《A World As Yet Unnamed》 PROLOGUE PROLOGUE Two figures looked out through the lichen-encrusted cave entrance at the darkening sky. ¡®Ready?¡¯ said one. ¡®Um,¡¯ said the other. A moment passed. ¡®You don¡¯t sound very ready,¡¯ said the first. ¡®Well, it¡¯s just¡­ you know.¡¯ ¡®I know. But the hard part is over. All we have to do now is¡­¡¯ ¡®Wait?¡¯ ¡®For want of a better word. But listen, if I''m right,¡¯ said the first, ¡®and this goes according to plan, then from our point of view no time will pass at all. All that will happen is that someone will suddenly show up in the cave entrance there. That, or everyone in the world except us will suddenly die.¡¯ ¡®Um,¡¯ said the second again. ¡®Only one of those sounds okay.¡¯ Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡®It might not be as bad as it sounds,¡¯ replied the first. ¡®Oh, or the other possibility is that the world just ends without us realising.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said the second. ¡®Er. Well, um. Righty-ho, I suppose. Er. In for a penny.¡¯ ¡®In for a penny?¡¯ said the first, the single raised eyebrow somehow audible in the darkness. ¡®Mm-hm.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re aware these may be your last words?¡¯ ¡®Sorry. It¡¯s hard to know what to say.¡¯ ¡®Let¡¯s just get on with it then. This is it. Last chance to turn back.¡¯ ¡®Nope,¡¯ replied the second figure immediately. ¡®I¡¯ve said my goodbyes, and I meant them.¡¯ ¡®Alright then.¡¯ The first figure drew in a breath. Baggy sleeves rustled in the darkness. Arms began to move in arcane patterns. ¡®Wait, wait,¡¯ said the second figure. The rustling stopped. ¡®Just for clarity. If this ends with us the only two people left alive, does that mean...¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ said the first pointedly. ¡®Well¡­ not to labour the point or anything, but shouldn''t we agree in advance what we''ll do if that is what happens?¡¯ The first figure paused. ¡®Is there any point?¡¯ it said after some thought. ¡®In that scenario, with no one else around to pass judgement, I don¡¯t think I¡¯d feel bound to honour the agreement anyway.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said the second figure. ¡®Well hang on, that¡¯s not very-¡¯ ¡®Let''s just hope it doesn''t come to that,¡¯ snapped the first. ¡®Oh. Fine, I suppose,¡¯ said the second, with perhaps a barely-detectable hint of umbrage. ¡®Don¡¯t grump over it. Imagine if we did make some... pact to¡­ or whatever, and then this actually turns out well and there are lots of other people and everything''s fine.¡¯ ¡®Mmmm.¡¯ ¡®Could be awkward.¡¯ ¡®Oh, right! I see. Well, yes, in that case. Very sensible. Right then; just, fingers crossed and hope for the best, eh!¡¯ ¡®Shush now,¡¯ said the first. ¡®Let me concentrate.¡¯ Sleeves rustled some more. The sun winked out. 1: Marco Much, much, much later¡­ The sea Not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Marco- Doomp. Doomp. Closer and closer, each thud louder and clearer than the last. In the cold, cramped darkness of his hiding place, Marco Almacello closes his eyes as he allows his ears to take in the noises of the ship around him. Sound replaces sight. It paints pictures in his mind¡­ Doomp. Doomp. Pictures of thick-soled, heavy boots on polished oak planks; pictures of hairy, grotesquely-muscled legs rising from those boots; of a grizzly, brutal-looking torso, shirtless, idly swinging murderous arms as it wanders the deck. From the torso emerges a silhouetted head that passes from the shadows into the light of a flaming torch, revealing a face full of danger and violence. In Marco¡¯s imagination that face grins as it snatches away the tarpaulin, exposing him, and the weapon-like arms reach down, grip his flimsy body and tear it like wet paper¡­ Doomp. Doomp. Louder. Closer. Breathe, he reminds himself. Calm down. Focus. He is here for a purpose. Curled up in a miserable, shivering ball, with no clothes but a flimsy dark loincloth to protect him from the frigid sea air, his spine aching from hours spent immobile in the cold, he clenches his teeth against the rising panic. He knows that if he is caught, they will kill him. The Polity, on whose ship he has concealed himself, are merciless even on land, in the heart of civilisation. Here, at sea, on their ship, so far from anyone who might help him, and so dangerously close to the heart of their secrets¡­ Doomp. Doomp. He tries to calm himself but with each thud of the sentry¡¯s footsteps his heart, already beating so hard he feels sure the approaching figure must hear it, quickens. Doomp. Doomp. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet. If he detonates now, this close to shore, the blast will surely be heard from the docks. A rescue party will be sent. The wreckage of the ship will be salvaged, survivors hauled from the sea. The evil he is here to extinguish will recover and live on. His death will be for nothing. Doomp. Doomp. But if he waits¡ªif he can hold his nerve until they are far enough out to sea that no help will come¡ªthen the explosives with which he shares this freezing little crevice will rip the whole damned ship apart and send it to the bottom of the sea forever, along with him, the death-deserving Polity crew, the prisoners in the hold¡­ ¡­and Holly. Again and again, he runs his trembling thumb over the phial of detonating fluid clutched in his fist, seeking comfort. Dive, his instincts urge him. Dive. Dive! Hide! It is not safe here. But he knows he must not. He knows that if he dives now, he risks everything. Wait. He must wait. Although every minute increases the risk of discovery, although every little sound scrapes against his tattered nerves, reminding him over and of the danger that surrounds him, he must resist temptation and wait. After all, he tells himself, he is already dead; either way, success or failure, Marco Almacello dies tonight. Seeking calm, he whispers the reasoning that has brought him here, over and over, a mantra to settle his fearful heart. It¡¯s their fault she¡¯s dead. They murdered her. They deserve to die. It¡¯s their fault she¡¯s dead. They murdered her. They deserve to die. It¡¯s their fault she¡¯s dead.¡­ But the anger, the anger that normally burns alongside those words when he says them to himself in the safety of his home, is now weaker than his fear. Doomp. Doomp. His heart is beating too fast. Involuntarily, he begins to twitch. He needs to calm down, fast. The footsteps draw closer. Doomp. Doomp. And closer. Doomp. ¡­ ¡­ Too close. He panics. His control breaks and his fear thrashes free and wild, clenching, shaking, spasming every muscle; the tarpaulin moves, slick against his skin; he trembles, fights the urge to run, fight, scream but it is stronger than him, the fear is stronger and it rises, grows, overwhelming, consuming him. He tries to breathe. His lungs clamp shut. His resolve burns away, his mantra forgotten. Trapped in a tiny, dark space, he quivers, whimpers, loses control¡­ and dives. Deep¡­ Deep¡­ Deep into himself he dives, as deep as he can go. Deeper, and deeper, beyond the familiar cool depths where he normally comes to hide from the world; further down into the silence, down, away from the danger, away, then further away. The world recedes¡­ The scrape of the tarpaulin, the ache in his spine, the terror in his chest, the sound of the sea; they all fade, washed away like stinging soap from his eyes by the calm waters of this quiet space inside him. It takes his weight and he floats; here, in the safe layer between the harsh, painful world of bodies and the gentle, immaterial world of minds. The soft place. Unseen in the silent dark, gradually, he feels his heart slow. He drifts until, little by little, the panic fades. Thoughts flow more easily. Eventually, suffused by the peace of the soft place, he begins to feel safe again. He almost laughs to himself at the idea: safe! This close to certain death, the notion is absurd¡ªthere is probably no one in the world less safe than him, save perhaps the others on this doomed ship¡ªand yet safe is just how he feels, so deep, so beautifully deep in the familiar soft dark. He wonders whether Holly, tucked up in her own cubby-hole at the other end of the ship, with her detonator and explosives, has also given in to her fear and dived. They both swore not to, knowing they would lose track of time, knowing that the tremors and nausea of surfacing will make the delicate movement needed to pour the detonating fluid all but impossible¡­ but the instinct to seek safety must surely be as strong for her as for him. But then, she is a far better person than him. Stronger. Perhaps she is holding firm. If someone pulls back the tarpaulin now, they will not see him. This deep in the soft place his body is almost completely undetectable in the physical world, even to an observer staring directly at him¡ªjust a differently-textured shadow in the darkness, passed over by the eyes. Equally, if he is found, he himself will not realise it. This deep, while he is virtually invisible, he is also immobile, blind, deaf, and numb; they can pull him from his hiding place and beat him to death, and he will feel nothing. Therein lies both the danger and the safety of the soft place. Time passes. How much, he cannot say. This deep, thoughts and feelings and time intertwine, forming pathways that take him on journeys that sometimes last hours, sometimes moments. Perhaps, if he remains here long enough, when he surfaces it will be time to detonate¡­ Perhaps he will be able to detonate before the symptoms of surfacing incapacitate him¡­ Perhaps he will find his resolve again, be possessed by the spirit of justice and overcome the debility of his body for his one final task, just like the heroes in the stories. Perhaps this... Perhaps that. He has made it a rule not to allow the perhapses of the surface-world to follow him here. He releases them, as is his habit, trusting his future self to deal with future worries. He drifts, allowing the pathways to pull him where they will. Thoughts roll by like clouds. He knows this is the wrong thing to do, and he forgives himself; doing the wrong thing, after all, is what makes him him. The shimmering threads carry him. In the soft place he can think clearly, unburdened by the weight of time, anxieties, and the distracting needs of the body. He drifts, and thinks, and feels, and learns, and in the depths of himself he finds the truth: The resolve he needs to accept his imminent death is not a hard, fighting thing, like bravery, or revenge, or force of will. It is the opposite: it is giving up. The goodness in him¡ªhis spirit, he supposes, whatever pure essence remains beneath the layers of foulness that his life has caked around it¡ªdoes not care about revenge. Nor, he realises with a sudden surge of certainty, does his mother¡¯s spirit, and nor does the great, wondrous, universal whole to which their two spirits belong. For his spirit to remain here to avenge her death on those who caused it makes no more sense than a chess player staying behind after the tournament to grind his opponents¡¯ pieces to dust. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He does not need to kill the Polity and sink this ship to earn the right to look her in the eye in the afterlife. He does not need to do anything to earn her forgiveness and love. He needs only to go to her. He needs only to die. That is his true objective: to die, and return. Enlightened with this new understanding and the strength it gives him, he pushes his consciousness back towards the cold and fear and pain awaiting him at the surface-world. He should not have dived. Surfacing is terrible. Even with amberlace to take the edge away it is terrible, but now, here, in this freezing, foul place, with no drugs, it is unbearable. Before he has even fully returned to consciousness he spasms as his cramped back muscles explode in agony. His rough clothes and the heavy tarpaulin scrape at his suddenly-sensitive skin like sandpaper on a burn. The bellow of the sea and the screeching of the ship¡¯s tortured wood form a jagged cacophony that penetrates his ears and rattles his brain. He breathes as deeply as he dares, fighting the wave of nausea that whirls his innards. And worse than all of those is the familiar feeling of failure. He should not have dived, but he did, and now¡­ No, he pleads, but it is too late. Trying his utmost to stay silent, his body convulsing, he retches up a stinking mess that pours hotly down his cheek and runs down his neck. His hand still clutches the phial of detonating fluid but now it shakes uncontrollably. Will he be able to- Doomp. Doomp. His shaking worsens. He is too cold, too afraid, in too much pain. He cannot bear any more. He must do it now. He must end this now. Desperately, he fights to control his hands and block out the vicious thoughts that swoop in to tear at him. With shuddering fingers he fumbles with the cork¡ª ¡ªhis mother is dead¡ª ¡ªhe must detonate¡ª ¡ªdead!¡ª ¡ªbefore his tremors become too violent¡ª ¡ªhe watched her deteriorate¡ª ¡ªhe pulls weakly, but¡ª ¡ªafter the Polity took their business and their home¡ª ¡ªit stays stubbornly in place¡ª ¡ªshe dived and smoked and dived and smoked and¡ª ¡ªhis hand spasms and he drops the phial, which¡ª ¡ªdisappeared, one night, just gone from the world, and¡ª ¡ªtumbles down into the space beneath him¡ª ¡ªhe just watched her addictions consume her, and¡ª ¡ªhe bites his lip, unable to stop a little sob escaping between his teeth as he¡ª ¡ªwaited and waited¡ª ¡ªreaches his arm down under him, desperately¡ª ¡ªblamed himself, hated himself, and waited, and¡ª ¡ªnoisily, he grasps blindly in the darkness, searching, until¡ª ¡ªhe did nothing, while his father worked himself frail, he did nothing, just¡ª ¡ªhis questing fingers knock against it and he clutches wildly¡ª ¡ªwaited, until it was too late¡ª ¡ªand grasps it¡ª ¡ªthen blamed the Polity for her ruin, and grew angry¡ª ¡ªand his thumb scrabbles at the cork while¡ª ¡ªand angrier and¡ª ¡ªhe twists his body, which causes him to retch again¡ª ¡ªhe plotted against them, while he dived, and smoked¡ª ¡ªreaching for the funnel attached to the explosives¡ª ¡ªand dived, and smoked¡ª ¡ªinto which he must pour the fluid in the phial¡ª ¡ªto escape the anger¡ª ¡ªthe cork slides out, breaking and crumbling¡ª ¡ªhe made his poor, desperate father watch as¡ª ¡ªhis hand jerks again¡ª ¡ªhe followed her into addiction and¡ª ¡ªsplashing the caustic liquid onto his hand¡ª ¡ªdived and smoked and¡ª ¡ªburning it¡ª ¡ªdived and smoked and¡ª ¡ªhe moves the open phial towards the funnel¡ª ¡ªlost his job¡ª ¡ªone spasming hand approaches the other¡ª ¡ªlost his money¡ª ¡ªbarely in control¡ª ¡ªlost his home¡ª ¡ªhe tries to pour¡ª ¡ªlost himself¡ª ¡ªsplashes the acid onto himself again¡ª ¡ªlost everything¡ª ¡ªhis hand trembles uncontrollably in response to the burning, knocking against his other hand and spilling more¡ª ¡ªand sudden moonlight blinds him, the noise of fabric deafens him, as the tarpaulin is ripped away and he blinks as strong hands descend from above and grip his quivering arms. He dives, desperately, but in vain; there can be no diving again immediately after surfacing. He knows this better than anyone. The soft place has become hard. It pushes him back and he bounces to the surface like a cork in the bath. He flails uselessly and the phial flies out of his hand. Hands far stronger than his own hold him firmly in place as he struggles. A loud voice booms in his ears: ¡®Over here!¡¯ it roars. ¡®She was right! He¡¯s here! I¡¯ve found him!¡¯ What sound like hundreds of running footsteps echo and thud towards him. He tries again and again to dive while the figure moves its grip down his forearms to grasp his hands. He tries to pull free but he is like a toddler thrashing against its father. When the Polity man has both of Marco¡¯s hands firmly in his own, he grunts; stripes of shadow appear in the bulging muscles of his shoulders as he squeezes and the fine bones in Marco¡¯s hands crunch and grind against each other, forced out of their sockets, bending and snapping. Marco screams. ¡®In case you¡¯ve anything nasty up your sleeve,¡¯ the voice explains, almost apologetically. ¡®You understand. Come on, now.¡¯ When the Polity man hauls him out and tries to stand him on the deck, his legs fold uselessly under him so he is dragged along by one forearm, his hands dangling like gloves full of lumpy soup. Behind him, he hears two others inspecting his hiding place. ¡®Oh my goodness, is that a¡ª¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t touch it, you imbecile!¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s a bomb, we can¡¯t leave it here!¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t worry,¡¯ the man dragging Marco calls over his shoulder. ¡®She said it won¡¯t go off without the trigger-juice, and he¡¯s dropped that.¡¯ The man chuckles as the voices fade away behind them. Looking up, Marco sees the nearby lights of New Thrimp over the side of the ship. They are barely out of port. If he had detonated now, it would have been hours too early. He dove too deep; far, far too deep. Though it felt like hours, he can¡¯t have been in the soft place for more than ten minutes. All told, he has lasted perhaps half an hour after they set sail. His failure is complete. Predictable, pathetic and complete. Perhaps this is for the best; this way, if Holly remains hidden until they are far out to sea¡­ Perhaps she can- He is tossed onto the deck; the impact jars his bones and shakes his vision, but he is already in so much pain that he barely feels it. He slides briefly on the wet wood before coming to a stop, face-down. Here, he is surrounded by new voices. Serious voices. Though he is too stunned to make out what they are saying, he can tell there are many of them. ¡®Marco.¡¯ From among the commotion a single voice rings out, distinctly female, resonating through the air and into Marco¡¯s bones so that he hears it clearly over the others. ¡®Your plan has failed.¡¯ He tries to turn his head to see, but a boot presses down on it. He tries to dive again but he can no more sink into the soft place now than he can sink into the cold, hard oak against his face. Instead, he gives up trying to hold his body in check and allows himself to tremble and spasm freely. There is no point in trying to control it now. ¡®That¡¯s a big bomb, Marco. Where did you get it?¡¯ They know his name. The fact seems significant, but he is in no state to think about what it might mean, or to care. The boot on his jaw makes it almost impossible to speak. He gurgles out some incoherent noises. ¡®Pardon?¡¯ The boot remains in place but the pressure eases just enough for him to blurt out: ¡®I can¡¯t.¡¯ His voice tightens and rises in pitch as he begins to sob. ¡®I can¡¯t, I can¡¯t¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­ Please.¡¯ The voices are silent now¡ªonly the creak of the ship and the rush of the sea continue, like laughing spectators. ¡®Please¡­¡¯ The voice is curt. ¡®Please what, Marco? What¡¯s all this ¡®please¡¯? Are you asking me for something?¡¯ ¡®Kill me,¡¯ he moans. ¡®What? Kill you? Dear me, boy! What a thing to say!¡¯ He moans again, wordlessly. ¡®I will not. Not when you¡¯re lying on the floor being melodramatic, anyway. It would be depressing.¡¯ There¡¯s nothing left for him to say; he simply weeps. All he can hope for now is for a quick end, and for Holly to succeed where he has failed. ¡®Oh, come on now, don¡¯t be pathetic. What¡¯s wrong? Why are you all twitchy? Did you¡­ did you dive while you were in there? You did, didn¡¯t you? You¡¯re surfacing! Oh, Marco! Look at you, you¡¯re a mess. I can smell the sick.¡¯ He doesn¡¯t know how many Polity are on the ship but he feels as though there are thousands, all watching in disgust as he jerks involuntarily, naked all but for his loincloth, crying, and covered in his own vomit. Holly¡­ Holly won¡¯t have dived. He is sure she won¡¯t. She isn¡¯t weak like him. She will be tucked safely in her hiding-place, biding her time¡­ ¡®You wally! Marco, you complete and utter¡­ Oh, Belle, take your boot off him, he¡¯s not dangerous. He¡¯s about the least dangerous thing I¡¯ve ever seen.¡¯ The boot lifts from his face and thuds back down next to his head. Doomp. ¡®I can¡¯t believe this. I was expecting an assassin, not an¡­ ass! My word, I just feel sorry for you. You¡¯ve just tried to kill me, and you¡¯re so crap at it I can¡¯t even be angry! Do you want some amberlace?¡¯ He doesn¡¯t want anything. Other than for this to be over. ¡®No? Well tell me if you do, because, as I said, we¡¯re not killing you. It¡¯d kill the mood. You know, when I was a girl my grandmother used to have a foul temper and a three-legged dog with arthritis. It couldn¡¯t move fast enough to get out of the way, and every time she kicked it, it would yelp, this high-pitched noise that didn¡¯t sound like a dog at all. I used to feel so sorry for it I¡¯d cry. You remind me of that dog, Marco, just¡­ worse. You¡¯re like a no-legged dog. Although¡­ No, I probably would kill that. You¡¯re sort of like¡­ a dog that¡¯s so stupid it ate its own legs and made itself ill. Whilst in the middle of an important mission. A dog mission. Digging up bones, perhaps. I don¡¯t know. You defy comparison, Marco! There is literally nothing I can imagine quite as ridiculously useless as you. There you go, you¡¯ve overwhelmed my powers of description, so at least you¡¯ve achieved something tonight. Anyway, we¡¯re not killing you, so you can stop hoping for an easy way out. We are going to talk to you, though. So you¡¯re going to need to perk up a bit.¡¯ As he waits and twitches and shivers and suffers, another sound comes; far crueller than the voice tormenting him. A familiar voice, hoarse with crying. ¡®Marco!!!