you one of the recent cadets?”

Sam shook his head. “Collector. For about 3 months.” 

Ji-Ming’s eyes went up and over as he tried to recall when he first saw Sam, closer to 5 months prior, and the pieces started to snap in place when they heard a THUNK! overhead. 

The maintenance access panel opened and a bright young face popped into view—Jean Beaumont, 26, Second City native, repair person. “Hey, folks! Don’tcha worry. We’ll have you two out of here in a jiffy,” they said. “Oh, it’s you two! I don’t know you, though. But your puppy!” If Jean were a cartoon, their eyes would have turned to hearts. “Are they okay? They’re very cute. They don’t bite, right? I’ll just stay up here and admire from afar but tell them the next head-pat is from me--THANK YOU!” 

As quickly as they popped into view, they popped out, their flash of red hair trailing behind them, and the sounds of tools on the metal roof echoed in the elevator. 

“It’s okay,” Ji-Ming said, clearly calming Tele’ktrides down, but not from the adrenaline-fueled fear, but from a boiling resentment of this buffoon. “Give them a chance.” 

“Oops!” A tool scraped the outer wall before it plummeted down the shaft. 

“Another chance.”

“How many do they need? They flunked out of grease monkey duty on base after their half-assed repairs nearly got you sucked out of an air-lock and now our lives are in their hands--again. It has to be intentional.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Maybe it’s an assassination that’ll look like an accident.”

Sushi began to whimper at all the stimulus--tools falling, mag-boots, feuding, and Sam squeezing too tightly. Tele’ktrides took an intentionally audible deep breath and shut up. 

Ji-Ming said to Sam, “These power outages happen occasionally. You’re just not usually in an elevator when they do.” 

Jean called down, “Actually, it’s city-wide. Maybe Second City, too.”

The couple exchanged looks. 

Sam noted it, but took it as a bad sign.  

A building outage was just the result of crappy repairs, complements of hiring a flunkie. A block outage was an easily-fixed fault in the grid. City-wide could only be the result of space debris making it through the barrier and the astronomical odds having a grudge against shield surgeons. But the electrical gr-id had separate blocks for situations like that. One goes out, another reroutes power to critical systems, and the lights go dim but stay on. If it was the whole colony… 

Was this Kharon all over again?

“Two muffins are sitting in an oven,” Sam whispered to Sushi. “One says, ‘Wow, it’s hot in here.’ The other yells, ‘Oh my god! A talking muffin!’” 

Sushi didn’t laugh.

Tele’ktrides didn’t either. 

Jean peeked down amid sparks. 

Ji-Ming chuckled, his eyes nervously darting to his partner then to Sam in the corner who leaned on the hand rail. Without it, there’d be no other reason Sam’s shaking legs supported him. Touch was no longer enough. 

The main lights flicked back on the and the alarm went silent. That emergency message turned to one of cheer. Jean hopped through the access panel and undid their belay line, which shot up the shaft, dinging the rim. They must’ve been wrong about the Second City. Nothing so widespread would get fixed that fast.

“Thanks, Jean,” Ji-Ming said while Tele’ktrides turned away.

The elevator stopped at the 12th floor. The short ride was smooth as butter, but everyone got off except Jean. “Should be all good. We have a form in the lobby for you to fill out and if you could give me 5 stars, it’d really help me... Where you going, Tele’ktrides?”

“Stairs.” 

“Don’t bother with that! It’s fixed.”

She didn’t stop. 

Jean reached toward Sushi and he turned his snout up to sniff their hand which frightened Jean into yanking it away which frightened Sushi into burying himself into Sam’s arms. 

“I need the exercise, too,” Sam said so Jean wouldn’t be uncomfortable in an enclosed elevator with a trembling wiener dog. 

“Thanks, bud.” Ji-Ming pat Jean on the back, but already torn as Tele’ktrides left, he saw Sam go, too. “I guess I should as well, but you did great work—as always!” 

In the windowed stairwell, Sam gathered that Jean had apparently restarted the building’s systems before the AI had been able to. Probably by by-passing a few critical diagnostic checks that would almost certainly turn up green but were still there for a reason. Back-up generators and emergency personal lights dotted the First City. The streets were especially visible as cars fell into an algorithm of stopping at the flashing traffic lights. No scarlet dome rose from the horizon and Sam suspected Second City had indeed been hit as well. 