¡¯ Holly¡¯s voice. They have Holly, too. That voice, full of hope and worry, recalls him. Sensations rush back. Suddenly his head and his skin and his hands hurt so much he can barely breathe. They have Holly. He has to do something- ¡®Marco! Marco, don¡¯t-¡¯ her voice¡ªthat voice is what he loves most about her, so young and full and uncynical¡ªis cut off by a splintering crack like the snapping of wood, and she screams. Almost immediately the screams are muffled as something, maybe a hand, is forced over her mouth. He tries to look up to see her but the boot comes back down on his head. Over the sound of her screams, the voice speaks again. ¡®Now. I know an idiot like you didn¡¯t make that bomb. I¡¯d be astonished if you could make your own breakfast. Tell me who gave it to you.¡¯ ¡®Ken! Ken O¡¯Connor!¡¯ He slurs the name, his pronunciation distorted by a mouth too full of saliva that the boot won¡¯t let him swallow: ¡®Ken O¡¯Connor. Holly¡­¡¯ ¡®Good! Well done Marco. That¡¯s a good start. But I already knew that one.¡¯ He yells a wordless plea and his voice intermingles with Holly¡¯s; they scream together, until an increase in pressure from the boot silences him again. ¡®Now, O¡¯Connor¡¯s high up but he¡¯s not at the top. He works for someone else. I want that name, too.¡¯ The boot lifts just enough to let him speak. ¡®I don¡¯t know! I don¡¯t know, I don¡¯t know, I-¡¯ Crack. The screams rise in pitch and urgency, Holly¡¯s beautiful voice corrupted by pain. ¡®Your master has a master. Say his name!¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know! I swear, I never met anyone above Ken,¡¯ he cries, truthfully. His own head is swimming and every nerve in his body is screaming at him, and Holly¡­ ¡®Fine, fine. Calm down. Shut up. But I want the names of everyone else in your nasty little group. I¡¯ve got a list here, and I¡¯m going to break another one of your girlfriend¡¯s bones for every name on the list that you don¡¯t give me, so think hard and be thorough.¡¯ ¡®K- Ken O¡¯Connor! John Quillim!¡¯ The names flow out easily, like spitting out oil. ¡®Malachi Salmon!¡¯ One by one, he gives them all up. For Holly. ¡®Saskia Kilikirisi!¡¯ Stop, some distant part of him cries, but he ignores it, shouts the names louder. For Holly. ¡®Igor Ib¨¢?ez!¡¯ This is what he must do for Holly. His mind, overwhelmed, begins to shut down but his mouth continues, betraying everyone who trusts him. For Holly. ¡®Billy Winters! There¡¯s two of him!¡¯ All the people who helped him when he needed them. For Holly¡­ ¡®Nancy Paterris!¡¯ For Holly. For Holly. This is the worst thing he has ever done, the worst thing he could ever do. The darkest betrayal. He is doing it for Holly¡­ ¡®Jin-ho Kimherring!¡¯ And maybe because he is doing it for Holly, it feels¡­ ¡®Giuliana Butcher!¡¯ ¡­not good, but there is a sense of relief, somehow. As though he is shedding something heavy. He is almost¡­ Grateful. Grateful to have an excuse. ¡®Cory-Anne Mallory!¡¯ And as the last name escapes his bleeding lips, clarity dawns: he is not doing this for Holly. She is just the excuse, he is doing it for¡­ for himself. Because it feels right. Because this is what he does. He destroys good things. Now he has said every name, not only cementing his failure but upgrading it to a dark act, proving to the world once and for all what he really is. ¡®And Holly!¡¯ He cannot tell whether the convulsions are sobs, laughter, or the spasms of his failing body. Perhaps they are all three. ¡®Holly-Faith Healey. But you know about her.¡¯ ¡®Enough.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ Marco is done. Finally done. Spent. Empty. The balance settled. Now; now, he can go. ¡®There you go. You have your names. Now end it.¡¯ ¡®Calm yourself. I have more questions for you yet.¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Oh?¡¯ The voice trills, sweetly. ¡®But what of your accomplice, and her bones?¡¯ Holly¡¯s panicked screams intensify. ¡®I don¡¯t care.¡¯ Face-to-face with his fate, he releases all pretence. All his feelings, all the things he cares about are lies, lies he clings to to try and fill the void but there is no point now. He doesn¡¯t love Holly. He doesn¡¯t love. He is the void. It feels strange to speak so freely, the words that come from his mouth perfectly reflecting his thoughts, which perfectly reflect the feelings in his heart, for perhaps the first time. The sensation is unfamiliar, and overwhelmingly powerful. ¡®I don¡¯t care,¡¯ he repeats, and the truth of his words catches in his throat. ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ he sobs. ¡®I just don¡¯t care.¡¯ He cries freely and loudly, paying no mind to what anyone thinks. ¡®Silence,¡¯ says the voice, but nothing can stop him now. Finally facing his death, he roars with some nameless emotion at the unfairness of having been born the worthless creature that he is; he roars for a life wasted; for the son his parents deserved; for the all the love and hope poured into him that fell straight through the holes and splashed uselessly onto the ground. ¡®Silence,¡¯ the voice repeats. The boot crushes Marco¡¯s head into the deck and twists, ripping his ear. ¡®I don¡¯t care,¡¯ he wails. There is another loud crack as they snap another part of Holly, and the screams abruptly stop. ¡®I don¡¯t care.¡¯ His voice is weak now. His jaw, he distantly realises, is dislocated, so the words come out as an unintelligible slurry. But he repeats them, over and over. For himself. ¡®I don¡¯t care. I don¡¯t care.¡¯ Though his ears tell him the sounds he is making are unintelligible, he says them anyway, again, and again, finding comfort in his new mantra. His ultimate truth. ¡®I don¡¯t care.¡¯ ¡®My word, the melodrama! Marco, people are going to start booing and throwing things if you keep this up. Pull yourself together. Tell us about the other plots. What else have they got planned?¡¯ But Marco has no intention of saying anything else now, or ever again. He continues mumbling and gurgling the words to himself as the voice speaks some more, and then, after it finishes speaking, he uses what breath he has left to say them some more, though the sounds are now nothing but hisses and croaks. He continues even as he is hauled upright by the neck and air stops flowing to his lungs; he continues, even as his body goes limp and his lips no longer move; he continues, even as his vision fades to glorious silver, then black, and the world turns soft. 2: Horrible boom-boom Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Lee- Bradley, have you taken the washing out? The song only had one purpose, and that was to entertain Lee, which it did. A complementary sub-purpose was to annoy his mum, which it also did. By those criteria, if no others, it was excellent. His mother¡¯s voice filled the room. Wa- wa- washing, wa- wa- wa- washing I¡¯ve t- t- told you, t- t-t-t-told you Don¡¯t leave it in the machiAAAOOOUUUWWWWWWWWWWNNNNN¡¯ It gets all smelly, sme- sme-sme- ¡®Bradley!¡¯ The sound of his name came not from the computer speakers now but from the larynx of his actual mother, who was behind him, and upset. ¡®Why is my voice coming out of your computer?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s a song,¡¯ he explained. ¡®I made it.¡¯ ¡®How did you?¡¯ ¡®I recorded you shouting at me yesterday.¡¯ ¡®What? How? When did y-¡¯ ¡®Do you like it?¡¯ ¡®What? No! I do not like it.¡¯ ¡®Aaah!¡¯ He responded more to the physical assault than the verbal, hunching over defensively in his computer chair. ¡®What are you doing, it¡¯s good!¡¯ ¡®It doesn¡¯t sound very good Bradley, it sounds like me talking to you about the washing over a load of horrible boom-boom.¡¯ ¡®Horrible boom-boom?¡¯ he laughed, shielding his head. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡®Yes, horrible boom-boom! It¡¯s horrible and it goes boom boom, and don¡¯t laugh at me please!¡¯ Bradley! Bradley! Wawawawa- washing!! sang the computer. ¡®Ha why are you laughing then if it¡¯s so horrible aagh!¡¯ ¡®It sounds like a cow stuck in a lawnmower!¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t talk about yourself like that aaargh! Everyone is saying it¡¯s good in the comments!¡¯ ¡®Comments? You¡¯ve put this on the internet?!¡¯ ¡®No, I only uploaded it to aaaargh stop it!¡¯ ¡®This is on the internet!?¡¯ ¡®No, well yeah, but only people who follow me are gonna see it and there are only forty-seven of them¡¯. ¡®I do not want my voice going around on the internet singing about the washing!¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s not ¡®going around¡¯ is it, there¡¯s only forty-seven people who can see it. Don¡¯t worry you¡¯re not gonna hear it on the radio.¡¯ ¡®Good¡¯, she said. ¡®Now take it down please.¡¯ ¡®What do you mean take it down, it¡¯s not up.¡¯ ¡®Well whatever it is, just undo it and don¡¯t share it with anybody else please. Besides which, you¡¯re not to sit wasting time on computers and phones today.¡¯ Two weeks into the summer holidays, Lee was having the time of his life. There was no more college, his mum was at work all day, and the rest of his life stretched out before him like a film he was only ten minutes into but could already tell was going to be the best film he¡¯d ever seen. ¡®I¡¯m not, I¡¯m gonna do millions of things.¡¯ ¡®Housework, please. Washing, vacuuming, dinner.¡¯ ¡®Yeah, I¡¯ll do loads. I¡¯ll have the whole house done by the time you get home, watch.¡¯ ¡®And if you get all those finished, which really should only take you about two hours, you could apply for a few jobs.¡¯ This was a new item that had recently cropped up in her nagging repertoire, and he resented it bitterly. It was two weeks since he¡¯d finished the exams that allowed him to legally cut himself loose from the government-mandated misery of school and start to actually enjoy being alive. Two weeks and she was already trying to sell him on to the next master. ¡®Yeah, I¡¯ll apply for loads of them. I¡¯ll have six jobs when you get back.¡¯ ¡®Just the washing, vacuuming and dinner will do.¡¯ ¡®Yeah, have a good day.¡¯ ¡®Bradley are you¡­ have you been to bed? You¡¯re not still up from last night, are you?¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®No to which one?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ve been to bed.¡¯ ¡®When?¡¯ ¡®Well, I had a nap after dinner yesterday,¡¯ he confessed. ¡®Oh, Bradley!¡¯ Her eyebrows beetled with concern and disappointment. ¡®You¡¯ve been up all night on that stupid computer again!¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s fine, I¡¯m going to have another nap after you go out.¡¯ ¡®Well¡­ don¡¯t sleep too much. Make sure you¡¯re tired enough to go to bed properly tonight. And put the washing out before you go to sleep please. It¡¯ll go off in seventeen minutes.¡¯ ¡®There¡¯s more washing today??¡¯ ¡®There is washing every day, Bradley.¡¯ ¡®Fine, no problem.¡¯ ¡®Do not forget again.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m hardly gonna forget it when you¡¯ve just gone on at me about it AND I¡¯ve made a song about it, am I?¡¯ She fixed him with a knowing gaze. ¡®Alright, yeah I won¡¯t forget the washing. Go to work, you¡¯ll be late.¡¯ ¡®Not the internet song washing, the real washing¡¯ ¡®Yeah, I know. Bye¡¯. Lee was not wasting time. By his own criteria, he was operating in the upper echelons of human productivity. The fact that his criteria for gainful employment of time consisted of creating novelty electronic music, and that everyone else¡¯s consisted of things like jobs, didn¡¯t worry him; in fact, he harboured strong suspicions that everyone else in the world was jealous of him for knowing how to be happy. He turned off the song and loaded his savegame. He¡¯d been relentlessly killing giant warcrabs and harvesting their shells for the past three days and he nearly had enough for the armour upgrade he needed, which was going to make him pretty much invincible. He didn¡¯t know what he was going to do once he was pretty much invincible¡ªin fact he was secretly worried it¡¯d take all the fun out of it¡ªbut he was determined to get there anyway. A few more hours¡¯ hunting should do it. He was having the best time of his life. 3: Cigrarettes and Gravel Meanwhile¡­ A few miles away¡­ The countryside, near Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Amanda- Amanda Poffingsworth was standing on the gravel in front of her house, which her parents more accurately called their house. It was the kind of large, picturesque house rarely seen by people who don¡¯t live in them, as they can only be found by driving down the sort of bumpy mud-track that destroys city cars before suddenlyrevealing itself to be be the property of someone with a shotgun. The house and grounds¡ªfor it had grounds¡ªwould not have looked out of place on an old-fashioned biscuit-tin. The gravel on which she stood was expansive, but discoloured; its purpose was to make a welcoming crunching noise under the wheels of a rusty-but-trustworthy old Range Rover, rather than to look nice. It was the perfect spot for enjoying a cigarette while looking at the sky and the surrounding expanse of fields (only some of which belonged to the Poffingsworths), which is exactly what Amanda was doing. The tall, unkempt form of Timothy Poffingsworth, whom Amanda reluctantly acknowledged as her younger brother, was blinking in the sun whilst trying to coax a long-dead lighter into lighting his own cigarette, having coincidentally popped out for the very same purpose at the same time as Amanda, to their mutual disappointment. ¡®Lighter, Vit?¡¯ he called to Amanda, perhaps louder than necessary. She threw one at him without looking, which he caught with a deft jerk of the torso and rapid extension of an unsettlingly long arm from a much-stained sleeveless t-shirt. Kylie Onions¡ªwhom Amanda insisted on referring to as her friend, much to Kylie¡¯s consternation¡ªonce again found herself with little better to do than spectate upon the smoking siblings. She sat on the grass and hugged her knees with one arm; the other arm half-heartedly beckoned Heathcliffe, the possibly-part-Labrador. Heathcliffe and the other two dogs¡¯ attention was intractable, however, being committed utterly to the two Poffingsworths and the possibility that one of them might throw something. Kylie gave up and lay down in the sun. Heathcliffe, Mr. Darcy and Ronaldo were an eclectic trio of dogs, rescued as pups from the local centre and each named by one of the Poffingsworth children some years prior. Genevieve, the eldest child, had been in a phase of cultivating a disaffected teenage affinity for classical literature at the time, hence Heathcliffe; Amanda, meanwhile, had been going through a phase of copying Genevieve, hence Mr. Darcy; and nine-year-old Timothy had been left with the foul-tempered Dachsund and was not going to let the dog¡¯s breed or sex prevent him from calling her Ronaldo. Amanda looked down at Kylie, exhaling. Leaves dancing in the wind traced their shadows over her recumbent form. Amanda let her gaze rest there, enjoying the sight of her lover supine and unguarded in the grass. She granted herself a moment to luxuriate in the sensation of stirring lust. ¡®Why are you only wearing one sock?¡¯ Kylie asked Tim, with whose feet she was now at eye-level. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡®Ah,¡¯ began Tim, raising a finger in the certain manner of one who knows the answer. ¡®And no shoes,¡¯ added Kylie. ¡®Outside.¡¯ ¡®I could only find one,¡¯ said Tim. He exhaled smokily, the answer given. ¡®On gravel.¡¯ ¡®Mmmm.¡¯ ¡®You don¡¯t¡ª¡¯ ¡®Ah, no, no, no, I tell a lie. I was wearing two socks earlier!¡¯ exclaimed Tim, waggling the finger. ¡®But I started taking them off!¡¯ ¡®Oh?¡¯ ¡®Wearing socks indoors isn¡¯t very good for your feet,¡¯ he explained. ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®But I got distracted halfway through. And then, when I was going to come outside, I had a look for the other sock to put it back on, but I couldn¡¯t find it.¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ said Kylie. ¡®And the shoes?¡¯ ¡®I think they¡¯re in the garden.¡¯ ¡®Oh.¡¯ ¡®One of them definitely is.¡¯ ¡®Didn¡¯t want to look for them before you came out?¡¯ ¡®No. Shoes and no socks, Kylie,¡¯ said Tim, inclining his head sagaciously, ¡®is a recipe for a stink.¡¯ ¡®You don¡¯t want that,¡¯ said Kylie weakly. Amanda looked on and smoked impassively. ¡®No!¡¯ said Tim with enthusiasm. ¡®I learned that lesson the hard way. I lost a pair of good Adidases to raw foot smell.¡¯ ¡®Do you mean¡­ bare foot smell?¡¯ asked Kylie, but the conversation seemed to have gotten away from her by this point and there seemed little hope of re-establishing herself. ¡®Vit, you remember my old Adidases that had to go out because of the smell,¡¯ he urged Amanda. Amanda exhaled. ¡®Why do you call her- oh, good morning!¡¯ said Kylie. The sudden outburst of politeness was addressed to Mr. Poffingsworth, father to the assembled Poffingsworths, who had come out of the front door and showed every intention of walking straight past the small gathering on his gravel. Mr. Poffingsworth¡ªa man whose spirit animal was immediately identifiable as a rhinoceros and whose cholesterol-induced redness gave the impression of violent sunburn on even the greyest winter day¡ªgave Kylie a withering look. ¡®Smoking,¡¯ he said matter-of-factly, before continuing towards the annexe that housed his office. ¡®I¡¯m not-¡¯ began Kylie, but he was gone. She looked around in exasperation. ¡®I¡¯m literally the only one not smoking.¡¯ ¡®Ooh. Must be off,¡¯ said Tim. He flicked his cigarette butt at a rotund terracotta pot, which it missed and joined a disparate multitude of its weather-faded brethren on the stones beneath. He headed off after his father. Amanda crunched over to the same pot and dropped her own cigarette butt into it. She lit another. ¡®Two?¡¯ said Kylie plaintively. ¡®Mmmm,¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®It''s that sort of morning.¡¯ After a few contemplative drags, she stooped to pick up a badly deformed plastic frisbee, and by some practiced subversion of physics, hurled it perfectly straight out into the field behind the house, sending Heathcliffe and Ronaldo flying off after it in a flurry of growling. Mr. Darcy remained on the sun-warmed gravel, easing his troubled hips, his tongue lolling contemplatively in the mild morning breeze. ¡®Good boy,¡¯ Amanda mumbled absently, bending down to scratch him in his favourite spot behind the ears. Some moments passed, in which Kylie sensed it would be improper of her to interrupt the sacred communion between dog, woman and cigarette. ¡®I need to go into town later,¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®Oh. What¡¯s going on in town?¡¯ asked Kylie. ¡®Need to do some bank stuff for my parents.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t they do their own banking?¡¯ ¡®Haven¡¯t got a clue about money.¡¯ They don¡¯t do badly at earning it, thought Kylie. ¡®Surely you¡¯ve got internet banking,¡¯ she said instead. ¡®Been meaning to set it up. Haven¡¯t got round to it yet.¡¯ ¡®It would literally take less time than driving into Thrimp and going to the bank. You could even do it when you¡¯re there. Then you¡¯ll never have to go again.¡¯ ¡®Mmm,¡¯ she said. Kylie knew that she wouldn¡¯t. She could even set it up for her, and she wouldn¡¯t use it. ¡®Alright. Well I suppose I¡¯ll head off in a bit then,¡¯ said Kylie. ¡®Alright.¡¯ ¡®Heading off?¡¯ called Mr. Poffingsworth, emerging from the distant annexe. ¡®What?¡¯ said Kylie to Amanda. ¡®He can¡¯t hear us from over there, can he?¡¯ Amanda shrugged. ¡®Oh, er, yes,¡¯ Kylie called back. ¡®I¡¯m just going to-¡¯ ¡®Nonsense! You¡¯ll stay for lunch,¡¯ called Mr. Poffingsworth. ¡®Oh, I¡¯m alright, thank you,¡¯ called Kylie, but the figure had disappeared again. ¡®I don¡¯t-¡¯ she began. ¡®Should I¡­ stay? For lunch?¡¯ Amanda shrugged. ¡®He¡¯s invited you now.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Right. Er. Is that alright?¡¯ Kylie asked hesitantly. Amanda shrugged again. 4: Celestial Bureaucracy Much, much, much earlier¡­ The lonely, godless world¡ªthe humans it had spawned were so universally hostile they couldn¡¯t even agree on a name for it, but many called it Earth¡ªlong after it had been made and the humans had appeared and lots of other things had happened, attracted attention from other Creators. And the attention it attracted attracted more attention. When, in time, the committee¡ªwhich is far from the right word, but probably the best from the available set¡ªcame to examine the world, they found themselves unsure what to think. They were undeniably impressed by the craftsmanship, the thoroughness, and attention to detail; as an example of the art, they said, it went far beyond anything else, anywhere, anywhen. And at the same time, they worried about the sort of mind that would build such a place. They didn¡¯t want to encourage it. Serious doubts arose about the ethics of cultivating life under such asphyxiatingly restrictive conditions¡ªthe word ¡®cage¡¯ was mentioned more than once¡ªand expecting it to evolve, live, and die without the guidance and care of a superior being. Some argued that its artistic value justified the ethical uncertainties. Others countered that yes, it was certainly impressive from a craftsmanship point of view, but what of the poor souls locked inside? Debate raged. Progress, the world¡¯s proponents said, demands research; research demands subjects; and subjects¡¯ comfort and happiness is, lamentably, of secondary importance to the advancement of knowledge. Advancement, they asserted, is fertilised by sacrifice. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Think, they argued, what could be learned about life, about evolution, by observing it occurring in this, a perfectly-sterile laboratory of one-way glass, with no outside influence. But no, said the world¡¯s opponents. No curiosity, no dearth of knowledge was so crucial as to justify this. Consider, they said, what would happen if this caught on. You know, they said, that now you all want to go and try it yourselves. And the honest among them all admitted that they did. And so the world¡¯s opponents won, because they had moral outrage on their side. Concerned that they needed to set a precedent, they composed a set of metalaws, to be agreed on and adhered to by all Creators, to ensure that nothing like the world could be made again. But to draw up the metalaws, they had to look at the world¡¯s Laws in minute detail, and the closer they looked, the more they realised that the system showed brilliance and complexity beyond anything any of them had ever contemplated. That the creatures locked inside had made any progress whatsoever towards understanding the forces holding them in place was testament to the power of evolution to generate intelligence even in near-impossible conditions. And this was perhaps the most worrying thing about it; how clever would they have to get before they found a way out? These unique, fascinating, terrifying orphan creatures: what were they capable of? Alongside the disapproval that they all took great pains to express, they were all curious about the life forms that had evolved out of nothing. Far more concerned than curious, of course, but¡­ still, curious. Besides, what good could they do? The Creator who had Created it, perhaps the only one who truly understood it, had long since disappeared, presumably abandoning it. The others couldn¡¯t go in and modify it to be more¡­ normal. The Laws saw to that. For anything so powerful as them to exist within the locale of the Laws would violate the Laws so thoroughly that they would break down, the system they supported collapsing in an instant. Unless the world¡¯s Creator had left some kind of a back door, some kind of emergency contingency, somewhere that they couldn¡¯t find, they were all locked out and had no option but to either leave the whole thing be or purge it from existence entirely. And so, for the time being, they agreed to keep a close eye on it. A back door, each of them secretly, quietly wondered. Unless there¡¯s a back door¡­ A mind capable of Creating Laws like these would surely have left a back door¡­ 5: Bound to the Mast Much, much, much later¡­ The sea Somewhere not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Holly- ¡®Well,¡¯ said a deep voice. Its owner stepped back from the job he had just finished. ¡®Well, well,¡¯ added another voice, equally deep, from among the onlooking crew. Male Polity almost all had deep voices. They stood in a wide semicircle around the central mast. Though she could barely see their faces in the dim torchlight, Holly could tell they were all smiling. The Polity smiled at everything , even¡ªno, especially¡ªat things that no normal person would smile at. Things like this. The wind blew. ¡®Well, well, well,¡¯ said yet another deep voice. They were all looking upwards, at a point halfway up the mast, some twenty feet above the deck. Holly stood with them, her arms folded against the cold night air. Behind her the squat figure of a woman scurried around the deck, gathering up the remains of the beams of wood she had snapped to simulate the sound of breaking bones. Marco¡­ She could still hear the echoes of the splintering cracks; of her own screaming; of Marco¡ªpoor, stupid Marco, believing it was all real¡ªbetraying his accomplices and begging for death. He had done exactly what she needed him to. ¡®What¡¯s gonna happen when he goes to the toilet?¡¯ said another. The ropes that bound Marco to the mast were poorly tied, far too loosely, so that he leaned forwards and listed to the side. He slumped, his head lolling. He was unconscious, one of their anaesthetic-soaked drug-gags mercifully tied around his mouth. At least, she hoped he was unconscious; the loose ropes were already rubbing wounds into his exposed flesh. He had undertaken his mission wearing nothing but a dark loincloth, to minimise the risk of being seen sneaking aboard. They had not clothed him. I thought they would kill you, Marco. I never thought- ¡®That¡¯s a point! Give Belle a bucket, he can stand underneath him.¡¯ This raised a chuckle from the crowd. ¡®I¡¯ve got a better idea.¡¯ Belle stepped forward. The reflection of flickering torchlight danced on the exposed skin of his shiny bald head and the long, muscular tail that dragged along the deck behind him. Holly would never forget the image of him picking Marco up from the deck with that tail, a great naked snake of human flesh coiled around the helpless little man, hoisting him into the air. It had held him, dangling him upside-down beneath Belle as he climbed the mast; then it had held him in place while he was inexpertly tied in place. ¡®How about you climb up there and put a nappy on him, eh?¡¯ They laughed again. ¡®That,¡¯ came another voice, ¡®may not be a bad idea.¡¯ Where the others were gruff and gravelly, this one was distinctly female. It flowed like velvet, soft and languid, yet resonant; it cut through the other sounds and made itself heard without being loud. It froze Holly where she stood. It belonged to the commander of the ship and crew; one of the Polity¡¯s highest-ranked elite, and by far the most intimidating person Holly had ever met. Gennara. She smiled down at them from atop her steed. The woman herself was imposing enough, all dangerous curves, dark eyes and poise almost sharp enough to cut through the leather jerkin she wore, leaving her arms bare. Combined with the Goblin on which she rode, the effect was doubly terrifying. Holly would have described it as a horse with human legs and feet and no head or neck, but it was bigger than any horse and totally hairless, veins and muscles bulging through tightly-stretched, poreclain-white skin. Together, they radiated power. ¡®And tie him up properly while you¡¯re up there,¡¯ she added. ¡®He¡¯s a prisoner, not a bloody flag.¡¯ ¡®Ah¡­ You mean, actually for real, Your Grace?¡¯ one of them asked. ¡®Yes, for real. I don¡¯t want things splattering down on my deck.¡¯ ¡®Er¡­¡¯ began Belle, pointing to himself uncertainly. Is it me that you¡¯re wanting to climb back up there and do that, er, task, Your Grace? The putting of the, the er, nappy, ah, on the¡­ er, gentleman?¡¯ ¡®No, Mr. Hammerplank. Though your prowess in climbing is beyond question and does you great credit, when it comes to tying things securely in place your level of skill appears to be broadly comparable to that of my grandmother¡¯s dog.¡¯ ¡®Sincerest apologies, Your Grace,¡¯ Belle grinned. ¡®Which, I might add, is dead.¡¯ Belle bowed his head in mock chastisement as the rest of the crew laughed. ¡®Lady Subtletouch¡ªyou have, I believe, experience in the use of nappies, and hopefully the dexterity lacking in Mr. Hammerplank that prevents him from properly tying a rope around a ¡°er, gentleman¡±, as he so generously designates our guest. I would bestow this particular honour upon you, if you would be so kind.¡¯ ¡®Aye, Your Grace,¡¯ said Lady Subtletouch, stepping forwards and saluting. She had an unremarkable face, long and angular, with a mean, thin-lipped mouth, but when Holly saw the hand raised to the woman¡¯s forehead, she gasped. The hand was twice as large as any normal hand, the palm the size of a man¡¯s foot. The fingers stopped at the first knuckle, where each branched into three longer, skinnier fingers; each of these was half a foot in length, with a full complement of knuckles and a long, dark nail, totalling twelve on a single hand. They undulated slightly, almost independently of one another, in a way that reminded Holly more of snakes than of fingers. Her thumb, in contrast with the slender, fragile-looking fingers, was a huge, meaty thing, like the arm of a newborn. At the end of the thumb, Holly noted with revulsion, was another small, five-fingered hand. She had seen a number of Polity body-modifications¡ª¡®betterments¡¯, as they called them¡ªwhile on the ship, but this was perhaps the most shocking. She looked down at the woman¡¯s other hand in morbid fascination; it, too, was moving, clenching and unclenching, like a bored octopus hanging at her side. Then, as she watched, the fingers¡ªapparently having two-directional knuckles¡ªuncurled and curled back in the other direction, this time forming a fist backwards, with the back of her hand as the palm. Holly stared at the planks beneath her feet, desperately willing herself not to vomit. The woman came forward and applied her bizarre appendages to her task. Her other hand was just like the first; they ripped up spare sailcloth from a box on deck with frightening ease, tearing it surgically with those foul black talons, then wrapped themselves around the thick wooden mast, making light work of the climb. Holly watched in fascination as she tended to Marco, wrapping an improvised nappy securely around him in multiple loops and securing him firmly to the mast with surprising gentleness. It seemed only moments before she was back on the deck. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ said Gennara. With unspoken commands, she walked her Goblin forwards to stand before her crew. ¡®And now that that has been taken care of¡¯¡ªshe clapped once and raised her voice¡ª¡®there is something I wish to say to you all. Gather round, my sailors. Attend me.¡¯ The loose semicircle around her tightened. A few more crew members drifted over from various corners of the ship. ¡®Come,¡¯ she said, and walked her Goblin over to the side railing. The crew followed and looked out to where she pointed. ¡®Look. Those lights you see over there in the distance¡ªthat is our home. Comfort. Safety. The people we love. All that we know lies in that tiny, far-off yellow patch of light. That one little spot on the horizon. That is the part of the world that belongs to us.¡¯ She turned the Goblin and it padded over to the other side of the ship, the crew following. ¡®Now. Look,¡¯ she said, gesturing towards the endless darkness. ¡®What do you see? Put your hand down, Belle, it¡¯s a rhetorical question. You cannot answer it, because you do not know.¡¯ She continued softly. ¡®You have no idea what you are looking at. No idea at all. Nor do I. Nobody does. That¡­ That, my brave adventurers, is the rest of the world. The part that is not ours. The unknown. We do not know how big it is, or whether it even has an end. There are only two things we know: one is that it is absolutely, unfathomably enormous, bigger than our tiny minds can even begin to comprehend. That little patch of yellow light we live in, what he have until now considered the entire world, would fit into it perhaps a thousand, perhaps a million times. Probably more. The other thing we know is that, as far as we can tell, that infinite expanse of unknown world you see before you, and upon which we currently float, is made up almost entirely¡¯¡ªshe paused and swept her gaze over the crew, meeting their eyes, then she leaned over the railing and pointed down, to where the black water rolled and frothed below them¡ª¡®of that. Freezing, deep, uncaring sea. Freezing, undrinkable, deadly water. Now, precious ones, I want you to imagine something for me. Put your celebrations to one side for a moment. Shut your eyes.¡¯ Unquestioningly, they obeyed. Something in the soft richness of that voice compelled her, and Holly found herself closing her eyes along with them. ¡®Picture this ship, one hour ago. Remember yourself going happily about your business. I say happily¡ªtry to remember exactly how you were feeling. Proud, no doubt, to be involved in such prestigious work. Eager, too, for the welcome we will receive on arrival. And even more eager, I imagine, for the rewards of another successful delivery to be enjoyed on the return journey. Edged, perhaps, with the slightest hint of worry; for the sea is a heartless and hungry thing, and we are new visitors here. Now, imagine yourself a few hours into the voyage; the journey well underway, the ship sailing well. The steady rocking begins to feel familiar beneath your feet. We all start to relax a little. You listen to the calming sounds of the sea and start to think that a sailor¡¯s life could be a very fine life indeed, when suddenly, from the stern you hear a mighty crack and crash and the splintering of wood. Then, moments later, the screams of your crewmates. You run towards the sounds to find them, these same people standing around you now, covered in blood, parts blasted off, bleeding and dying on what remains of the deck. Then you look around to see what caused this carnage, and you experience the unspeakable horror of realising that this ship, the miracle of engineering keeping us alive in the middle of the merciless sea, has been blown apart with a bomb. And is sinking.¡¯ The feet of her Goblin padded gently and assuredly on the planking, slowly turning as Gennara glared imperiously at her crew, holding them still and silent, allowing the weight of her words to settle on them. Smiles faded. ¡®Imagine clinging to the last chunks of it as it goes down, desperately looking around you trying to work out what direction home is. Knowing that even if you swim until you die of cold and exhaustion you have no hope of reaching it but wanting, at least, to die facing the right direction. Now. Cast your mind beyond this pitiful scene. Leave your little body to sink. Do not dwell on what will be eating it, down in the freezing depths. Instead travel up, up until you are looking down on our blasted little wreck of wood and flesh from high above, like a bird. Look how utterly, utterly surrounded it is by the black, empty nothingness of the sea. Look at the sheer distance it has travelled. And now, look back at the place it came from. Look at the dock from which we departed, empty now, the smiling faces that sent us on our way now back in their homes, safe and warm. The faces of your husbands, wives, friends, parents, lovers, aunts. Your children. Do you think, my brave little sea-creatures, that they sleep now? They do not, I promise you. They worry. Their minds are full of you, sweet ones, wondering whether you will survive your journey. imagining all the awful things that could happen to adventurers floating out here in a little wooden bucket. Counting the hours until they can be sure again that you are well. Wishing for your safety. Thinking of how they will welcome your and shower you with their love when you return. Reassuring one another that you will be safe, trying to sound more certain than they really are. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Imagine, now, those beloved faces when a knock comes at the door at night. Picture those faces you love and how they change when the figure at the door sadly shakes his head and delivers his grim news in a low voice, not wanting the children to hear. The news that you will not cross that doorway again. Imagine, now, your funeral.¡¯ As she turned, the amber glow of torchlight danced over the curves of her skin, painting her in undulating patterns of light and shadow. She held her crew in thrall, their grins of moments ago dispelled. Holly looked sidelong at the sailors nearest her; they stood with their heads bowed. ¡®You know the ones you love. Think: what would they do to commemorate your death? Some would celebrate your life, no doubt¡ªa riot of debauchery and wildness to remember you and the joy you brought them. Others, perhaps¡­ a quiet memorial on a hillside. Your children reciting your favourite poems. An uncle¡¯s hand on their shoulder to keep them brave.¡¯ The creaking of the ship sounded like the breath of a living thing; a guardian that kept them from the clutches of the infinite, roaring sea. Suddenly, Holly felt immense gratitude towards it. ¡®And now, my sweet things, imagine the following days. Imagine the Polity¡¯s response to an anonymous attack on their precious ship. Imagine the meetings deep within the Manse. Imagine what would be said. The questions that would be asked. The decisions that would be made.¡¯ Her voice grew louder, her words faster; ¡®They would not sit idle; the Manse would bustle with quiet activity while they prepared, and then there would be war, and the fact that the enemy is hidden would not stay their hands. I talk of a return to darker times, loves. Digging around to root enemies out, causing harm where we dig, creating new enemies. Enemies for those we left behind. Imagine your children growing up as many of us did, as our parents and grandparents did. Soldiers. Warriors. Hearts and memories full of blood and pain and anger. That,¡¯ she shouted, sweeping an accusing arm upwards towards where Marco hung limply. ¡®¡­that pathetic thing is the greatest threat we have ever faced. That came just a roll of the dice away from bringing to pass all that you just imagined. That is the result of months of planning and coordination and meticulous preparation by our most dangerous enemies. That, sweet things, is the most dangerous thing in the world: a man who hates you so much he is ready and willing to kill himself in order to kill you.¡¯ Holly felt the air almost burn with intensity. She looked around her and saw clenched fists, brows furrowed in anger. Tears glistened on many faces. ¡®The reason I have him suspended twenty feet in the air, cupcakes, is not some perverted sense of ornamentation. Nor is it to protect you from him, fierce though he may be. No. It is to protect him¡ªa man who tried to make orphans of your children, widows of your husbands and wives¡ªfrom you.¡¯ There was another moment¡¯s silence, a moment that seemed to last days. Holly looked around her, unsure how to react. Every sailor¡¯s eyes were narrowed, focused on the shadowy figure suspended above them. Marco¡­ Marco, I¡¯m so sorry. I thought they would kill you¡­ ¡®You would tear him limb from limb, would you not? Feed him to whatever lurks down there!¡¯ A chorus of affirmation rose from the crew. ¡®Teach him a lesson!¡¯ called Gennara, and they called back their bloodlust. ¡®Cut him down and show him what it means to draw arms against the Polity!¡¯ The crew roared. ¡®And we¡¯ll do the same to the next one who tries!¡¯ They roared. ¡®And the next one!¡¯ They roared. ¡®And the next one!¡¯ They roared. But after the roar faded, quiet fell again. They waited eagerly for Gennara¡¯s next words, but when they eventually came, they were quiet. ¡®¡­and the next one? Will it be that one that sinks us? Or perhaps the one after? Listen to me, my beauties. This is why we have to keep him alive and take him back home with us. Distasteful as it may be, we must make the biggest, loudest, messiest, most public example of him we can.¡¯ Holly gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth. I thought they would kill you¡­ ¡®Right where everyone can see. Because if we don¡¯t¡­ If we don¡¯t, this is going to happen again, and it will keep happening until they succeed. And they only need to succeed once.¡¯ ¡®This is a new age for the Polity. We are in new, unfamiliar territory, not just geographically but economically. We are greater and stronger now than we have ever been before. We control more than we have ever controlled, produce more than we have ever produced, and have more to offer than we have ever had to offer. And what we do with this ship¡¯¡ªthe Goblin stamped one of its mighty heels twice on the deck¡ª¡®whether we wish it or not, will make us unquestionably and unassailably the dominant power in New Thrimp.¡¯ A hesitant cheer began, but she continued, cutting it short; ¡®Yes, my little daffodils, that is wonderful and yes, it deserves a great deal of hugs and well-dones and hip-hip-hoorays, and we will have them and, by the wings of our ancestors, we will enjoy them, but¡ªlisten now¡ªsuccess, wealth, resources, influence¡­ these things do not come to us without consequence.¡¯ Her arm flew up to point at Marco again. ¡®The people of New Thrimp see us accrue those things. They admire our strength. They benefit from what we control. They use what we produce. They desire what we offer. And as the people turn their faces and lean towards us, our enemies¡¯ grip on them weakens.¡¯ ¡®You almost died today, you brave little soldiers. I almost died with you. Do not forget that. Do not ever forget, even for a moment, that despite what people say we can die. The day we start to believe the myth that we are invincible will be the first day of our downfall. Power does not protect us; it is the very opposite. The more power we gather, the harder they will try, and the cleverer we must be to survive. There will be more precarious journeys like this one. There will be more plots. There will be more assassins.¡¯ She let the silence hang. A smirk played at her lips. She raised a graceful hand. ¡®Let us hope they are all as incompetent as that one.¡¯ The crew laughed then, and she did nothing to hold them back. With the tension broken, the laughs turned to cheers. Cheers at what they had done to Marco¡ªno, what she had done to Marco. What they were planning to do to him. She frowned involuntarily and in the space of a horrible moment she felt the spotlight of Gennara¡¯s gaze on her. ¡®There is one among you not laughing,¡¯ she called over the hubbub. Holly¡¯s heart froze. Gennara¡¯s eyes were fixed on her. The smirk vanished; her lips formed a hard, blade-like line. Suddenly Holly was surrounded by open space as the crew backed away from her. ¡®Bring her to me.¡¯ A powerful arm curled around her waist and she was airborne, tucked under the arm like an animal. She knew. They knew¡­ They were going to tie her up with Marco. Execute them both. She was transferred to Gennara and her body went limp as she was placed astride the enormous white Goblin, Gennara¡¯ body a warm presence at her back. She almost slumped over, but Gennara¡¯s hands gripped her under her arms, holding her firmly in place. Below her, the assembled crew stamped and cheered, pointing up at her. Many waved. Gennara¡¯s voice sang out from behind her, and she felt the vibration of the woman¡¯s chest through her shoulders: ¡®This, you valiant adventurers,¡¯ she called above the clamour. ¡®This girl.