An early dark inspires nightmares. Ancient people died of shock upon witnessing an eclipse. Sam was not so primitive, but those overprotective instincts were, so perhaps that was why, out the window, he at least thought he saw a silhouette falling from the roof. 

No. 

Not falling, not a loose piece of paneling that spelled the doom of this colony, too. It descended too controlled for a fall. 

A landing.  

While he parsed the information, Tele’ktrides heard the door open, footsteps, and from half a flight below, yelled a bit hushed, “What the hell were you doing speaking English--” She stopped upon spotting Sam looking startled. “Apologies.”

Ji-Ming made it in time to watch a wave of lights roll through a dark city. He rushed toward Sam then seemed to usher him quicker toward his girlfriend so the trio could walk as a group.

Jean’s footsteps echoed in the stairs above them, opting for the company on the long trek down than an elevator ride alone. They did, however, stay a floor above Sushi, rushing down then stopping to let Sam get further then rushing more and repeating. 

By the time Sam saw out the next window, the silhouette was a figment of his imagination. There was no more dark. He couldn’t remember the shape or where it supposedly other than generally in the forest by the mountain where no one would witness it. 

He let the thought go—as much as he could. 

~

Tele’ktrides continued down to B1 with her remaining recycling, having left the top layer of aluminum cans in the elevator, but Sam, Jean, and Ji-Ming went to the security guard at the front desk. She spoke gruffly to Jean, “Rooftop needs you.” 

They hurried back to the stairwell, leaping up the first six in two steps. 

“Elevator, Jean,” she said with a sigh. 

One big hop down.

Ji-Ming mulled over the maintenance survey like a final exam and Sam wondered how long it’d take. His arms ached from holding Sushi for now 30 minutes of panic or stair climbing, but finally Ji-Ming signed it SrA Lee Ji-Ming and took the dog from Sam, quickly finding a paddle point that eased the poor boy’s trepidation while Sam took the stylus. The survey amounted to a few basic comments then some ratings. It took Sam 10 seconds. 

The entrance to the building faced a parallel entrance and the cigarette butt-filled courtyard between buildings with sparse plantings of grass and a symmetrical saplings propped up by stakes led to the shopping center to the right or a distant park to the left—where Sam took Sushi most mornings, nights, and afternoons he wasn’t working. It had quite a few people out for strolls or bike rides or similarly walking their own dogs. 

However, to the left was also the dumpsters if you took another left into the alleyway by the building—where Ji-Ming was headed. 

Adrenaline has a strange nature to it, in that as it recedes, it leaves a person, however shy, traumatized, or generally anti-social, craving bonding. So Sushi, not feeling this, automatically headed toward the park and felt only the harness tug at him to go a strange direction full of strange smells. Sam had not intended to follow Ji-Ming but they’d been together so long already and there hadn’t been an explicit goodbye so his feet moved on their own as the two chatted. Ji-Ming threw his bag into the pile and stood with the two lost puppy dogs, giving them the attention they all needed after that experience. 

“What happened?” When Sam was filling out the form, Ji-Ming had felt the prosthesis. But politeness meant asking later. Later was now. “Dogs never get the good ones unless you’re filthy rich. Lawyers, CEOs, arms dealers. Soldiers might be dogs of the government, but they still fit us with the latest and greatest.” 

He twitched his pointer and ring finger on his left hand. The movement was sharp and more to the point, the other fingers didn’t move. Complete isolation. 

“SrA?” Sam asked. 

“Senior Airman. Military rank probably holds more sway on the survey, and Jean does deserve someone pulling for them.” 

The Deimos colony was a part of the United Earth Colony Federation, but in name only. They were safely within the middle of the middle rings. The Goldilocks of Goldilocks. No active conflicts anywhere near here. No lucrative mining operations. 

“Why are there military here?”

“Ask the brains of the operation. Sit!” he said to Sushi. “Dogs don’t know what orders mean. They just know how to get a treat. But it’s a cush assignment. Early morning runs and weekend drills. Otherwise, border patrol, policing, colony repairs, and Tele’ktrides is Randy.”

The lewd lingo threw Sam, some friendly hazing.

“R and D. Research and development.” He started lighting up a cigarette, but the wind fought him. 

“Does that mean she’s the ‘brains of the operation?’”

“Ha! I wish.” He turned his back to the alley entrance and finally got his light. “One day. One bright, sunny day after the long dark.”

“What kind of research?” 