¡¯ The crew quieted and Gennara¡¯s voice was once again the only sound. ¡®The one you¡¯ve come to know as Holly. She knows that man.¡¯ She pointed up at Marco. ¡®She knows him very well, in fact. That, blossoms, is the reason she is not laughing along with the rest of you. She has just witnessed the downfall of her comrade. Her friend. A man she betrayed.¡¯ The air felt like it was full of knives. The crew were silent, their faces questioning. In a moment, Gennara would reveal her deception and throw her to them, like a piece of meat to a pack of hungry dogs. ¡®I would remind you, then, of two things. First; while you may feel the compulsion to jubilate, her poor little heart is likely in tatters from all she has been through today. She stands here surrounded by people who would, until very recently, have cut her down her without a thought. She walks among her enemies, entirely at our mercy, having turned her back on everyone she knows and trusts.¡¯ She touched a single, long-nailed finger to the side of Holly¡¯s throat. ¡®Her heart is pounding like a rabbit in a cookpot, the poor flower. And with good reason.¡¯ This was it. Holly was going to die, and all she could do was stare dumbly at the faces of the people about to rip her limb from limb. ¡®The second thing of which I would remind you is that she is the one reason that none of you is currently dead. She alone is the reason you will all see your loved ones again. We owe her our lives. We owe her our respect. We owe her our empathy.¡¯ Silence. The crew simply stared. Holly stared back. Then one woman at he front clapped her hands. Once. Twice. Three times. Another joined her. A second later, they were all clapping; not a joyous applause but a solemn, steady, rhythmic clap. A grateful, polite clap. Looking closer at their faces, she realised their hard expressions reflected not hostility, but acknowledgement. They looked on her as someone who had done something dreadful and dark for a greater purpose; for them. They were clapping for her. The damned Polity were clapping for her. Holly felt her gorge rise. The levels of deception¡­ the risk she was running¡­ the pressure¡­ the stakes¡­ what they would do to her if they knew¡­ It was almost too much. Her instincts told her to dive, to hide, to seek safety, but she fought them down. She breathed, deep and steady, and remembered her mission. There were people depending on her. People she cared for, and who cared for her. Relying on her. She had to hold it together. ¡®This girl¡¯¡ªGennara¡¯s strong hands moved to rest on Holly¡¯s shoulders¡ª¡®is one of us now. The Polity look after those who look after us, do we not? Well, we have been looked after by this one to a degree beyond our power to repay, even if she were to live ten lifetimes! Truly, she has done more for us than almost anyone in living memory. And so, we must ask ourselves, what can we do for her? It goes without saying that, on our return to New Thrimp, she will have wealth. Wealth, we can provide in abundance. She and her relatives will have luxury, privilege, power, influence. Those things are givens. But look at her, dears. Look at her troubled face. Look how she shivers with fear. She is all alone. What I suspect this poor, traumatised slip of a thing needs more than anything right now, loves, is human warmth. Kindness. A familial welcome. And, though I hesitate to suggest it to certain members of present company for fear of what form it might take, emotional support. Affection. In time, love. What I am telling you is that Holly finds herself among us and in need of a new family. Let us make sure that she knows she has found one. She has had none of the privileges we enjoy. Her life until now has not been one of privilege and security. She has watched people she loves work themselves to the bone, living lives of worry and fear and difficulty. Struggling to pay our tribute. Seeing us live in comfort and luxury, safe and happy in our Manse. Blaming us for their strife. Her family ran a modest brewery. They paid the tribute. They sold only to us, at a price we set. If we¡¯re brutally frank, if it weren¡¯t for us, they¡¯d have been far better off. As it is¡­ well, let us call a spade a spade. They are poor. Because, at a surface level, of us.¡¯ She paused for a moment to let that sink in. You would agree, would you not, Holly, that you grew up hating us?¡¯ It was true. There was no point lying. There were almost no families not affected by the Polity in one way or another, whether they beggared themselves paying the tribute they demanded and joined their network of preference and protection, or refused, kept their money, and left themselves vulnerable to the robbers and arsonists and sudden customer migrations that mysteriously only befell those who didn¡¯t pay. There was no way to make any sort of a living without being victimised by the Polity sooner or later, and the poorest were hit hardest. She nodded. ¡®Now, obviously the tribute is necessary and the benefits to the payers far outweigh the cost in the long term, but through the eyes of a young girl¡ªeducated in a local government school, with no understanding of the complexities of economics, going without while we take from her struggling family, with no understanding of why we do it or what we are trying to create¡ªyou can imagine how we must look. She has every reason to hate us. Then, when she finished school, just over half a year ago, there was no family business left for her to join. Iinstead, she joined a rebel terrorist cell. There, she spent the following months gathering information about us, recruiting more members, and plotting to kill us.¡¯ Holly saw brows furrow in the mass of faces staring up at her. ¡®Then a few weeks ago, she came to the Manse. All by herself. She just walked up to the front door and asked to speak to the Supervisor! Imagine! Instead, they brought her to me. She told me of a plot. A plot to plant two Selfborn operatives armed with explosives aboard a Polity ship and blow it up.¡¯ I¡¯m so sorry, Marco¡­ ¡®You all heard the names that boy gave up. They were the exact same ones Holly gave me that day. Including one you all know. Ken O¡¯Connor. That hiding, snivelling little worm¡¯¡ªher Goblin stamped its foot on the deck for emphasis¡ª¡®he organised this. There are fifty-seven semi-innocent people in the hold of this ship and he would have sent them all to their graves just to hurt us. That is the kind of man he is! That is the kind of desperate evil that leads our enemies. And that is why she turned her back on them. She hasn¡¯t just saved us; the prisoners below owe you their lives too, Holly.¡¯ The crew nodded solemnly. Holly didn¡¯t know what she was supposed to do; it didn¡¯t seem right to nod along and agree that she was some kind of hero. She had gone from thinking she was about to die to being cheered and applauded so fast that her brain still hadn¡¯t caught up; she was exhausted and confused and frightened; all she wanted now was to be given a dark room to curl up in and sleep for a week. ¡®And now!!¡¯ Suddenly the Goblin jerked sideways. Holly yelped in surprise as it began to trot up and down in front of the crew, almost prancing. Gennara¡¯s arm snaked around her again, holding her steady. The sailors started to grin. ¡®I suggest we show our newest member our gratitude and appreciation, lest all this heavy talk sink the damned ship and undo all her hard work! Holly squealed as Gennara¡¯s hands gripped her wrists and raised them up and out to the sides, spreading her arms, jerking the wrists back and forth so that her hands waved involuntarily at the crowd. ¡®Hip-hip!¡¯ she cried. Marco¡­ ¡®Hooray!¡¯ ¡®Hip-hip!¡¯ I¡¯m sorry¡­ ¡®Hooray!¡¯ ¡®Hip hip!¡¯ I¡¯m so, so sorry¡­ ¡®Hooray!!!¡¯ I thought they would kill you¡­ Gennara continued waving Holly¡¯s hands like a puppeteer as the inevitable rendition of ¡®for she¡¯s a jolly good fellow¡¯ started up. The crew sang and grinned at her, and she felt herself beginning to blush when she felt hot breath against the back of her ear and Gennara¡¯s voice whispered: ¡®I know you¡¯re hating this. I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s the Polity way, I¡¯m afraid. We don¡¯t do negativity very well. Bear with me. I¡¯ll get it over with as fast as as I can.¡¯ The Goblin stamped a heel three times for attention and silence fell. ¡®There is,¡¯ she called out jubilantly, ¡®secreted in my cabin, a case of the finest Lilymilk¡ªshush, don¡¯t explode with joy yet¡ªintended for consumption at our destination. However, in recognition of the momentousness of the evening¡¯s events, I believe it would not be unreasonable to ration out a small portion of it.¡¯ The crew erupted anew with cheering. ¡®Lady Broadwood, if you wouldn¡¯t mind fetching it.¡¯ The crowd parted to allow the exit of a squat woman¡ªthe same woman who had earlier orchestrated the auditory deception of Marco by snapping beams of wood to mimic the snapping of bones. She consisted mostly of a huge barrel chest, appended with stumpy little legs that gave her a comical waddling gait, exacerbated by enormously long and muscular arms that reached almost to the floor. The arms were in three parts instead of the usual two, with an extra joint, a second elbow, linking the upper arm to the middle arm. As she scurried off, Holly briefly wondered what the woman needed those arms for so badly that made it worth looking so grotesque. She remembered the way she had used them to brace the thick beams of wood across her back to snap them¡­ Was that the job she had designed her body to do? Snap beams of wood? Her name was Broadwood¡­ whatever she did when she wasn¡¯t sailing, it must be something to do with carpentry or tree-felling. She trotted back momentarily, glass bottles clinking in a case held above her head by her enormous arms. Gennara spoke to the grinning little woman with exaggerated politeness¡ª¡®You have my gratitude, my lusty little bag of muscle¡¯¡ªand a chuckle went up from the crew. ¡®I am sorry to say, my little nobles and dignitaries, that one of the deprivations of being at sea is an absence of glasses; as such I am afraid you must, with my apologies, suffer the indecorum of drinking directly from the bottle.¡¯ Sounds of delight rose from the crowd as bottles of syrupy white liquid were passed around. ¡®And just to dismay you further, loves¡­ I¡¯m afraid the simultaneity required of a proper toast necessitates that you will, at great cost to your sense of propriety for which I fear I may never be able to adequately compensate you, be required to take a full bottle each. Now! The assassin is captured, the ship is safe, her course is set, and we will not arrive until well into the morning. So raise your drinks, you absurd, wonderful creatures, you dogged little survivors, you blessed pets of fortune, and honour the woman to whom we owe our continued survival!¡¯ Bottles and voices were raised in celebration. The drinking began. 6: The Unbinding Meanwhile¡­ Below¡­ The sea Not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Saskia- Doomp. Doomp. Down in the hold of the ship, Saskia realised, too late, that she should have practiced for what was about to happen. Doomp. Doomp. The guard approached, bending over to pour the liquid in a narrow-necked bottle onto the cloth gags of each prisoner in turn, soaking them. Saskia wished she would put her torch out. Down here in the dank, wet darkness of the hold there was no other light, but there was no ventilation either and the smoke was threatening to make her cough. The little yellow flame crackled and spluttered, illuminating almost nothing but sending huge, crazy shadows writhing across the wooden walls. The woman was being generous with the anaesthetic, thoroughly re-soaking each of the cloth gags wrapped around the mouths of the unconscious figures on the floor. Saskia was prepared for the drug-soaked gags: as part of her preparation in recent months she had grown a gland in her neck that produced a crude antidote¡ªa mollecule that clung to the receptors in the brain targeted by the Polity¡¯s anaesthetic, insulating them from it. The formula wasn¡¯t perfect, however, and she was still feeling light-headed and tingly from the sleep-inducing vapour emanating from the gag around her mouth. What she had not anticipated was a guard coming round topping up the dose¡ªthat was a level of organisation beyond what she had expected from the Polity. And now the guard was only a few prisoners away from her. Doomp. Doomp. If she reacted, the guard would realise she was conscious and within seconds she¡¯d be either dead or unconscious, and the entire plan would fail. Marco¡¯s sacrifice would be for nothing. Saskia was the only prisoner awake. Doomp. Doomp... Glug. Experimenting with the sample Ken had managed to obtain for her had allowed her to develop the antidote and the gland that produced it but she had also learned, incidentally, that the Polity¡¯s anaesthetic was highly flammable. Every time the approaching figure bent over to splash more of it over the gag of another prisoner, she carelessly lowered the torch dangerously close to their heads. What would happen, Saskia wondered, if one of the gags caught alight? There was no water down here. If the fire spread, the hold would soon be full of corpses with scorched half-melted heads. The Polity would eventually rush down and put it out, if only to save their ship¡­ but how many would be dead by then? Doomp. Doomp... Glug. There was no choice now. She would just have to hold still and try to stay conscious. She closed her eyes and forced the muscles in her face to relax completely, making sure not to flinch as the cold liquid splashed across her nose and mouth, seeping into the cloth wrapped tightly around them. Despite her efforts, the sensations triggered a reflex and she felt her closed eyelids flutter. Just a flicker of muscle. The smallest twitch. Not even a full movement¡ªjust the ghost of one. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. But the guard froze. With her eyes shut, Saskia could only hear what was happening; the sudden silence filled the space. Seconds stretched. She hadn¡¯t moved on to the next prisoner. Then, heat. Faint at first, then stronger, the warmth of a flame hovering close. The faint light on the other side of her eyelids began to grow brighter. With a sickening feeling, she realised the guard was studying her. Her adrenal glands flickered into life in response, trying to flood her bloodstream with adrenaline, but with the conscious bodily control of a Windborn, she calmed them; adrenaline would speed up her heart and her breathing, pumping more of the anaesthetic into her system, not to mention giving her away to the guard whose face must now be only inches from her own. Fighting her body¡¯s natural urges, she forced herself into stillness and calm, sleep-like breathing. She had been working her new gland hard in readiness but still she felt her whole body start to tingle as the drug immediately slithered its stupefying tentacles into her brain. ¡®Only one that hasn¡¯t pissed itself,¡¯ she muttered to herself dryly, before moving on. Doomp. Doomp... Glug. The danger past, Saskia had to fight to maintain her hold on her adrenal gland whilst forcing her exhausted antidote gland to continue synthesising. Straining against the urge to sleep, she shallowed her breathing, and waited. The guard was painfully slow, clearly unenthusiastic about the job she had been given. She wasn¡¯t measuring the doses at all, Saskia noted with anger. She felt certain that without her antidote gland, she would have been dangerously over-medicated. How many of the prisoners would have their gags removed only to be found dead, either overdosed or choked on their own vomit? How many would be brain damaged? Her anger flared; if Igor was dead¡­ Suddenly, there came a loud crack from above, like a fencepost splitting, and a female scream, abruptly muffled. Holly. The guard looked up in alarm. Almost immediately afterwards there came another crack and another muffled scream, this time more anguished than the first. Saskia could tell from the footsteps and the glugging of the bottle that the guard had suddenly increased her speed, as though she was suddenly keen to be finished and get back upstairs. Doesn¡¯t want to miss the show, Saskia thought. By the fifth crack, the guard was done and the doomp, doomp of her boots was receding up the staircase to the great hatch leading to the deck. Saskia remembered being dragged through that hatch and down those stairs, feigning unconsciousness despite the scrapes and thuds from careless handling by careless guards. They would pay for that. Very soon, they would pay. When the hatch had creaked opened and banged closed again, signalling the guard¡¯s exit, she eagerly tensed the new muscles that retracted the sheaths of flesh on the outsides of her wrists, allowing the sharpened boneblades concealed within to emerge. This part, she had prepared for. She began to move. With practiced familiarity, she worked her arms back and forth, back and forth, the sharp, hard shards of bone protruding from the sides of her wrists sawing at the ropes, which were cold, thick, wet, and tight. The motion would have chafed ordinary skin to bleeding. She silently gave thanks for the scaly calluses left by hour after hour spent training for tonight, cutting herself free from ropes just like these. As soon as the ropes fell away she ripped the gag from her face and stood. The guard had been right¡ªthe hold stank of human waste, the inevitable result of overdosing people with tranquilisers and leaving them in an unventilated space. Rage rose again inside her and this time she did not hold back her adrenaline. Her heart quickened and her body processed the anaesthetic still in her bloodstream faster. Slowly, her focus returned. Above, she could hear another woman¡¯s voice, powerful, deep, and seductive, though she couldn¡¯t make out the words. Hurry up, she told herself. Quickly finding Igor, she was relieved to see the steady rise and fall of his chest. She pulled the sodden cloth from his face and threw it angrily to the corner of the room, then raised her hand to the gland in her neck and excreted some antidote, not into her own bloodstream this time but outwards, onto her fingers. She rubbed it into his gums, pulling back his lips with her other hand, then sliced through his bonds with her boneblades and moved onto the next prisoner, leaving him to recover. The rest of them were unknown to her, an assortment of human miscellany hauled from the Polity¡¯s prison cells. She treated them with as much gentleness as she could, removing gags and tossing them into a far corner to keep the noxious fumes as far away as possible, and quickly but carefully sawing through their ropes. The gags she removed easily but the boneblades quickly blunted¡ªgrimacing, she forced open the fleshpocket in the fat around her middle, in which she had concealed a small whetstone. Re-sharpening the boneblades after each prisoner was time-consuming, and although she¡¯d grown them without nerves, sliding the rough stone along the edge of her own exposed bone sent a jagged shudder down her neck and across her back every time she used it. Nonetheless, she worked on. Soon they were all unbound and breathing drug-air, befouled only by the vapours of their own effluent. She returned to Igor to find him unmoving, but awake. In the shadowy gloom of the disparate rays filtering down through the cracks in the decking above, she could barely make out the whites of his eyes. Then he grinned, and a crescent of gleaming teeth bloomed in the darkness. ¡®I¡¯ve pissed m¡¯self,¡¯ he growled. ¡®Shhh,¡¯ she whispered. ¡®Quiet voice. Everyone else has too. Some worse.¡¯ She felt a smile tug at her cheeks; it was good to hear a familiar voice after so many hours down here alone among the unconscious. ¡®Got a stinking headache too,¡¯ he added. ¡®How much longer do you need before you can get up?¡¯ ¡®Not long.¡¯ She placed a hand on his shoulder and sat down beside him to wait, listening to the sound of his breathing gradually growing stronger as the anaesthetic wore off. She heard one or two others beginning to shift in the gloom. ¡®I¡¯m very, very pissed off,¡¯ he said conversationally. ¡®I¡¯m gonna cause a lot of damage.¡¯ That was good. Pissed off was exactly what the plan needed him to be. Not just him¡ªthey needed the entire crowd of prisoners pissed off¡ªbut he was the spark that would light the inferno. The more pissed off he was, the better. ¡®Good!¡¯ she whispered. And sshhh!¡¯ ¡®Right.¡¯ He rose unsteadily into a crouch. ¡®No point laying about.¡¯ ¡®Hang on,¡¯ she hissed. ¡®They¡¯re all still waking up. Rest a bit more. Get your strength back.¡¯ ¡®Bollocks. Come on,¡¯ he muttered, rising to his feet, a lean, angular silhouette against the dim light. She felt the familiar urge to comply and follow. ¡®Igor!¡¯ she whispered. ¡®Mm?¡¯ ¡®You just used your Urge on me!¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®Why?! We¡¯re on the same team!¡¯ From above came riotous cheering and laughter, smothering the sounds of their conversation. He smirked. ¡®Just making sure it still works.¡¯ The smile tugged at her cheeks again. Igor was in charge. Everything was going to be fine. ¡®I think it¡¯s gonna have a lot of work to do soon,¡¯ he added. ¡®Anyway. First things first. Where¡¯s Billy?