Tele’ktrides appeared around the corner. “Sharing that would be treason.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam snapped out of his auto-pilot and realized he had followed a stranger into a dark alley and was sandwiched between another stranger, the first’s partner, and not only that, they were dressed for a date. Sam was the tag-along, playing third wheel, and apparently asking them to commit treason. 

“No harm done. Civilians often ask how their tax dollars might murder others,” she said. “Should we go?” 

“Where you headed, Sam?” Beyond the park was a set of restaurants the couple liked and often couldn’t decide between until they got a whiff of the specials. That’d decide their craving. “Walk with us.”

Tele’ktrides took a deep, calming breath as she looked at her husband with a strained but familiar expression. “Only if you want.” 

“Either we’ll awkwardly walk near each other or we can make some new friends.” 

Sam looked to Tele’ktrides for a sign. 

She nodded. “He’s hard to argue with.”

They walked past some construction of a new apartment building rumored to cost so much per month that only two neurosurgeons cohabitating could afford the rent. Sam, who purchased blackout curtains to sleep in until his afternoon shift, often woke up at 6:00 am to the sound of hammers.  

“Have you met many people yet?” Ji-Ming asked. 

“I mostly stay in. Work, home, Sushi.”

“You really like fish, huh? But sushi does sound good right now. My treat if you want to join us for some.”

“They won’t let a dog into the restaurant,” Tele’ktrides reminded him. 

“There’s outdoor seating. Or we can get it to-go and have a picnic in the woods!” 

Tele’ktrides’s glare again.  

“My dog’s name is Sushi.”

“Aww.” Sushi had been on the far side of Sam, always a step behind. Perhaps the dog’s fear was eased by the newfound kinship of Sam and them, so when the soldier squat down to give pets, Sushi let him, then walked between the two instead.

Then they reached the corner that Sam had never tread beyond. Turn here and reach the park. Go another few blocks, turn right, and that accessed the spaceport where Sam worked. Another block beyond that was the grocery store and the final corner to Sam’s territory, a comfortable rectangle with everything he needed. 

But the two were heading the other way and while conversation wasn’t stellar--his fault--it scratched a long-standing itch. 

There were trees that way, too, a lot in the woods around the mountain, and there were restaurants with new smells and probably messages left by other dogs and most immediate, that direction had a few minutes longer with his new acquaintances, maybe even friends.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said as he turned toward his usual route. 

Ji-Ming, through a subtle set of questions, drawing on his own memory for other evidence, had been on the cusp of an epiphany since floor 40—an epiphany that Sam feared.

~

The couple chose outdoor seats, but not for fish. Their new furry contact turned them off, momentarily, to sushi, and instead they opted for warm oxtail soup on the chilly evening. Their table had the perfect view of the mirrors as they angled away the sunlight and the day came to a rest. The mirrors perhaps mimicked the day cycle, but the mirrors were functional and the sun divine. Maybe one day they’d see a real sunset together. 

“What if he had accepted?” she asked. 

He rubbed the scar on her knuckle, drawing her back to an old memory, first bitter then sweet, when while dissecting the rotor of a defunct, early model starfighter, her pristine knuckle caught on a bolt. She wanted to shake it off and keep working, but while shaking, a droplet splashed on the canopy he had just polished. He hopped down from the ladder and stuck her hand in his armpit. It kind of worked at applying pressure while he fetched liquid stitches from the medkit. Bitter, sweet, and a little smelly. They’d been married two years at that time. “Then we’d excuse ourselves for some alone time.”

They smiled across the table.

“He just seemed like he needed a friend. And almost getting dropped from an elevator, that’s scary for most people in their bubble-wrapped lives.”

They finished their soup. Ji-Ming summoned his comm’s AI assistant. “Pronoia, can dogs safely gnaw on oxtail?” 

Cooked bones might splinter so, against Tele’ktrides wishes, he talked to kitchen staff for some raw ones that they had to charge him for, but the bag was full of about ten full of marrow, then the two headed off. 

According to CCTV footage on the street, after finishing their meal, the two turned right to walk hand-in-hand to her one-room, off-base apartment and even the building footage, doorbell’s camera, and keypad log showed the same. 

But those would be discrepancies with reality. 

They turned off their comms.

Deep in the woods, a woman tugged on her face mask painted orange by the light of the small fire. 

Tele’ktrides wiped her brow. 

“Nice weather for camping.”

“If you’re okay with the cold.”