¡¯ 7: Lefty, Righty Meanwhile¡­ A hidden safehouse New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed ¡®I can do a bit with each at the same time,¡¯ said Billy Winters. He and John Quillim were discussing the intricacies of Billy¡¯s unique form as a way to pass the time and, perhaps more importantly, to fight back the nervous silence that had settled over the others in the room as they waited to learn the fate of their comrades on board the ship. ¡®I can make them both walk in a straight line at the same time, or one sit and eat a sandwich while the other one picks his nose, that level of thing,¡¯ he continued. John Quillim nodded, leaning forwards with his great yellow-grey beard resting on his chin, his eyes narrowed with scientific curiosity. ¡®Soon as one needs to do anything complicated though, like writing or talking or playing football or anything, I have to put the other one down and concentrate. Else they both get all clumsy and useless, and I get a migraine.¡¯ ¡®This is like a left hand is make a washing-up same time a right hand is make a piano,¡¯ replied John. ¡®Kind of. More like trying to do the washing up with one pair of arms and play the piano with another pair of arms,¡¯ said Billy. ¡®What? How is? Arms only have a two! Not many four!¡¯ ¡®Exactly. The human brain¡¯s not meant for controlling four arms and four legs and four eyes, see. ¡®Specially not in two different places.¡¯ Billy tapped his temple. ¡®Migraine.¡¯ ¡®I see. This is very difficult. Too much leg, and too much arm.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s alright. As long as I can put one down safely to concentrate on the other one.¡¯ ¡®And¡­¡¯ John made a separating gesture with his hands, holding them far apart. ¡®One body have a go the long way away the other body, is a same? No have a¡­ a can¡¯t hear you?¡¯ Billy, who was getting more and more used to John¡¯s idiosyncratic deployment of linguistic resources, only had to think for a brief moment before replying. ¡®Not so far as I can tell. I¡¯ve had them as far apart as they can get, Righty all the way up by the mountains and Lefty right down by the sea at the tip. No problems at all.¡¯ ¡®So this you I am talk to you now is¡­ a Lefty?¡¯ Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡®Yep. You can tell.¡¯ Billy gestured at his own torso. ¡®Skinnier.¡¯ John frowned. Or, at least, his brow furrowed; it was impossible to tell what his mouth was doing behind the mass of fading, off-yellow beard. ¡®What? Why is not Righty is not same is Lefty? Is a same person!¡¯ ¡®The two bodies started off the same, but they¡¯ve done different things along the way. Got the same memories, but different scars. Righty does all the physical stuff. Lefty¡¯s the thinker.¡¯ ¡®Lefty is a clever?¡¯ ¡®I dunno about cleverer. It¡¯s definitely easier to think with him though.¡¯ John waved his hands. ¡®You say is not have a sense, I think! A same person not can have a different¡ªone minute.¡¯ His eyes drifted upwards as he searched for a word. ¡®Disposition. Temperament. Personality.¡¯ ¡®No, not different personalities. The personality is the me part that controls them. They¡¯re just¡­ bodies, but they have different muscles and different brains. Like, you know how your right hand is naturally better at writing?¡¯ ¡®Left my hand is do a writing,¡¯ John said factually. ¡®Alright, so your left hand is better at writing. So you use that one for writing all the time. So it gets even better at writing.¡¯ ¡®Indeed.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s like that. I can think with Righty and do physical things with Lefty, it just feels wrong and doesn¡¯t work very well. So I use Righty for physical stuff. So he gets better at it. So it continues. They end up specialised.¡¯ ¡®I see! ¡® John clapped. ¡®So, Righty is you go this ship because, maybe have a fight?¡¯ ¡®Right! And Lefty is staying here safe and warm so that I can concentrate on thinking without having to worry about all the action on the ship, if it comes to it.¡¯ ¡®And¡­ sorry I say a scary, my beg my pardon¡­Righty is die, also Lefty is die?¡¯ Billy raised an eyebrow. ¡®I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve never tested it.¡¯ ¡®Ha!¡¯ said John, laughing heartily. ¡®Never have die¡ªone minute¡ª¡¯ His eyes scanned upwards again. ¡®Experiment! Verification! Diss-¡¯ Suddenly Billy¡¯s expression changed. He raised a hand sharply, cutting the other man off. Around the room, eight other figures suddenly looked up and leaned forward. Billy¡¯s eyes crossed and his head lolled to the side. Ken¡¯s voice cut through the silence. ¡®Billy?¡¯ He stepped forwards, placing his hands on Billy¡¯s shoulders, gently leaning him back in the armchair. ¡®Billy? Are you okay? Is Righty okay?¡¯ There was no sound in the room other than the breathing of a large number of nervous people crammed into a tight space. Billy simply lay in the chair, his face blank. ¡®Is he¡­ has something happened?¡¯ said someone. ¡®This is what happens,¡¯ said Ken, his voice level. ¡®He¡¯s focusing on Righty. Something must be going on. He¡¯ll come back to Lefty and tell us when he can. All we can do is wait.¡¯ They waited. Candles guttered and cast long shadows across the yellow-painted walls of the little room. The assembled renegades looked at one another questioningly. They looked at Billy. They waited. Just as someone was beginning to mutter something about something going wrong, Billy¡¯s eyes snapped back into focus. People alrady leaning forward leaned forward further. A maniacal grin spread across the little man¡¯s round face. ¡®They¡¯ve woken Righty up,¡¯ he said. ¡®I was just talking to Igor. They¡¯re awake!¡¯ ¡®Good gods,¡¯ someone whispered. ¡®Are they safe?¡¯ asked Ken. Billy nodded. ¡®A guard came down, then went back up. Then Saskia cut herself loose and started freeing the others. Most of them are awake and untied now, and it sounds like the Polity have started partying upstairs.¡¯ ¡®Ha!¡¯ hooted John Quillim, and clapped his huge hands once, loudly. Another voice, high-pitched with incredulity, echoed it. ¡®Ha!¡¯. ¡®We¡¯ve done it! We¡¯ve bloody well done it!¡¯ The little room erupted. 8: Fate and Condiment Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Lee- Writing a cookbook was high up on the list of things Lee was going to do to make money at some point, when the time was right. That is to say, when he had mastered the art of food. That time certainly wasn¡¯t yet¡ªthere was still an ocean of discovery to be traversed¡ªbut every experiment took him a step closer. His broadly holistic-deterministic approach to philosophy overlapped quite unfortunately with cookery. He was of the view that whatever food happened to be in the house at the time was there for a reason, that it constituted the conditions of a culinary challenge that the universe had seen fit to lay down for him. Fate was his teacher, and every concoction he produced was a lesson it wanted him to learn. This approach, he believed, would lead him to develop a true chef¡¯s instincts, a genuine mastery of food that couldn¡¯t be unachieved by following recipes, which were shortcuts. As his intuition developed, the general quality of what he produced must, logically, increase exponentially. And, like any good exponential curve, it was to be expected that the increases in the initial stages would be more or less undetectable. The initial stages were turning out to be quite long. A fizz in his bones: he felt the alchemist¡¯s urge to combine, the chef¡¯s urge to delight. His instincts led him to a bag of fresh peanuts that was close to going funny; then, with that as a base, his creativity intertwined with destiny to form a magical thread that drew his eye to some chillis that he¡¯d had to buy a whole bag of last week even though he had only wanted one. He felt connections crackle in the ether. They drew him to a bit of leftover ginger, and a red onion that he¡¯d used half of in a salad that was still in the back of the fridge. As he was extracting the onion, a no-longer-plump tomato fell off a multipack of yoghurts and caught his eye. It needed to be used soon. Experience, however, cautioned him. No no, he intuited. Today is not your day. He put it back on top of the yoghurts, pleased by his display of wisdom. Satisfied with the blueprint of his condiment, he threw the assembled, in quantities that felt right, into the blender with a glug of oil and obligatory garlic. Bzzz. Following its usual modus operandi, the blender immediately and violently threw all of the ingredients up the sides of the jug and whirred away to itself, happily unobstructed. Knowing through previous arguments with it that fluid was the panacea to its tantrum, but wary of overcomplicating the thing, Lee pondered for some time, torn between simple water and the juice of a lime. Surrendering himself to subconscious guidance, he sought a lime and, unable to find one, substituted an orange. Bzzz. The result was surprisingly white. A fingertipful took Lee on a journey. That just tastes of peanuts, he thought at first. Raw peanuts, which kind of just taste of wood. Then the garlic greeted his tastebuds warmly. Upon entry, however, it immediately began a vehement disagreement with the peanuts, following which, as though hearing the commotion, the ginger barged in and put the other two in an needlessly aggressive headlock. This achieved a brief moment of uneasy equilibrium, in which Lee dared a moment of optimism. Then the chilli smashed in through the window armed with a bazooka and the party and all its guests evaporated in the resulting fireball, causing Lee to say ¡®oh¡¯ and have a hurried glass of milk. Well, he thought to himself as he soothed his mistreated tongue. Food should tell a story. No one says it has to have a happy ending. The day¡¯s research concluded, he had learned something¡ªthough he wasn¡¯t yet sure quite what¡ªand come away with an arguably edible peanut sauce to boot. That was two ticks in the achievement box, and the day barely even begun. Triumphant, he practiced handstands for a while as a way of avoiding the washing up. He was following instructions of a particularly good internet video, which professed that after a few months he could expect to have progressed enough to be able to do them easily, at any time, in any place. He considered this an impressive and valuable skill, which he would have for life once mastered, and therefore a wise and valuable investment in his future. Before long, however, the warmth of the early-summer late-morning combined with the physical exertion of repeatedly failing to invert himself and toppling over to bring upon him a hearty sweat, reminding him that he hadn¡¯t had a shower in what was probably an unacceptable length of time. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He had, in fact, been avoiding the shower. The act of washing himself had been rendered horribly disagreeable thanks to a new rule he had made, following the advice of a video he had seen on the internet. The video had promised immediate improvement in every aspect of health and energy levels and general happiness, together with some other benefits he hadn¡¯t really understood but had great faith in the importance of, if he simply ended his shower with three minutes standing under it on its coldest setting. He belief in the wisdom of the cold shower was absolute, as was his hatred of it. Reluctantly, labouring under the weight of anticipatory dread, he peeled himself away from his garments, including his hat; then, like a hermit crab vulnerably transplanting itself from one shell to the next, he scuttled nakedly into the shower. Standing under the steamy stream of pleansantly-warm water, he glared at the temperature-control knob with the fearful resentment of a dog eyeing the vacuum cleaner. He inhaled sharply; the day he stopped to think twice about it would be the day he broke the habit. That day would not be today! He reached out and turned it down, just a fraction. For a few seconds, nothing happened... Then the water cooled down a little. There was a pleasing absence of drama; just the watery equivalent of a cool breeze, refreshing and mildly invigorating. He luxuriated. If this had been all there was to do, he would have embraced it. But this was only stage one on the journey down to absolute zero, the lowest extreme of the temperature-control knob. There were four more to go. His hand reached out again. Stage two was cold. As it hit, the muscles in his back tensed and his awareness spiked, bringing the world into crystal focus. He felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, maintaining control of his body¡¯s reaction to a sensation that could only be described as unpleasant. There was nothing to be achieved by lingering here. His hand reached out again. Stage three invoked images of winter ice and all the sensations of desolation and hopelessness that went with it. He was reminded that cold was not just a source of discomfort, but of danger. His body reacted to the existential threat; chest and arm muscles clenched, hard. His heartbeat began to race and he breathed fast and deep. He turned around and around, unable to remain calm under the torrent of freezing sleet. He gave himself long enough to confirm and internalise just how unspeakably cold it was before moving on; to linger here would be meaningless torture. His hand reached out again. Stage four. Shock hit. His breath came fast, hard and deep. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched; unable to move freely now, every muscle in his body contracted; he took a wide-legged stance, clenched his fists, dropped his shoulders and stood like a statue of a warrior. He breathed like a maddened horse, a primal growl emanating from his chest, his eyes staring wildly behind closed eyelids as his mind receded from his body, replaced by the primordial spirit of desperate survival instinct. He stayed like this for a time, refusing to die, refusing to capitulate, mastering the sensations. Slowly, he forced his mind to reluctantly return from its emergency bunker somewhere deep in his spine to his abused, suffering consciousness. Slowly, his breathing became rhythmic. The beast-like growl fell into a repeating pattern that became a mantra, stabilising his wildly thrashing spirit. His calves cramped from clenching. His entire body posed like like rock. His hand reached out again. It hesitated. It turned the knob. All the way down. Stage five. Absolute zero. The mind was overwhelmed; it could not persist. The growl in his throat rose to a strange hum, almost a monk-like chant, at once mediatative and full of primal force. Acting on its own, his body moved slowly through a series of bizarre, hyper-controlled movements and stances, somewhere between qi-gong and a bodybulder¡¯s posing routine. Where this came from, he had no idea; nor was he in a suitable state of mind to consider the matter. Ancient survival instincts governed him entirely, his senses all but shut down. He was aware only that this was the most unpleasant sensation that he had ever known, that the limits of what his body could tolerate were breached, that by standing here like this he stupidly, irresponsibly, madly unlocked the door that led to death, that every moment he drew closer to it, felt its claws scratch at him, knew that his defences were exhausted, overwhelmed, that he was beaten, lost, hopeless, alone¡­ ¡­and then¡­ ¡­when his desperate grip on life and warmth was finally broken¡­ ¡­when he was finally defeated and gave up on hope¡­ ¡­like a battered canoe passing from the rapids into the still lagoon beyond... He calmed. His mind stilled. His breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed. He became one with the cold. He inhaled slowly, deeply, and opened his eyes. It was cold¡ªvery cold¡ªbut he was in control. His breath came easily now. He felt the delicious, raw sensation of life-giving oxygen filling his chest and bubbling into the rushing current of his blood, feeding the muscles of his body with the power to act upon the world. Layers of stultifying, thought-impeding crust fell away from his mind and it raced and sparkled, like the ¡®after¡¯ shot on an advert for washing-machine cleaner shown on an expensive new television. He stared at the physical universe through upgraded eyes, feeling his place in it, and it glimmered and twinkled back at him. He was conscious, alive, healthy, strong, and focused. Everything was clear. Life was simple. All he had to do was decide what he wanted, work out how to get it, and take small steps towards it, consistently, for a long time. If he did that, he¡¯d win at life and be happy. If everyone did that, everyone would win at life and be happy. He smiled to himself at the revelation; he ought to have the thought tattooed on himself before he forgot it. With this sort of clarity and this sense of power, life was going to be easy. This was the state of enlightenment that lay on the other side of stage five¡ªthe whole point of the exercise¡ªand it was wonderful. Three minutes passed in blissful, cold peace. By the time they were over Lee had completely revised his plan for the day to include a healthy run in the sunshine (which he vowed to repeat every day from now on), a healthy meal of fish and vegetables (which would be the start of a new strict diet regime, starting today), and some of the holiday homework he had been set (because he was, starting now, someone who worked hard and achieved things in life). All he needed for a complete new start as a better person was energy and focus, and he was overflowing with them. He spent the first minutes of the rest of his life towelling himself off and feeling fantastic. Then he made a cup of tea and sat back down in front of his computer. Now that he¡¯d sorted out the formula for the rest of his life, he could have a well-earned break; it would still be there waiting when he got back. In the meantime, there were giant warcrabs to hunt. 9: A Polite Lunch Meanwhile¡­ A few miles away¡­ The countryside, near Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Amanda- ¡®Haven¡¯t seen you in a while,¡¯ rumbled Mr. Poffingsworth, ostensibly to a steaming potato. He sat at the head of the table and spoke in a continuous roll that left no gaps between syllables for even the most determined interruptor to jimmy an ¡®um¡¯ into. He gave the impression that a lifetime of winning difficult conversations against difficult people had left him so casually oppressive that he had to consciously tone himself down in normal conversations so as not to win them unintentionally. ¡®No,¡¯ said Kylie. As a response it seemed insufficient. ¡®I haven¡¯t been here,¡¯ she added. Mr. Poffingsworth enjoyed his potato in silence. Kylie, uncertain whether to follow suit, cautiously enforked a sprout and raised it to her mouth; but just as her lips parted to accept it, Mr. Poffingsworth muttered: ¡®That would explain it.¡¯ Amanda groaned internally. Through years of dark experience she had learned to hunker down and weather the blizzards of he father¡¯s conversation; but poor Kylie, seated next to her on the long side of the table, was caught in the middle of one with nothing but politeness and good intentions for defence. Amanda glanced over at her; the poor girl had the familiar look of someone maintaining a cheerful expression while trying to work out whether Mr. Poffingsworth was attacking them. ¡®Wonderful food, Mrs. Poffingsworth!¡¯ Kylie blurted. ¡®Oh, thank you,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth, who sat at the end of the table opposite her husband, warmly. ¡®Do help yourself, there¡¯s plenty more of everything. Apart from the parsnips.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ gushed Kylie overenthusiastically. ¡®What a shame! The parsnips are lovely!¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth stopped eating and looked at her. ¡®Ah¡­ so¡¯s everything else, obviously,¡¯ she added hurriedly. Mr. Poffingsworth¡¯s face, a study in blotches and wobbles, tilted down so that his eyes fixed on her over the top of his glasses. ¡®You can have my parsnips,¡¯ he intoned slowly. ¡®Um. No, no, I¡¯m fine, thank you¡¯. ¡®I didn¡¯t ask you how you are,¡¯ he replied, his glasses still lowered over his nose. ¡®N-¡­ um,¡¯ ¡®I invited you to my parsnips.¡¯ ¡®Um. No, thank you. It¡¯s okay. Thank you.¡¯ ¡®Nor did I ask you whether ¡®it¡¯ is okay,¡¯ he continued. ¡®Ahh.¡¯ ¡®Whatever ¡®it¡¯ might be.¡¯ He eyed her expectantly. ¡®There¡¯s really no need, thank you,¡¯ said Kylie, her face turning the same shade as the medium-rare beef that flopped lifelessly on the end of Mr. Poffingsworth¡¯s fork. ¡®I¡¯m perfectly aware, Kylie¡¯, he intoned, pronouncing her name as though he didn¡¯t believe it was her real one, ¡®that there is no need for parsnips. The human race would doubtless have achieved all that it has achieved, from the taming of fire right up to landing on the moon-¡¯ Amanda noted without surprise that he counted landing on the moon as humankind¡¯s most recent achievement ¡®-perfectly adequately without parsnips. They are a pleasant, optional addition to life, and as such I invite you to mine.¡¯ ¡®Then, ah, I politely refuse,¡¯ said Kylie, smiling too much. ¡®Thank you.¡¯ ¡®Refuse, do you?¡¯ ¡®I, um-¡¯ ¡®Politely, is it?¡¯ ¡®Well-¡¯ ¡®Polite, are you?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m trying my best!¡¯ she grinned desperately. ¡®Doesn¡¯t sound very polite. Refusing.¡¯ ¡®I, uh. I apologise? Mr. Poffingsworth?¡¯ ¡®Oh do stop it Alan, the poor girl is a guest. Just ignore him, Kylie, he-¡¯ ¡®I politely call you a glob of phlegm in a half-wit¡¯s handkerchief.¡¯ ¡®Alan!¡¯ cried Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®Perfectly alright. I said I was being polite.¡¯ ¡®I assure you, you are not.¡¯ ¡®Ha ha,¡¯ said Kylie, pleadingly. ¡®This is how they talk now, dear,¡¯ he said. ¡®It¡¯s a perfect strategy,¡¯ he went on, softly pushing his fork into the unresisting flesh of a sprout. ¡®You can¡¯t ever say anything wrong or upset anyone, because you¡¯ve made it unequivocally clear that you¡¯re being polite. They put up polite notices all over the office too.