The new woman said in a sharp tone, “You’re late. Kill a deer en route?”

“They’re for a friend’s dog,” Ji-Ming said. 

“Shouldn’t be making friends here,” their contact said. 

Tele’ktrides gave her a flash drive. “If all goes as planned, this will save the colony.”

“And they’ll hate you for it. How soon do we move?”

“They’re doing final diagnostics tomorrow, so the first test flight is slated for the day after, off colony of course. Pick-up arrives in 47 hours. That’s our window.”

“During test?” 

“Before.”

~

As Sam lay in bed, his dreams spilled over to reality. The sound of collapsing buildings, that cacophony of voices and materials crashing into one another, were confused by the erection of the new apartment building next door. 

Breathe. 

“Deucalion,” he called and his phone lit up as well as the AI panel on the wall. “Time.”

Deep breath. 

“7:06 on a bright sunny morning. Would you like to hear headlines?”

Sushi jumped from the spare pillow on the floor to bed, then settled in the same coiled dragon position he always did, his fluffy tail draped over his nose. 

“No. Lights on. Curtains up. Music.”

Some generic background music played, harkening back to spring in a meadow with birds chirping and apparently strumming a harp. 

He could not settle. 

“Deucalion. Call police non-emergency number.”

The dream was familiar. Except for the not-falling silhouette. 

The convincingly human operator listed several options. Personal extension. Press inquiry. Case inquiry. Appointments. Tip line. 

“Tip line.”

“Please leave your name, address, and contact information along with any relevant information to an open case or suspicious activity and an officer will get back to you.” 

Sam remembered a similar message when he first arrived on Deimos. The hospital said they’d contact him with test results and clearance to exit quarantine, but they never did, and every attempt to contact them had him leaving a similar message that went returned. 

It was probably nothing. 

“Remember, if you see something, say something.”

But due diligence. 

~

*Some dazzling description of the vastness of space*

Infinite and open. The vastness of space stretches on to this day. Humanity, as humanity does, continues to consume all that is before it. Manifest Destiny. But even our insatiable appetite is meaningless before infinity. One day, civilization will reach so far that a child might be born en route and die before ever seeing the edge of our own borders, and yet, the stars that light our night are even further beyond that. It is painful yet beautiful silence. 

When an alarm sounded.

A piece of junk pinged off the rear camera panel. Was that an egg carton?  

The three-axes of the debris collector spun and for veteran pilots, they felt the whirl and steadied their eyes on the panel ahead of them and went about their business, but for Sam, even after three months in this ball, he gripped the throttle’s foam pads till he felt bones. The mask hooked up to his face, feeding out through his helmet into a waste collection pack, kept the expensive—if outdated—cockpit controls clean and working, but the tube still reeked of old nausea, further sending him back to his first, soul-suckingly embarrassing day in training when of the three candidates, he’d been the only one to vomit. 

Yet here he was. 

Because of that? 

Had the other candidates, immigrants recently released from quarantine as well, been rewarded with less twirling, whirling work and the one with the weak stomach been punished in an attempt to train it out of him? 

No. 

When he steadied, when his eyes focused, when the tide in his throat ebbed, Deucalion was still running analysis on material and orbital trajectory of the swarm of debris. He had collected junk that would be useful to recycling, the raw materials going to the plant, melted down and made again into junk that’d wind up here. Factoring in how long the recycling process took, time on the shelf waiting for purchase, the forgettable instant it was chucked in the trash, the 487 days of orbit, he’d be out here collecting it again in some form in two years. Then again in four, ten. Twenty if he lasted that long.  

Sam waited for permission. 

The main screen changed. 

What reflected on the screen was the same vision he saw, but his eyes were closed. He was no longer, Sam, rookie of the year space janitor, but at one with the bit drones in his territory. The drones locked onto the largest pieces of trash. Their single dot lasers fired. Space debris now space dust. 

Space is infinite. But the space around us is not.

An alarm.

His shift was up.

Nausea returned as he returned to the sickening, aged smell of his helmet. 

~

Third party? ISF scene? 

~

Sam took a taxi to the military base, but the car wasn’t allowed past a certain point by signage or its programming, and he walked the last bit near the chain-link fence. He gawked at the expected vignettes of military life. 

Soldiers ran laps in sharp formation, chanting with bravado between breaths. Beyond the corner, a firing range aimed at the broadside of the mountain. Stray shots might hit a squirrel, but that was just protein. 