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t work in an office, Mr. Poffingsworth, I¡¯m still at unive-¡¯ ¡®Polite notice: if the bin is full, please empty it. Polite notice: Please do not take personal calls in the office as others may find it distracting. Polite notice: please wash your own cup. Don¡¯t you? And they write kind regards at the end of e-mails. Even emails that are self-evidently unkind! It¡¯s genius.¡¯ ¡®No one cares, dad,¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®You¡¯ll stop putting sensible arguments together at all soon. You¡¯ll all just say ¡°eloquently and convincingly¡± at the end of whatever half-baked drivel you feel the overwhelming need to spout in the heat of the moment, and that¡¯ll be that.¡¯ The fork descended from the wagging position to lend force to the mauling of a slice of beef. ¡®Kylie,¡¯ began Mrs. Poffingsworth, kindly. ¡®Your honour, I state indubitably and utterly convincingly that my client is innocent.¡¯ said Mr. Poffingsworth, loudly. ¡®Oh, well, that¡¯s that then, good show, thanks for saving us all that time. Off you go then, no prison for you!¡¯ ¡®I take your point, Mr. Poffingsworth,¡¯ said Kylie bravely. ¡®Do what you want with it,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®So long as you do so politely.¡¯ Cutlery tinkled some more. Kylie found herself afraid to chew too loudly. ¡®That is an interesting point, Dad.¡¯ Amanda said suddenly. ¡®Just out of interest, what have you been writing instead of ¡°yours sincerely¡± at the bottom of all your letters, since the day you decided it was such an intolerable breach of etiquette?¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth¡¯s fork halted its ascent. ¡®What do you mean?¡¯ ¡®What have you been writing instead of yours sincerely, given that it would be a reprehensible and transparent attempt at deception to make claims as to your own sincerity.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s not the same thing¡¯. ¡®It absolutely is exactly the same,¡¯ said Amanda. Mr. Poffingsworth masticated contemplatively. ¡®Genevieve and her fianc¨¦ are going to Latvia for their honeymoon in August,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®Oh that sounds nice.¡¯ said Kylie. ¡®I think. Is Latvia a holiday place?¡¯ ¡®Another¡¯s sincerity or insincerity is in their intentions, id est, entirely internal to them, and not mine to observe or judge ad hoc,¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth rumbled. ¡®Politeness, on the other hand, is external, observable, and objective. Ergo, to assure another of one¡¯s sincerity is appropriate, it being private and unobservable, but to assure another of one¡¯s politeness, which can be observed and measured against objective standards¡¯¡ªMr. Poffingsworth looked up over the rim of his glasses again¡ª¡®is trampling roughshod over their prerogative to make the judgement for themselves.¡¯ If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡®Three Latins!¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®Goodness. You must be right.¡¯ ¡®I present,¡¯ said Mr. Poffingsworth, ¡®a perfectly irrefutable argument, in an irresistibly persuasive manner, that you are a three-legged brontosaurus.¡¯ ¡®Well in that case,¡¯ said Amanda through a mouthful of vegetables. ¡®Moo.¡¯ ¡®I also present the self-evident argument that you¡¯re a flippant arse!¡¯ ¡®Alan!¡¯ ¡®Ad hominem, father!¡¯ replied Amanda. ¡®Quod erat demonstrandum!!¡¯ exclaimed Mr. Poffingsworth, laying down his fork with a clatter. He frowned at her intently. She made a show of being too engrossed in her dinner to care. ¡®From the garden,¡¯ he said eventually, to Kylie. ¡®Pardon?¡¯ ¡®The parsnips. They¡¯re from the garden.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Ah¡­ They¡¯re very nice.¡¯ ¡®As you say. Now give me your plate,¡¯ said Mr. Poffingsworth. He took the plate from Kylie¡¯s tentatively outstretched hand, placed it next to his own and, with no regard whatsoever for the awkwardness of the situation, slowly and laboriously transferred his own gravy-and-mustard-smeared parsnips from his plate to hers, one by one, using his own knife and fork, occasionally assisted by his thumb. Kylie expressed her thanks twice during the process, adding another ¡°thank you¡± when he returned the plate. She looked down at the newly parsnip-heavy lunch, now significantly colder than it had been, then looked back up at Mr. Poffingsworth. ¡®Mmmmm!¡¯ she said enthusiastically. But his attention was now devoted to his own beef-laden fork and he spared her not the slightest acknowledgement. Whatever it was that he had just done, he clearly now considered it finished. Amanda looked up at Kylie. She clearly wasn¡¯t used to this sort of tension at mealtimes; she was looking around like a meerkat, doing nervous things with her face, obviously trying to think of something to say and hopelessly failing. ¡®Tell us about Geni and Latvia, Mum,¡¯ she said reluctantly. ¡®Very unconventional, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®But we¡¯re all for it. Breaking with tradition, I mean. Aren¡¯t we Alan?¡¯ She looked at him pointedly, eliciting nothing. ¡®Have you met Genevieve, Kylie? ¡®No. I¡¯ve heard lots about her, obviously¡­¡¯ she replied, glancing at Amanda, who had never told her anything about Genevieve. ¡®You¡¯d get on very well,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth matter-of-factly. ¡®She and Hugo are very progressive.¡¯ ¡®Oh?¡¯ ¡®Oh, yes.¡¯ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ¡®After the wedding they¡¯re going to have double-barrelled surnames.¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth¡¯s cutlery clacked against his plate as he set it down, his neck blossoming an unhappy crimson. ¡®This again!¡¯ he clamoured. ¡®Alan doesn¡¯t approve,¡¯ she added, one eyebrow raised. ¡®As long as I¡¯m footing the bill-¡¯ ¡®Oh, not now, Alan, you¡¯ve had one rant.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s bad enough she¡¯s up the duff-¡¯ ¡®Alan!¡¯ ¡®Pish, woman, it¡¯s only a secret from anyone too stupid to wonder at a sudden wedding in the pissing cold of January¡­what are they planning to call themselves anyway? Do we know? Wimble-Poffinsgworth, is it? Or Poffingsworth-Wimble?¡¯ ¡®Wimble-Poffinsgworth, I believe,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth coldly. ¡®Wimble-Poffingsworth! For the love of god. What a thing to inflict on a child. Imagine the poor little bastard-¡® ¡®Alan!¡¯ ¡®Bastard it is, conceived out of wedlock, and so bastard I say!¡¯ he barely raised his voice, but the effect was dramatic. He continued uninterrupted: ¡®wincing every time a teacher calls the register. A fine long queue there¡¯ll be in the playground to kick her in the head.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m sure they¡¯ve thought it through,¡¯ sniffed Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®And every thump of the boot that pair of idiots¡¯ doing. God knows we''ve suffered enough over generations just for being Poffingsworths,¡¯ he barrelled on. ¡®Why she wants not only to hang onto the damn thing but strap a great warbling kazoo of a name like Wimble onto the side of it¡­¡¯ ¡®I think it¡¯s very admirable of them,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth. She smiled warmly at Kylie. ¡®Subverting the patriarchy.¡¯ ¡®Subvert it all you bloody want!¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth barked. ¡®Subvert it until it¡¯s got its trousers round its ears and its bollocks in its nostrils if you like¡ª¡¯ ¡®Alan!¡¯ ¡®¡ªbut tell me this, hmm, what happens when our darling grandchild, when little Tallulah Wimble-Poffingsworth, or whatever clownish name they choose to curse her with, grows up? Eh? And comes home on the arm of some young dandy with a new suit and a bunch of flowers who politely introduces himself as Rodney Buggerington-Smythe, hmm, son of another pair of patriarchy-subverters, and declares that she is in love with him, asinine surname and all, and wants to append herself to him in the same admirably progressive and patriarchy-subverting manner as her own parents? Mmm? And then, mmm, when she graces the Earth with his offspring, what then, eh? Are we to have a troupe of little Buggerington--Poffingsworth-Wimble-Smythes running about the place? Very admirable they¡¯ll be. Or will we just pick the stupidest part from each side?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth icily. ¡®An acronym, perhaps?¡¯ The frost in her eyes looked almost enough to freeze the beef on his fork but he leaned forward, as impervious as an avalanche. ¡®You can glare at me all you like, dear. You may elevate your disapproval to growling and hissing, if you feel minded to do so. But I remain the only voice of common sense in this debacle and as such I am obliged to intervene.¡¯ ¡®What you are, and what you are not,¡¯ replied Mrs. Poffingsworth in syllables as sharp as scissors, ¡®I shall refrain from speculating upon at table, save for the obvious fact that you are ill-mannered.¡¯ He leaned back and harrumphed. ¡®You can tell her from me that if she intends to be married in anything finer than a registry office and a supermarket blouse, she will first go and legally change her name to his, or even better change both their names to something sensible, and then go and see Gilbert about signing a contract preventing her from changing it back. Then, and only then, when that contract is in my hands, will there be a wedding fund for her to waste on frocks and flowers and overdressed bits of salmon.¡¯ And with that, he delivered the slice of beef into his mouth and busied himself chewing, his decree delivered. The three remaining participants looked at one another uncertainly. ¡®I apologise, Kylie,¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®Meals at our house aren¡¯t always quite so fraught.¡¯ ¡®Yes they are,¡¯ said Amanda. ¡®They¡¯re just usually quieter.¡¯ And so the meal progressed, fraught but quiet, for some minutes. Kylie remained silent, Amanda noted with relief and approval. Eventually Mr. Poffingsworth leaned back in his chair, which creaked in distress; despite having done the lion¡¯s share of the talking, he had also finished his meal. ¡®That was very nice,¡¯ he said. ¡®Now, you two.¡¯ He turned his attention to Amanda and Kylie, who were seated next to one another along the long side of the dining table. Kylie froze as though he had pulled out a gun. ¡®I¡¯ve given this some thought,¡¯ he rumbled on. Amanda continued eating, vaguely hoping that if she ignored him he would get annoyed enough to finally have the heart attack his face had long promised. ¡®You¡¯re lesbians.¡¯ The sounds of eating stopped. The echo of the sentence bounced around the silent room, clattering and ricocheting off the walls like a startled pigeon. Amanda played and replayed it back through her mind¡¯s ears, looking for the error, unable to accept that what she had heard correlated with had been said. As the shadow of those words engulfed the scene, the food she was staring at resolved into sharp focus. Its colours were suddenly harsh, organic and revolting; before her eyes her lunch transformed into wet, lukewarm chunks of plants and the muscle tissue of a dead farm animal, slopped over with glistening oily brown. Her stomach seemed to contract in revulsion as the sprout in her mouth turned to bitter, poisonous mush, the fork in her hand a vulgar weapon whose cold steel rasped nastily against her skin. The lights were too bright, her clothes too tight, her skin too hot. The world before he said those two words and the world afterwards separated tectonically. She watched, helpless, as the cataclysmic rift widened with each passing second, with her on the wrong side of it. ¡®I¡¯ve given it some thought,¡¯ he barrelled on. ¡®Wait, Mr. Poffingsworth, sorry b-¡¯ began Kylie. ¡®Don¡¯t deny it, girl, you are and we all know you are so please don¡¯t insult us by lying.¡¯ ¡®No, it¡¯s not- I¡¯m not-¡¯ ¡®This conversation is not happening,¡¯ said Amanda before Kylie could confirm or deny anything. She wanted to get up and walk away but something wouldn¡¯t let her. ¡®Perhaps-¡¯ said Mrs. Poffingsworth. ¡®Would you please,¡¯ snapped Mr. Poffingsworth, silencing the other three, ¡®do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say before broadcasting your reactions to it!¡¯ ¡®No, dad,¡¯ Amanda said hotly, quietly, setting down her cutlery. ¡®if you wanted to have a conversation about that, the right time was about ten years ago.¡¯ ¡®Settle your emotions, child, and disabuse yourself of the notion that this is a conversation.¡¯ His tone was flat and empty. ¡®I am informing, not consulting you.¡¯ Amanda¡¯s mind raced for something to say that would stop him from planting his great dirty feet in this private territory of hers but her mind was blank, stunned into passive stupidity by the violation, as though he suddenly had his hand on her liver. ¡®In fact I am doing you the service of avoiding the need for ¡®coming out¡¯, as you call it, and if you will only listen, a great deal besides.¡¯ She could feel Kylie¡¯s eyes on her, expecting a defence that would not come. She simply sat, as defenceless as a snail pulled from its shell, while the enormous red man splashed words across the table like salt. ¡®Your sexuality is of far less interest to me than you seem to think, girl. God knows I¡¯ve known enough covert homosexuals over thirty years in Westminster and believe me you¡¯re better off being upfront about these things. My opinion on the matter is that you¡¯re old enough to do what you want and at least you won¡¯t end up like your sister.¡¯ Mrs. Poffingsworth inhaled sharply, but knew better than to interrupt. ¡®Now, listen. You¡¯ve been¡­ courting for some years now, hmmm, and don¡¯t try to pretend you haven¡¯t, your mother and I are neither blind nor deaf, and as you seem to see fit to go about things as though Kylie were a young gentleman, so shall we. Now. When Genivieve and Hugo are married, they will move in together and he will vacate the flat in the village. Kylie here will live in it, giving you free¡­ visitation to one another, though it goes without saying that you will be discreet. She will have your sister¡¯s old car, as she seems to have given up on learning to drive it, and I¡¯ve spoken with a man I know at the University of York about transferring her studies there. They may require her to take an extra module or two to smooth over the cracks but it should all be in place for September.¡¯ Amanda could imagine Kylie¡¯s face, her eyebrows forced up in incredulity, stretching the skin above her eyes, exposing the dark skin of the eyelids, but she couldn¡¯t look at her, couldn¡¯t allow anything to pass between them to prove her father right. Nor could she look at him, not without her face giving her vulnerability away. She desperately racked her brain for anything she could do to stop this from happening but it was like hammering at the keyboard of a frozen computer. And so, for the lack of any executable action that wouldn¡¯t somehow make it worse, she fixed her expression like concrete and weathered the storm. ¡®It¡¯s no less than what we did with Hugo when he showed up half-educated and penniless,¡¯ he added, turning to Kylie. ¡®You¡¯ll have a monthly stipend so there¡¯ll be no further need for waitressing. Your time will be spent studying, not ferrying people¡¯s tea about the place.¡¯ After a moment, Kylie guffawed. ¡®Is this real?¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t be facetious. There-¡¯ ¡®Wait,¡¯ she interrupted, ¡®sorry, Mr. Poffingsworth, I¡¯m sure you¡¯re being kind in your way but I am so, so uncomfortable with this.¡¯ Mr. Poffingsworth lowered his tone, in the way that those with money naturally do when talking about money. ¡®You are welcome to repay it once you graduate and find proper work, if it bothers you. Far easier to repay it then, when you¡¯ll have a proper income, than slaving away for tea-shop wages now when you should be getting your head down in the library. You see the logic in that, surely.¡¯ ¡®Well, obviously but, um¡­ I¡¯m sorry but I¡¯m actually really happy with my course. And my job. Thank you, I mean.¡¯ She laughed nervously. ¡®If you intend to support my daughter, I¡¯ll see that you have the means to do so. Which starts with a proper education.¡¯ ¡®Support your¡­ I don¡¯t-¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t react emotionally. Consider the thing with a cool head,¡¯ he said. ¡®The sense in it will be readily apparent. I¡¯ll have my pudding in the study.¡¯ With that he scraped his chair cacophonously backwards on the weathered tiles, rotated his stomach out from under the table, rose, and shuffled heavily past the seated women, grunting ¡®Welcome to the family.¡¯ When he had left the room, Mrs. Poffingsworth stood without saying a word and busied herself clearing the table; Kylie, the product of a well-mannered upbringing, automatically fell into helping. Amanda sat numbly, waiting for the stalled machinery of her mind to restart, listening to the familiar clattering of crockery punctuated by the distant beeping of Mr. Poffingsworth¡¯s chess machine. 10: The Plan Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ The sea Not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Saskia- The freed prisoners huddled around Igor, fully awake. Igor was speaking in a harsh whisper, wary of the danger of being heard by the Polity above. ¡®You were all in that prison. That means none of you pays your tribute, which means none of you likes the damn Polity, so we¡¯ve all got something in common right from the start. And here¡¯s another thing we¡¯ve got in common: I reckon we probably all knew people who got taken away on these ships, so we all know that the ships come back and the people don¡¯t. Which means we¡¯re all cacking ourselves thinking we¡¯re all being taken to our deaths. So there¡¯s two things. And here¡¯s another: we all want to get ourselves out of this little pickle.¡¯ Saskia could feel the faint tingle of Igor¡¯s urge at the base of her spine; he was using it, but nowhere near as powerfully as she would have expected. It seemed he was trying to persuade them with words, using the Urge as a subtle encouragement, rather than overwhelming them with it from the start. It was so faint she had barely noticed it; if he kept it at this level and slowly built it up, the rest of them probably wouldn¡¯t even realise what he was doing. ¡®So, here¡¯s what we¡¯re gonna do. We¡¯re gonna bust out of this stinking hole. We¡¯re gonna go up there, and we¡¯re gonna kill ¡®em. All of ¡®em. We¡¯re gonna take the ship. ¡®Oh, shit,¡¯ said a frightened voice. ¡®Ohhh shit oh shit oh shit. You idiots.¡¯ ¡®Are you out of your mind?¡¯ ¡®Count me out,¡¯ said a woman who had earlier introduced herself as Dhyani. ¡®I¡¯m not fighting them. I¡¯ve seen what happens. Too many times.¡¯ ¡®Me too. Get killed by yourself,¡¯ added another. ¡®I¡¯ve got kids.¡¯ That was how anyone would react to the suggestion of attacking the Polity. Saskia didn¡¯t blame them. Now he would have to use his Urge. She shuddered in anticipation¡­ But for some reason, he didn¡¯t. He kept it low, though his voice took on a new intensity. ¡®Shut up. Listen. We¡¯re gonna kill ¡®em, and we¡¯re gonna sail this ship to wherever it is they¡¯ve been taking people, find out what¡¯s there, report it back home using the special communicative capabilities of my mate Bill over there, and then we¡¯re gonna destroy it.¡¯ As earnest as he sounded, even Saskia wasn¡¯t convinced. Huddled here in the cold, stinking darkness while their captors laughed above them, it was clear where the power lay. The idea of going up to fight them seemed absurd, and utterly suicidal. She wanted him to use the Urge to convince her, never mind the prisoners. ¡®Smash it, burn it, sink it, kill it, blow it up, whatever,¡¯ he continued, seemingly oblivious to the inefficacy of his words. ¡®And make sure they can¡¯t carry on doing whatever it is they¡¯re doing any more.¡¯ ¡®Oh, is that it?¡¯ Dhyani scoffed. ¡®Nice plan, champ. Kill all the Polity, steal their ship, destroy whatever operation they¡¯re running. Easy. Then what? Go back home? They¡¯ll kill us on sight, you idiot!¡¯ ¡®Then, my friend, you¡¯re not a prisoner, you¡¯re not dead, and you¡¯ve got a great big boat with legs and a whole world to explore. Far better chance than what you had this morning.¡¯ ¡®Like I said,¡¯ she replied. ¡®Ive got kids.¡¯ ¡®You think you¡¯re gonna see your kids again?¡¯ he growled. ¡®Let me tell you somethin¡¯ you don¡¯t know. These ships, they come back a few days after they go. I know ¡®cos I ain¡¯t been in prison long. I¡¯ve been out there, watching them. And when they come back, they don¡¯t come back empty. Didn¡¯t know that, did you? That hold that was full of human beings when it went out, it comes back full. Stuffed full. So full you can see the ship riding lower in the water. So full them legs dip in up to their knees. You know what¡¯s in it? Eh? ¡¯ The gaze of a hundred wide eyes fixed on him. ¡®Nectar,¡¯ he whispered. He pointed upwards, towards the thick bridge of skin-wrapped flesh that stretched across the top of the hold, connecting the two gargantuan Goblin legs paddling the ship. Each thigh was bolted to the hull on the inside, where it would have joined the pelvis on a human body, by a pair of huge crossbeams that passed through the flesh and bone, holding it in place. The bridge that connected the two legs was nothing but a bundle of nerves, Saskia suspected, wrapped in skin and pinned to the ceiling, connecting the two legs to keep them synchronised. It also extended up through a hole in the ceiling, probably to a control point on deck to allow a controller to manipulate both legs at once. From the centre of the nerve-bridge dangled a shiny, wet little tube. It was a pallid shade of pink and full of little kinks and bends. It looked like it should be inside, not outside the body. It extended down into an enormous barrel that was suspended from the ceiling-beams by a rope and a hook, so that it wouldn¡¯t spill when the ship lurched. ¡®That,¡¯ said Igor, indicating the barrel. ¡®Nectar. Look at that barrel. That¡¯s enough to power half the damn city for a day. Do you have any idea how much nectar it takes to run a Goblin the size of those legs? Course you don¡¯t. There ain¡¯t any other Goblins that big, not that you know about anyway. I¡¯ll tell you how much it takes. That bloody much.