Beyond those superficial necessities for military life, the design of the base stuck out. On some colonies, the military base was like a Third City with home supply stores and restaurants and suburbs. You could find kids in the park. Movie theaters played the latest hits.  

However, on Deimos, the base reminded Sam of an industrial complex. The ugly aesthetic of function. Every building laid out on a grid. A candy cane-striped smoke stack piped toxic fumes into the infinity outside the colony. Four water tower-type structures were marked with a series of warnings. A transport vehicle parked against one with a polytetrafluoroethylene hose hooked up. It was slightly translucent and whatever dark liquid inside had stopped flowing, but the driver waited for the dregs that might disintegrate, drop by drop if, the outer coating of the colony if protocol was ignored, until finally she could drive along oddly wide roads, hauling her trailer to a building designated by an alphabet. To civilians, each letter on a near-identical building meant nothing, but to inhabitants, the difference was obvious.

The fence became a vestibule with a guard booth inside. A camera scanned for license plates and would open automatically for the guard to then check credentials and wave them past the boom barrier. 

When Sam approached, in his usual flu season get-up: face mask, beanie, and sunglasses, the guard approached. The pattern of chains separated them and while this guard had no weapon in hand, a guard standing at the far gate was armed with a rifle. Sam felt her eyes, too. 

“Identification.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Sam said. 

“Civilian ID,” he barked with a commanding gruffness that sent Sam into a panic of patting his pockets to find it. He handed it over without a thought. “Remove your face coverings.” 

First his sunglasses.

Then his hat.

His dark hair had natural highlights. 

Then a pause.

Then he started to do his mask, when the soldier nodded that that was enough.

“What’s your business on base?”

Sam hadn’t really thought about it. And definitely not how to explain it. He sputtered, “Um, I—well…” while he prepared it in his head. “I’m looking for someone named Ji-Ming. Eddie, maybe. Airman. Senior airman. He lives in my building.”

The soldier stayed silent as a short-range radio on his shoulder buzzed with background noise. Low, whispering voices not directed at this soldier but another one elsewhere. Finally the static-masked voice rose to an intelligible level. “Senior Airman Lee is in recreation.”

“Samwise Nuwim at the gate.”

“He’d just know it as Sam.”

“Sam.”

Low voices again before the gate separating the soldier and bundle of nerves slid slowly along a rickety track and Sam was looking the soldier in the eye. He remained silent but returned Sam’s ID.   

“Can I go in?” 

“Wait for escort.”

~

Ji-Ming threw his arm around Sam as they walked deeper into the base. He peeked over their shoulders before shaking his head. “Security these days. But it’s good to see you.”

After the pleasantries, there was a noticeable silence between them as they continued the walk. He was a bit sweaty from double-timing it over, but the colony fans blew a nice breeze today. 

“Was I expecting—did we make plans?”

Sam shook his head. 

“I’m happy to give you a tour. At least of the visitor friendly section. How about some lunch? It ain’t great but that’s part of the fun.” 

“I saw something.” Sam’s feet moved on auto-pilot and before he realized it, his escort’s friendly arm no longer draped across his shoulders. 

“Gonna need you to be more specific than that.” Ji-Ming’s tone changed. “This isn’t a friend-thing, is it?” 

“There are just all these posters and announcements these days—’See something, say something,’ right?” Sam was suddenly feeling very silly. 

A blackout? 

A shadow? 

A dream? 

And he was making reports like he stumbled on some conspiracy. It was arrogance to think two monumental events would happen in his vicinity. “Forget it. I should go. It was probably nothing.”

“Let me be the judge. Pronoia, voice recording.” His wrist watch had a red light and the screen showed the sound waves rise and fall with his each sound. “This is United Earth Colony Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming on Deimois military base with Samwise Nuwim. Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine.”

“Tell me what happened.” 

Sam recounted the blackout last night and the elevator and taking the stairs. “It was end of the day so only a little natural light and everything else was dark and I thought I saw a shadow fall into the woods. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something. But it looked controlled. Like a landing. Or something, I don’t know. I called the police department this morning and left similar information, but who knows how many tips they get.” 

A long pause as Ji-Ming waited.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Probably nothing.” 

“Any specific place it touched down? Mountain-side? City-side?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of it when we kept heading down.” 

“It won’t hurt to check it out. I’ll report this immediately to superiors. Pronoia, stop recording.” The wrist watch screen faded to standby. The soldier’s tone was back to friendly apartment dweller. “And it’s always nice to get off base.”