¡¯ He waved his finger again at the huge barrel, big enough to comfortably fit three men inside. ¡®Absolutely bloody loads of it. So much it should be impossible to run it, with the amount of Nectar the city produces. Where do you think they¡¯re getting it from? An¡¯ you know what else? They¡¯re making more massive Goblins, so damn big they can¡¯t hide ¡®em inside the Manse. We been spying on ¡®em over the walls. They¡¯ve got things that we don¡¯t even know what they are, things you¡¯d take one look at and wet yourself, nightmare mega-Goblins the size of a house. And now, somehow, by taking people away on ships and doing whatever it is they¡¯re doing to ¡®em, they¡¯re getting the nectar to run ¡®em. Nectar they¡¯re producing, using humans, in secret somewhere. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Just think about that. They normally make the nectar out of plants and rubbish. There¡¯s not much energy in plants and rubbish. They do it as efficiently as they can, but there¡¯s a limit. You can¡¯t get more energy out than you put in. Now, you know what¡¯s full of energy? People. Animals. If you could chuck living things in instead of plants and rubbish, you¡¯d get tons of the stuff out, tons and tons and tons. But you can¡¯t do it. Robert Coddington-Boyle himself made a rule against it. The whole system shuts itself down if even an insect gets in. And now they¡¯ve damn near chopped down all the trees, they¡¯re running out of raw materials to make more. Now, think about it. They produce all the Goblins and they produce the nectar that runs them. If the nectar dries up, their whole stranglehold on the economy breaks. Overnight. You know the Polity. You know what they¡¯re like. You think they¡¯re gonna just sit and go ¡°ho-hum, guess that¡¯s our limit then, better find a new source of income, hey shall we start knitting blankets¡±? No. If they found a way to turn people into nectar, you think they wouldn¡¯t do it?¡¯ No one spoke. ¡®And on top of that, I promise you, whatever they¡¯re planning to use them giant Goblins is for, it ain¡¯t gonna do you or your families any favours. So, two questions: one, why do they keep taking prisoners out there and bringing back Nectar instead of people? And two, why are they doing it somewhere miles away where no one else can see what they¡¯re up to?¡¯ He swept his gaze over the prisoners, inviting a response. ¡®Far as I¡¯m concerned it ain¡¯t hard to put two and two together and come up with oh shit. Which is what I¡¯m telling you. You need to understand where you are right now. You ain¡¯t on holiday. You ain¡¯t going off on a nice adventure. You¡¯re on your way to get ground up and turned into Goblin juice. If we sit here and do nothing, if we don¡¯t go up there and kill that lot, we¡¯re all dead.¡¯ There was a long moment while the prisoners considered his words. Then they began to ask questions. They wanted to know who Igor was, and how he knew all this. They wanted to know why they should trust him. They wanted to know why he would risk his life by deliberately stowing away on a ship taking people to their deaths. They asked question after questions after question and still, he didn¡¯t unleash the force of his Urge. Instead, to Saskia¡¯s growing frustration, he explained the entire plot. He explained how he and his group of renegades had been planning this for months. How they had monitored the Polity¡¯s comings and goings, learned all that they could and worked out the rest, and met in secret to formulate a plot. How they¡ªhe, Saskia and Billy¡ªhad gotten themselves arrested and thrown in jail as a way of planting themselves on the ship. About Holly and Marco sneaking on board using their innate ability to go unseen, and hiding above them now, playing their parts in the deception that would trick the Polity into letting their guard down. About Saskia¡¯s preparations with the antidote and the boneblades, and the endless practice cutting herself free from ropes. They murmured their thanks to her for that; uncertain as they were of their current position, none of them would rather be lying bound and unconscious on the filthy floor. ¡®Hang on,¡¯ Dhyani piped up again. Saskia was beginning to take a particular dislike to her. ¡®So this girl Holly sold the other guy¡ªwhat was his name?¡¯ ¡®Marco.¡¯ ¡®She¡¯s sold Marco out to the Polity just to make them think they¡¯ve foiled the plot and start celebrating?¡¯ Igor nodded grimly. Saskia lowered her eyes; this was the part of the plan that none of them was comfortable with. ¡®We need them messed up on Lilymilk,¡¯ Igor said, heavily, raising his finger to indicate the sounds of debauchery coming from above. ¡®Need their guard down. It makes all the difference.¡¯ ¡®Wh- How did you even know they¡¯d start drinking?¡¯ ¡®You know what they¡¯re like. They¡¯d probably have got bored and started anyway. This was just a way to make sure.¡¯ ¡®And Marco¡¯s okay with this?? They¡¯ll kill him!¡¯ Igor¡¯s eyes met Saskia¡¯s. They both looked away. It was Billy who spoke up: ¡®We never told him.¡¯ A hundred eyes, already narrowed in suspicion, now widened in disbelief. The truth was that none of them¡ªnot Saskia, Igor, Billy, and especialyl not Holly¡ªwas happy with the deception of Marco. It was heartless. Marco was a waste of space, but lying to his face and throwing him to the Polity like a piece of meat was a violation of basic human morality that none of them could stomach. But Ken had insisted there was no other way to get the hatch open. No other way to ensure they could win the ship. Ken had told them to trust him, and because he was Ken, they had. ¡®Yeah. We did it. We sacrificed him,¡¯ Billy continued. ¡®We lied to him. We told him he and Holly were going to blow up the ship, sink it miles off the coast and go out in a blaze of glory. Gave him a real bomb and everything, except I put a stopper in it so he couldn¡¯t actually set it off. He was¡­ look, we know, alright? We know it¡¯s bad. And I know this doesn¡¯t make it okay, but for what it¡¯s worth, his life wasn¡¯t going well. He¡¯s been smoking and diving way too much, for way too long, and he was never going to come back out of it. He had maybe a few months left, and he knew it. He was¡­ he was reconciled with the idea of dying for the cause.¡¯ The prisoners murmured to one another, their expressions grim. They were even less likely to follow him now. What was he doing? He was losing them! Why wasn¡¯t he using his Urge? She glared at him. ¡®So now you know how serious this is,¡¯ he said. ¡®One man is dead. Many more are going to die, very soon. Either way, you need to understand; this is life or death. Us or them.¡¯ ¡®You just threw a man to his death,¡¯ Dhyani said. ¡®And now you want us to trust you?¡¯ ¡®Um,¡¯ said Saskia. There was no point hiding it; they¡¯d find out as soon as they went up, and that wouldn¡¯t be the time for surprises. ¡®Actually¡­ While you were all asleep, I heard their leader talking. They haven¡¯t actually killed him.¡¯ Igor looked up in alarm. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®They didn¡¯t kill him. We thought they would, but¡­ As far as I can tell they¡¯ve tied him up and¡­ they¡¯re planning to make an example of him when they get him back to town. I think she was talking about a¡­ um,¡¯ ¡®A what, Saskia?¡¯ Igor¡¯s voice was urgent. ¡®A public execution.¡¯ ¡®We¡¯re not gonna let that happen,¡¯ he replied immediately, but it was too late. ¡®You think I¡¯m gonna let them do that to me?¡¯ ¡®In front of my kids?¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s what happens. That¡¯s what you get if you attack the Polity.¡¯ ¡®Listen. Everybody listen,¡¯ hissed Dhyani, and Saskia noted with irritation that the prisoners all stopped and paid attention to her. ¡®We don¡¯t know for sure what will happen if we stay put. Maybe something bad, maybe something else. But we know exactly what will happen if we try and attack the Polity. We can¡¯t even consider it.¡¯ ¡®Absolutely.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s right.¡¯ ¡®Yeah, no. I¡¯m out.¡¯ ¡®You nutters get yourselves executed.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ll take my chances.¡¯ ¡®Leave me out of it.¡¯ It was when Saskia felt herself nodding along with them that she realised. This woman, Dhyani, was Forceborn. She was using her own Urge, spreading her own doubt and fear and caution among them. Pushing them to follow her. Trying to lead. And Igor was still just staring at them, frowning. He must have felt what she was doing. What was he waiting for? The muttering increased in volume until Dhyani hissed again for silence. She looked around her at the dissenting group, then at Igor. ¡®I think everyone¡¯s out,¡¯ she said shaking her head. Others nodded their agreement. Igor closed his eyes and shook his head in resignation. Finally. Saskia almost deflated with relief. Finally, finally, she thought, feeling the familiar sparkly tug of Igor¡¯s Urge flare into life somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Where Dhyani¡¯s had been like a subtle heavy weight dragging her spirits down, Igor¡¯s was an explosion. She smiled, knowing the others would all be feeling the same thing. The tingling sensation zipped up her spine like and flowered, making her shudder, prickling her skin. It spread through her body¡ªoh wow, she thought with pleasure, he¡¯s not holding back¡­ oh WOW¡ªwashing her own feelings away, bringing fiery, alien emotions; his. She felt what he felt, desired what he desired. Igor¡¯s anger, his lust for vengeance, his determination, all flooded her. She raged with a burning need for righteous violence and a single-minded hatred for the Polity that she could no more resist than she could resist the need to breathe. This was Igor¡¯s power. ¡®No,¡¯ he said slowly, and when he opened his eyes again they shone. ¡®You ain¡¯t.¡¯ In the darkness, a hundred eyes narrowed. 11: A Warning Meanwhile¡­ Above¡­ The sea Not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Holly- ¡®Begging your pardoning for the disturbing of your conversing, Your Grace,¡¯ the man trilled. He bowed theatrically before the feet of the Goblin. The sounds of joyful shouting and clinking bottles carried over from the other end of the ship. ¡®My Lord,¡¯ Gennara raised one eyebrow, but her voice was warm. ¡®Your countenance alone is quite disturbing enough. I fail to imagine anything you might say that could disturb me to any greater degree than that to which I am already disturbed.¡¯ ¡®Erm.¡¯ the man replied, uncertainly. ¡®Your Grace?¡¯ Holly¡ªwhom Gennarra had casually lifted and rotated so that they now sat facing one another on the Goblin¡¯s back¡ªlooked down and recognised the man as the one who had earlier suggested Belle stand under Marco with a bucket. ¡®What I mean to say is that you may speak, Lord Certainflex.¡¯ He grinned. He looked entirely normal, with a round, everyday sort of face and no apparent ¡®betterments¡¯ to his body. Holly found that just as unsettling as Lady Subtletouch¡¯s hands, if not moreso¡ªit meant that whatever he had done to himself was hidden from view. His Polity-given name¡ªCertainflex¡ªofferred little clue as to his specialisation. ¡®Ahem,¡¯ he began. ¡®It would be an honour and a delight, far greater than anything we rabble deserve, if Your Grace would consider descending from her exalted position atop her most noble beast and deign, even if but momentarily, to participate in a spot of revelry with her humble underlings.¡¯ He knelt and offered up a hand to her. She eyed it with affront. ¡®Yes,¡¯ she replied. ¡®It would.¡¯ Lord Certainflex blinked in confusion. ¡®My Lord, it should be readily apparent to one with your unquestionable powers of observation that I am currently quite consciously and deliberately not engaged in, as you put it, a spot of revelry.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Your Grace.¡¯ ¡®And one with your unquestionable powers of reasoning should not be overburdened to therefore infer that I do not, at this moment, desire to be engaged in said spot of revelry.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Your Grace.¡¯ ¡®Should I feel a sudden and overwhelming compulsion towards a spot of revelry, My Lord, you have my assurance that I shall address it myself. Indeed, I shall seek you out in person and alert you to the fact.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Your Grace.¡¯ ¡®Until such a time, however, My Lord, I would beg of you a courtesy.¡¯ If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡®Your Grace?¡¯ ¡®The courtesy of your absence.¡¯ ¡®Ah. Yes, Your Grace.¡¯ He inclined his head towards Holly. ¡®My Lady.¡¯ ¡®And you will remember your manners. Miss Healey has no title.¡¯ ¡®My apologies.¡¯ He nodded to Holly once more. ¡®Miss.¡¯ He went to retreat, but Gennara called him back. ¡®And Roddenly?¡¯ ¡®Your Grace?¡¯ ¡®Remind the chaps that we have delicate company on board. Miss Healey is to be welcomed warmly, but with due respect and propriety. In fact, I shall hold you personally responsible for her good treatment. Ensure that you attend to her needs, and by that I do not intend some foul euphemism, I refer solely to the wellbeing, both physical and mental, of a sensitive young woman. She is not to witness anything¡­ distressing.¡¯ The man grinned again, waggling his eyebrows. ¡®If our honoured guest is so easily scandalised, Your Grace, might I suggest that it may be necessary to acquaint her with scandal at the earliest opportunity, to ensure her ongoing comfort in our midst.¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ Gennara waved him away. ¡®Um,¡¯ said Holly. ¡®Don¡¯t worry,¡¯ Gennara smiled. ¡®You¡¯re perfectly safe up here with me.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said Holly. ¡®Good, I mean. Great. But does that mean I need to¡­ er, stay, up here?¡¯ ¡®No. So long as you aware that when I put you down, the people will be eager to get to know their new hero.¡¯ Holly grimaced and Gennara chuckled at her discomfort. ¡®Roddenly will look after you. They all will. We have no alcohol for you, I¡¯m afraid, though that is probably for the best. I may be able to dig out a coil of Amberlace¡ª¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ said Holly immediately, and Gennara nodded her understanding. ¡®Then go. You should socialise with your new people before the Lilymilk gets to them and they become¡­ less conversational, shall we say? Follow only two rules: the first is just a suggestion, you being a full-grown woman¡¯¡ªGennara raised an eyebrow in a manner that was anything but subtle, causing Holly to blush¡ª¡®don¡¯t¡­ entangle yourself too far beyond ¡®how do you do,¡¯ if you find my meaning. We of the Polity are known for our affection and affection can be enticing, especially in times of high emotion. But we are also known for our vigour and, not to put too fine a point on it, we are less fragile than you, and we heal better. Perhaps on some carefree, idle Sunday you might find someone to help you explore those particular waters with a healthy balance of joy and caution but today, I fear, caution will have been cast overboard and none of my crew are to be entrusted with anything delicate. Which leads me to the second rule.¡¯ Her expression hardened, just a touch. A slight edge entered her voice. ¡®Do not touch the Lilymilk.¡¯ Holly blinked. Of course she wasn¡¯t going to touch the Lilymilk¡ªshe hadn¡¯t come this far only to poison herself. ¡®I have witnessed first-hand the deaths of laypeople poisoned by it. I will describe them to you as a deterrent. Bodies dried out and twisted; skin thickened like leather, pulled tight as though sucked in from the inside, streaked with veins of purple; bones broken by the contractions of their own muscles. I will not see that happen to you. You may be curious as to its effects and wonder whether the tiniest sip would harm you. It will. Do not touch the Lilymilk.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Your Grace,¡¯ Holly said. Gennara burst out laughing. ¡®One of us already!¡¯ she cried in delight. ¡®You¡¯re going to fit in beautifully. But, Miss Healey.¡¯ She raised one hand, bedecked in rings of black oak and bright precious stones, to cup Holly¡¯s cheek. She froze; Gennara¡¯s thumb traced her cheekbone and she couldn¡¯t tell whether the gesture was threat or affection, but it held her in place as effectively as being skewered by a harpoon. ¡®Seriously,¡¯ she said, her voice soft. ¡®What you did tonight¡­ I can¡¯t imagine how that must have been for you. To betray another, however you may feel about them, and however good your reasons, is an enormous thing for one with morals, which you clearly do. It speaks volumes for your quality of character that you struggled with it, even knowing it was right. You¡¯re putting a beautifully brave face on it but I know you must be hurting. If you want to talk about it, or if you need some time by yourself, just let me know. I¡¯ll be here, and sober.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said Holly. Feelings threatened to bubble up but she forced them back down, resisting the urge to lean her face into the hand and take the comfort it offered. She couldn¡¯t let the mask slip now. ¡®You don¡¯t have to do that,¡¯ she said. ¡®Yes,¡¯ said Gennara, looking into her face. ¡®I do. You¡¯re one of mine now. That means I look after you.¡¯ Holly could only nod. ¡®Go on then. Run along and play.¡¯ With that she placed her hands around Holly¡¯s waist and effortlessly hoisted her down the the floor as the Goblin lowered itself to its knees to ease her dismounting. As Holly walked hesitantly towards the sounds of celebration, Gennara called after her: ¡®If you need me, just shout. I¡¯ll come running.¡¯ 12: Nearby Resident, Local Acquaintance Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Lee- It was more than an hour later, during a deep and intense battle with three giant warcrabs, that Lee¡¯s quest for armour ingredients was interrupted by the resentful little sparkly noise that meant someone real had something to say to him. Reluctantly he paused, just as his screen flashed red to register a hit from a fourth crab that had snuck up behind him. They were admirably strategic. He unlocked the phone. It was Mr. Upstairs. I AVAILABLE FOR HAVE A FUN Lee was still mentally translating this when the next message appeared below the first: THIS NOW IS APPROPRIATE followed shortly afterwards by: ? Mr. Upstairs¡¯s idea of A FUN was hurling a frisbee around in the park while Lee ran after it. He sighed. It had all started a few weeks ago, just before the start of the holidays, when the man had moved in¡­ During a quiet moment over dinner, Lee and his mum had been startled by a wall-rattling thump from upstairs. They had been aware that someone had moved in, but had given no thought to the possibility of noise. The upstairs flat had been empty ever since Mr. Shufta had died, and they¡¯d never heard so much as a peep from him in the years he¡¯d lived there. At a second tremorous thump, she had exclaimed that this sort of thing had to be addressed before it got out of hand and proceeded out into the hallway that they shared with the upstairs flat. Lee had followed behind, suddenly panicking in case he was called upon to be confrontational. The hallway was a fittingly liminal shade of yellow, with an inexplicably high ceiling and three doors: the big, sturdy front door of the building that gave out onto the steps down to the street (which Lee never used, preferring the narrow outdoor stone steps that led directly down to the basement he inhabited) and two internal doors, one of which led to his and his mother¡¯s duplex flat consisting of ground floor and basement, and one that guarded the staircase to the upstairs flat, and whatever mysteries lay within. His mum had knocked on the latter¡ªin eight sharp raps, Lee counted, suggesting that she wasn¡¯t taking the matter lightly¡ªand stood waiting with hands on hips. Lee was wondering whether it would be appropriate to ask the man whether he wanted either of the abandoned bikes that had haunted the hallway since before he was born when a voice came from the other side of the door. ¡®Who are you?¡¯ ¡®Hello, we¡¯re from downstairs,¡¯ his mum had said in her assertive voice. This elicited no response. ¡®Would you open the door please?¡¯ After a tense moment, the door had then opened to reveal a figure¡ªone of the largest humans Lee had ever seen¡ªblocking the doorway even more effectively than the door had. The figure was dressed in an oversized button-up shirt in the particular shade of faded green that can only be achieved through years of cheap washing powder and hot washes followed by more years on a charity-shop rail, distressingly tucked into a pair of grey jogging bottoms. It was capped by an orang-utan-coloured beard in which a mouth presumably dwelt but was presently lost to sight¡ªthough the hard little eyes suggested that, wherever the mouth was, it was not smiling. The facial hair joined with a short, thin ponytail in matching orange, which suited the great cuboid head so poorly that Lee could¡¯ve believed it was a wig, if it weren¡¯t for the fact that no one would make a wig in such a conspicuous colour. ¡®Hello,¡¯ said his mum, clearly taken aback. Lee held up one hand and gave an apologetic little wave. The man took this in. ¡®I live in this house,¡¯ he said, in a not-unfriendly manner. Then he exhaled through his nose. ¡®Yes,¡¯ said Lee¡¯s mum. ¡®And we-¡¯ ¡®You live in that house,¡¯ he said, pointing to Lee and his mum¡¯s door. ¡®That¡¯s right,¡¯ she replied. ¡®You are¡ª¡¯ the man interrupted, then paused. ¡®One minute,¡¯ he said, raising an index finger on one hand and extracting a small white smartphone from the pocket of his trousers with the other. It was tethered to something in his pocket a length of cheap-looking cable¡ªa battery pack, Lee supposed. It seemed odd that he would be using that to charge the phone whilst at home, but then everything else about him seemed odd so, in a way, it didn¡¯t. He thumbed busily at the screen, frowning. ¡®I¡¯ve come to talk about the noise?