“Should I submit a written report or anything?” 

“Not necessary, but if you want a paper trail in addition to the recording, we can arrange that. We’ll have to ask around for a notary. Might take a bit, but if you want.”

“No, the recording’s fine. I should go.”

“What about lunch? I can’t promise it’s good, but that’s half the fun for civilians. Freeze-dried ice cream,” Ji-Ming said in an attempt to tempt. 

~

How little the third shift meant during arbitrary time, and yet, even for debris collectors, it was the least desirable position. Instinctual lethargy dragging their movement down. And though data showed that rare accidents happened equally across shifts, it was widely known that strange things happened at the witching hour. 

Each member had a name for their collector Ball, and as even Balls were expensive, the dozen of Balls used by the first shift were the same dozen used by the second shift and so each Ball had several names depending on the pilot. 

“Macbeth 7 reporting a reading past perimeter.” 

It was just Junie in the dispatch room, staring at the feed of the remaining collectors as well as last year’s charts. Without closeness of drifting debris or the data coordinates transmitted, the feed would be black dotted by starlight. Whether the pilot was moving at all was hard to parse, and even the faded green numbers in the corner relaying vitals, coordinates, and the like fell to background noise. The first transport carrying 1 through 5 had already begun docking procedures, a bit early, but with paperwork and clean-up, it’d even out. 

She wheeled her desk chair over to Station 4 for a better look at the reading. It wasn’t on a collision course. It wasn’t in the way of the docks. And it was too far for a proper reading of elemental composition. She made a note of it on the chart for next year. 

“There’s no overtime,” radio replied. 

“Too big to ignore.” 

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

If this maverick pilot took too long, it delayed 6 through 12 from docking on time, they took longer with paperwork, and then Junie is stuck sitting around when she was supposed to be on a pancake breakfast date with Nic.

“You could be the goddamn Red Star of Deimos after this but you’re still not getting an extra cent.”

7 Comms went silent. 

She reported it to the other Balls and the transport pilots, who groaned.

7 Comms stayed silent.  

“Well?” Junie buzzed impatiently. The reading had intrigued her as nothing was listed on the previous chart. 

“En route! Hold your horses.”

Junie put a remote headpiece on to take with her as she fetched coffee, certain she’d late now. But remote work always went silly in the break room and it’d been too long since last report. 

“7, report?”

Nothing.

“What’d you find?”

No answer.

“Macbeth 7, do you copy?”

Impatience gave way to dread.

“Nic! Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.” 

The feed for Macbeth 7 cut then returned then cut again. 

“Still out. Get back here and we’ll requisition repairs. Repeat. Return to colony for repairs, Macbeth 7. Return ASAP. Macbeth 7, come back to base and we’ll have pancakes. Macbeth 7!” 

~

Tele’ktrides ran her diagnostics, waiting for the results to compile into a 3D image she’d seen a dozen times in various shades. A new actuator here, a different circuit there, an algorithmically upgraded AMPSystem that even at a slowed pace made only partial sense to her. No one could explain it. 

The software engineers had made the testers. The testers had ran infinite number of fledgling AI through an infinite number of data points. The AI who passed made other fledgling AI who were run through improved tests. And so on, into infinity, until all tests were aced and they had the AMPSystem. 

The screen she stared so intently at suddenly turned from code to a friendly, smiling face of home. 

“Dinner tonight,” Ji-Ming called her comm. 

“Did we have plans?”

“No.” His voice was not smiling. 

~

*Operator yells at Sam for approaching perimeter, which is 75% today due to third shift incident. 

Sam heads just beyond to 80%, seeing that same strange reading, and gets yelled at but turns off comms long enough to grab something.

Sam returns with a bit drone of Macbeth 7. Tries to get optical data from it. There aren’t any traditional cameras on it, but the sensors paint some sort of picture that he can sense an image from. The heat map shows him hostile activity. But no one believes him. Returns to base.*

NaNoWriMo 2020

I waited to post about this until I had a few days under my belt because there’s nothing worse than talking about plans that never come to fruition. People lose confidence in you. You grow frustrated with your own lack of follow-through. It’s a bad cycle.

Will it happen again?

Fingers crossed, no.

40K words is the threshold for a novel. 2,000 words a day, 5 days a week, 21 weekdays in November equals 42K.

Each Saturday at midnight, I’ll post what I have for that week.