¡¯ ¡®One minute,¡¯ repeated the man, his index finger still raised. ¡®About the banging we just heard?¡¯ she went on. ¡®There was a very l-¡¯ ¡®Neighbour,¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®Yes, w-¡­ pardon?¡¯ ¡®Neighbour,¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®Er. Yes,¡¯ said Lee¡¯s mum. ¡®Nearby resident. Local¡­ acquaintance.¡¯ He looked up from the smartphone expectantly. ¡®Mm¡­¡¯ she paused, uncertain, but quickly resumed course. ¡®Yes, and we¡¯ve just heard a lot of banging from up there.¡¯ She pointed up into his flat. The neighbour grinned. ¡®Welcome,¡¯ he said. ¡®Pardon?¡¯ ¡®Welcome, the neighbour.¡¯ He held out a big freckled hand. ¡®Oh.¡¯ There was a fraught moment in which two trajectories of conversation pulled in opposite directions. The neighbour, with confidence and a big smile on his side, won. ¡®Visit my house,¡¯ he said loudly as Lee¡¯s mum shook the hand. ¡®Oh, no, thank you,¡¯ she said. ¡®Perhaps another time.¡¯ The neighbour turned and began to walk up the narrow staircase back up into his flat. ¡®Go to my house,¡¯ he rumbled warmly as he went. ¡®Have a tea and a food.¡¯ Lee¡¯s mum looked at Lee, who shrugged. ¡®He doesn¡¯t seem dangerous,¡¯ he said. She raised her eyebrows. ¡®I¡¯d rather be friends with him than enemies,¡¯ he added. ¡®Um. No, no I don¡¯t think it would be appropriate¡­¡¯ she tailed off. Lee shrugged again. ¡®Excuse me,¡¯ she called up the stairs. ¡®Excuse me, Mr¡­ sorry, could you come back down please?¡¯ but there was no reply. ¡®Excuse me,¡¯ she called again, louder. ¡®Excuse me! Hello?¡¯ There came another tremendous crashing thump from above, louder in the echo of the hallway, and the sound of an alarmed cat. ¡®Oh dear,¡¯ said Lee¡¯s mum, looking apprehensively up the stairs. ¡®What should¡ª alright look you stay here and¡ª¡¯ ¡®Come on,¡¯ said Lee, stepping past her. ¡®Let¡¯s just go up.¡¯ ¡®Bradley!¡¯ she hissed. ¡®Come back down here, now!¡¯ ¡®Come on,¡¯ he said as he trotted up the stairs. ¡®It¡¯s fine. He¡¯s got a cat.¡¯ As he ascended in the gloom, the staircase caused Lee to question his evaluation. It was cramped, uncarpeted, and sounded suspiciously hollow. He had to lean to one side as he ascended to avoid hitting his head on a bulbless brown-glass lightshade on a crooked, yellow old wire. Brown glass, he thought to himself. I didn¡¯t know that existed. Who deliberately made brown glass? And why? The neighbour, he reflected, did in fact have all the hallmarks of someone quite dangerous. In fact, it now dawned on him, the man couldn¡¯t have done much more to appear unstable if he had tried. But then, just as apprehension began to blossom into fear, the space opened¡ªas it does with so many city flats¡ªfrom a horror-film stairwell to an incomprehensibly bright, spacious, and pleasant, if somewhat sparse, interior. ¡®I think you like cake,¡¯ the neighbour said sternly, emerging from the kitchen. ******* The conversation had been unconventional but not unenjoyable, Lee felt. It had tended not to follow what might be called normal patterns, especially of grammar, but then normal patterns often led to quite boring conversations. His mum¡¯s rapidly-spoken assertions that they weren¡¯t staying and just wanted to quickly talk about the noise were met with mugs of tea large enough to wash your hands in and bowls containing what appeared to be portions of supermarket birthday cake, not sliced but lifted from the centre of the cake with a dessert spoon. This hypothesis was confirmed by the neighbour¡¯s own spoon, which was already smeared with cake before he joined them at the table and began to eat. Lee prodded at the cake with his own spoon, which was clean, thinking that eating birthday cake with a spoon at nine o¡¯clock in the evening seemed like a very cheerful thing to do. ¡®Thanks,¡¯ he said. ¡®Yes.¡¯ They ate, Lee and the neighbour with notably more gusto. ¡®Mother,¡¯ said the neighbour, pointing at Lee¡¯s mum. ¡®Erm,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯m Trisha, and this is Bradley.¡¯ Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡®Lee,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Lee?¡¯ said the neighbour, lengthening the vowel quizzically. ¡®Yeah,¡¯ said Lee. A nod, seemingly of acceptance and approval. ¡®Name say, easy.¡¯ ¡®Mmm,¡¯ said Lee, eating cake. They chewed. ¡®Tishla.¡¯ The neighbour suddenly turned to look at the woman. She blinked. ¡®Trisha.¡¯ ¡®I know.¡¯ ¡®Oh. And what¡¯s-¡¯ ¡®This name, say.¡¯ He sucked air in through his teeth like an unscrupulous mechanic. ¡®Difficult,¡¯ he finished. ¡®Um. Well, you can call me Pat if it¡¯s easier. And what¡¯s your name?¡¯ ¡®Pat??¡¯ His face contorted in sudden alarm. ¡®Yes, it¡¯s short f-¡¯ ¡®What is Pat?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s short f-¡¯ ¡®You are the Tishla?¡¯ he interrupted. ¡®Trisha. Yes, but-¡¯ ¡®Not Pat.¡¯ He pronounced the single syllable with what sounded like disgust, as though uncovering a lie. ¡®They¡¯re both short for Patricia. Pat, Trisha.¡¯ She demonstrated by bringing her two hands together. ¡®Pat-trisha.¡¯ The neighbour looked at Lee. ¡®Pat the Tishla.¡¯ ¡®Probably just Pat is best,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®You are the Tishla, you are name is the¡­ the Pat, I think, is - one minute,¡¯ he said, bringing out his smartphone again. A moment passed in which Lee ate some more cake. Trisha looked at the cake, then ate a small piece in order to be doing something other than waiting for the neighbour to finish prodding at his phone. ¡®Sobriquet,¡¯ he said accusingly. ¡®Sorry?¡¯ she said. ¡®Um,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Sou-bri-quet,¡¯ he said. He looked back at his phone. ¡®Nickname. Moniker.¡¯ He looked up again. ¡®Pat are the sobriquet.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Well,¡¯ she said. ¡®Um. A nickname, yes. If you like.¡¯ ¡®Hm.¡¯ ¡®And what are you called?¡¯ ¡®Pat,¡¯ he said, with an air of grudging acceptance. ¡®No,¡¯ she said pointing at him. ¡®What are you called?¡¯ He raised his eyebrows at this, then removed the white smartphone again and offered it to her. It strained at the cable anchoring it to the man¡¯s pocket until he removed the portable battery pack. It was cheap white plastic, scratched and faded, with a picture of a dinosaur on it. ¡®Call?¡¯ he asked. Trisha¡¯s eyebrows rose in return. ¡®Mmm?¡¯ she said. ¡®What¡¯s your name?¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Ah.¡¯ he said, returning the phone and battery pack to his pocket and shooting a reproachful glance at Trisha. ¡®I am¡ª¡¯ What he pronounced next contained at least two sounds that Lee knew he couldn¡¯t make, and one that he hadn¡¯t realised that anyone could. Some of it sounded like it was pronounced while breathing inwards. ¡®Um,¡¯ he said. ¡®Er. One more time?¡¯ said Trisha. He said it again. ¡®Mu-¡¯ she began, squinting. ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Oh, sorry. Again?¡¯ He said it again. ¡®Mri-¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Um-¡¯ ¡®Your name is difficult,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Yes,¡¯ said the neighbour proudly. ¡®Well, what¡¯s your surname?¡¯ asked Trisha. ¡®What?¡¯ He pronounced the h, Lee noticed. ¡®What should we call you? Mister¡­?¡¯ ¡®Mister?¡¯ ¡®Yes, Mister what?¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ he said in tones of disappointment, and sat back in his chair. A peculiar moment followed, in which no one seemed certain whether to tidy up the conversational mess or just sit in it and pretend everything was fine. Uncharacteristically it was Lee, who habitually sat in messes, who came to the fore, metaphorical broom in hand. ¡®We want to know what your second name is,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Like, I¡¯m Lee Bennett. Bennett is my second name.¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ said the neighbour again, revealing nothing. ¡®So she¡¯s Patricia Bennett, because she¡¯s my mum.¡¯ ¡®Lee the Bennett, Pat the Tishla the Bennett.¡¯ ¡®Yeah!¡¯ ¡®Is same!¡¯ ¡®Yeah!¡¯ ¡®Bennett because family, is two.¡¯ ¡®Yeah¡­¡¯ ¡®Bennett is family name.¡¯ ¡®Yeah!¡¯ ¡®Ah.¡¯ ¡®So what¡¯s your family name?¡¯ Understanding seemed to dawn. ¡®One minute,¡¯ he said, bringing the smartphone back out. The glow illuminated his creased forehead. ¡®Red¡¯ he said eventually. ¡®Red?¡¯ ¡®Red¡­ Protrusion.¡¯ ¡®Eh?¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Red protrusion.¡¯ ¡®Red protrusion?¡¯ ¡®Red¡­ One minute. Promontory. Headland.¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ said Lee, which seemed to be a reliably ambiguous conversational move in the circumstances. ¡®What?¡¯ said Trisha. ¡®My name the English word.¡¯ ¡®Pardon?¡¯ ¡®My family name is say English word is red¡­ this word¡­ protrusion.¡¯ Following another awkward moment in which they all considered giving up, the sun of understanding suddenly found another tiny crack in the thick, dark layer of linguistic cloud, peeked tentatively out, and winked at Lee. ¡®He¡¯s translated it,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®He¡¯s put his surname into the dictionary.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Well, um. I¡¯m not sure we can call you Mr. Red¡­ Protrusion. Um.¡¯ Lee was flabbergasted to see that she was blushing. ¡®No. That¡­ doesn¡¯t work very well in English. Er. Do you have a short version of your name?¡¯ he asked hurriedly. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Like Pat.¡¯ ¡®Pat.¡¯ He pointed to Trisha. ¡®No, you.¡¯ He pointed to himself. ¡®Pat?¡¯ ¡®Er. No. Do you have a nickname?¡¯ ¡®Nick?¡¯ ¡®Er. What¡¯s your sobriquet?¡¯ asked Lee. ¡®My?¡¯ ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®Ah! My sobriquet!¡¯ ¡®Yeah!¡¯ ¡®How to say, a woman.¡¯ ¡®Eh?¡¯ ¡®One minute¡­ Freeholder, innkeeper, proprietor.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®This home, the give the money, this woman.¡¯ Lee and Trisha looked at one another. ¡®I¡­¡¯ he slowed down. ¡®I give a money this woman because¡­ I live this house.¡¯ ¡®The landlady?¡¯ said Lee. ¡®This woman lady, same like you,¡¯ he continued. ¡®She is say to me, you name is the difficult, say you, I say, name, say the, the John.¡¯ ¡®Oh! Okay. So shall we call you J-¡¯ ¡®She is say I the John I don¡¯t like John.¡¯ ¡®Oh.¡¯ ¡®I am not John.¡¯ He pronounced ¡®John¡¯ like most people pronounce ¡®paedophile¡¯. ¡®Right. No.¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ he said, nodding. ¡®So what is your¡­ sobriquet?¡¯ asked Trisha. ¡®Yes,¡¯ he replied. At this point a sleek orange cat jumped onto the table and startled her, causing her to clatter her spoon in the bowl and say ¡®oh!¡¯ It stood in the centre of the table staring wide-eyed at Lee, as though suddenly recognising him from a ¡®wanted for cat-murder¡¯ poster. ¡®Hello,¡¯ said Lee, and reached towards it. It leaned back, going cross-eyed staring at the approaching hand but remaining rooted to its spot. Its mouth opened slowly. ¡®Don¡¯t touch that,¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®I like cats,¡¯ said Lee, reluctantly halting his hand. ¡®Not cat,¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®Is Pushkin.¡¯ ¡®Pushkin!¡¯ Lee grinned. ¡®That¡¯s a good name for a cat.¡¯ ¡®Pushkin the Russian name,¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®Ah, you¡¯re Russian?¡¯ said Trisha. ¡®I¡¯d been wondering.¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Oh.¡¯ The conversation proceeded in this fashion, the participants deftly changing course to avoid frequent roadblocks in understanding with the result that the conversation had no discernible direction or destination but, importantly, kept going. Eventually, exhausted by the acrobatics of politeness, Trisha announced that she was tired, which took Lee by surprise as he himself was heavily suffused with the enthusiasm imparted by cake and strong tea, and having a lovely time. She announced their departure and Lee had to fight back a childish urge to protest. ¡®And do please try not to make any loud noises,¡¯ she said. ¡®The sound goes right through these floors.¡¯ ¡®I know. Thank you.¡¯ ¡®Well, you must come to visit us next time,¡¯ she said in an automatic sort of way as she stood. The neighbour beamed at this. ¡®I think tomorrow don¡¯t busy day,¡¯ he said. ¡®Maybe visit to your house.¡¯ ¡®Oh, no, erm, tomorrow¡¯s probably not the best day,¡¯ backpedalled Trisha. ¡®I¡¯ve got work and-¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m in,¡¯ said Lee. His mum looked at him with the same horrified expression as Pushkin. ¡®You?¡¯ said the neighbour. ¡®Yeah. Come round if you get bored or anything, I¡¯ve got loads of games.¡¯ The big man frowned. ¡®Games?¡¯ ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®What games?¡¯ ¡®Pretty much everything.¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®I just download them. If there¡¯s anything you-¡¯ ¡®You play this game - one minute -¡¯ ¡®Yeah?¡¯ said Lee. A moment of quiet descended as the smartphone was summoned. ¡®Flying disc.¡¯ ¡®Mmm?¡¯ ¡®Fly-ing dis-c.¡¯ ¡®Um. Don¡¯t think so. Is it-¡¯ ¡®One minute.¡¯ ¡®Sure.¡¯ ¡®I think you could show him your games another time, couldn¡¯t you, Bradley?¡¯ ¡®A gliding toy made from a concave disc of moulded plastic.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ said Lee. ¡®A gli-ding-¡¯ ¡®Yeah no I heard you. Do you mean- are you talking about a computer game?¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®A computer game.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Your flying disc. Is it¡­ do you mean like, a computer one?¡¯ Lee mimed playing a computer game. ¡®What is?¡¯ said Mr. Upstairs quizically. ¡®Do like this.¡¯ He mimed throwing a frisbee. ¡®Um. It sounds like you¡¯re talking about a frisbee.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Frisbee.¡¯ Lee mimed a frisbee. ¡®This!¡¯ The neighbour pointed at Lee, nodding enthusiastically. ¡®Very my good game!¡¯ ¡®Oh. Right, yeah but I meant computer games,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®What?¡¯ Some moments later, when they were back in their own flat, Trisha closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it as though to make sure. ¡®Well that was extremely strange, to say the least,¡¯ she said, eyebrows raised so high as to almost integrate with her hair. ¡®Definitely strange,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Nice though. Do you want a cup of tea?¡¯ ¡®Tea?? No I do not, I¡¯ve had enough tea to keep me up weeing all night as it is.¡¯ ¡®Ur,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®You¡¯re not going to have a cup of tea, are you?¡¯ ¡®Might do,¡¯ said Lee nonchalantly. ¡®I¡¯m not going to bed for a bit.¡¯ ¡®Oh. You¡¯re not going to stay up too late are you?.¡¯ ¡®No, I¡¯ll go to bed in a bit.¡¯ ¡®Good. And what do you mean, nice?¡¯ ¡®He just seems nice, I mean.¡¯ ¡®Do you think so? He¡¯s very¡­ bizarre.¡¯ ¡®Yeah, no doubt, but he¡¯s not horrible or anything, is he.¡¯ ¡®I think horrible might actually be the perfect word for him, Bradley.¡¯ ¡®What? No, come on. He gave us tea and invited us round and everything.¡¯ ¡®And the experience was not a pleasant one!¡¯ ¡®Well no, but he¡¯s not horrible, is he.¡¯ ¡®Well perhaps not entirely horrible, just, you know what I mean, he¡¯s not exactly the ideal neighbour.¡¯ ¡®I dunno,¡¯ said Lee, shrugging. ¡®He¡¯s friendly, and funny. What else do you want from a neighbour?¡¯ ¡®Not behaving like he¡¯s just landed from planet Zog would be a start.¡¯ ¡®Oh come on now, don¡¯t be racist.¡¯ ¡®Oh that is not what I meant and you know it.¡¯ ¡®No I know but I think you¡¯re being a bit hard on him just ¡¯cause his English is a bit¡­ different.¡¯ ¡®My objection to him is entirely based on the fact that he is mad and frightening, and nothing to do with where he comes from, or the way he speaks. Besides which, that would be xenophobia, Bradley, not racism.¡¯ ¡®What? Why?¡¯ ¡®I think racism is more objecting to a specific ethnicity, rather than just objecting to foreign people in general.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Well we don¡¯t even know where he comes from anyway.¡¯ ¡®We don¡¯t even know his name, Bradley! And yet you seemed very keen to invite him into our house.¡¯ ¡®Yeah, no I didn¡¯t really mean to do that.¡¯ ¡®A very odd, possibly dangerous stranger.¡¯ ¡®He¡¯s not dangerous, he¡¯s just¡­ he¡¯s just odd. A bit.¡¯ ¡®You don¡¯t know that Bradley, you don¡¯t know anything about him.¡¯ ¡®I know he¡¯s got a cat.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®That means he¡¯s got a caring side.¡¯ ¡®Now you¡¯re just being silly. Just, play with him outside, please, where people can see you.¡¯ ¡®What? Wait, what do you mean, where people can see?? What do you think he¡¯s going to do?¡¯ ¡®Just be responsible please, Bradley! You¡¯re too old for me to have to tell you to be careful of strangers, for god¡¯s sake.¡¯ ¡®Exactly!¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t be na?ve! You mustn¡¯t go around thinking that the world is perfectly safe just because you¡¯re not a child anymore. There are all sorts of¡­ oddballs and villains around and I don¡¯t want you thinking they can¡¯t get you just because you¡¯re not small.¡¯ ¡®Oddballs and villains?¡¯ chuckled Lee. ¡®Might there be hoodlums and ne¡¯er-do-wells too? Shall I take a blunderbuss?¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t be facetious, please! You know perfectly well what I mean. Look, just, I just don¡¯t want you and Mr. Whatever-his-name-is upstairs playing frisbee in my house, thank you.¡¯ ¡®Mr. Whatever-his-name-is upstairs? Well if that¡¯s not racist I don¡¯t know what is.¡¯ ¡®Xenophobic.¡¯ ¡®Fine, xenophobic. Well done, you¡¯ve used the right word for how awful you are.¡¯ ¡®Hm. It does sound a little off-colour, doesn¡¯t it?¡¯ ¡®A bit.¡¯ ¡®No, you¡¯re right, I¡¯m not comfortable calling him Mr. Whatever-his-name-is-upstairs, that¡¯s not friendly. Perhaps we could call him¡­¡¯ Trisha¡¯s face creased with concentration and, Lee suspected, political-correctness anxiety. ¡®I think just¡­ Mr. Upstairs would probably be less bad.¡¯ ¡®Well, no frisbee in the house with Mr. Upstairs then please.¡¯ ¡®Wait what? Why would anyone play frisbee in the house?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know Bradley, I have no idea what sort of thing people get up to.¡¯ ¡®It doesn¡¯t even make sense, there¡¯s no space, you¡¯d just be¡­ passing it to each other.¡¯ ¡®The man eats cake with a spoon, Bradley, I don¡¯t know what he considers normal.¡¯ ¡®Well obviously we¡¯re not going to play frisbee in the house. I haven¡¯t even got a frisbee.¡¯ ¡®I actually think there might be one in the cupboard under the stairs, with all the old toys.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Good.¡¯ ¡®Go and have a look.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ll get it tomorrow.¡¯ ¡®Now please, Bradley.¡¯ ¡®What? Why?¡¯ ¡®Because if we haven¡¯t got one, you¡¯ll have to go and buy one in the morning before your friend comes round to play.¡¯ ¡®What? You don¡¯t even want me to play with him, why do you care if there¡¯s a frisbee or not?¡¯ ¡®Because you¡¯ve invited him now, and there¡¯s such a thing as manners.¡¯ Lee had snorted his reluctance and gone to find the frisbee. This had been five weeks ago. Lee had indulged him in frisbee sessions on a few occasions since then, partially out of charitable neighbourliness and partially because of the vows of eternal loyalty he regularly swore¡ªusually following a cold shower¡ªto outdoor exercise. It wasn¡¯t that Lee disliked playing frisbee; in fact he enjoyed the challenge of getting the curve just right and the satisfaction of a long, straight drive well-thrown, followed by the admiring nod of the catcher. The problem was Mr. Upstairs. Due to the unavoidable power differential and Mr. Upstairs¡¯s low prioritisation of mechanical factors such as wind, angle, and Lee¡¯s position in spacetime relative to his own, frisbee had been largely a throwing exercise for him and a running exercise for Lee. The man somehow combined the ballistic throwing power of a truck-mounted missile launcher with the accuracy of a nervous man in a train toilet; the result was that Lee¡¯s role in the game consisted mainly of chasing after the abused projectile, fishing it out of trees and bushes and occasionally apologising to startled picnickers. Lee had only invested a minimum of effort into trying to show the enormous man how to gently float the frisbee forwards with a flick of the wrist. He simply wasn¡¯t interested. He seemed to derive as much satisfaction from a loud frisbee-to-earth collision and a good long roll as he did from a long, arcing flight towards the horizon, and so Lee had wisely stopped bringing along good-quality frisbees¡ªwhich had flown too far, taken Lee too long to retrieve, and endangered the public¡ªand instead purchased a cheap, chew-resistant dog frisbee that didn¡¯t fly properly, especially once Lee had deliberately bent it. Lee was able to compensate for its uneven shape by throwing it at a carefully-calculated angle, while under the high force of Mr, Upstairs¡¯s throws it lost aerodynamicity and immediately sought ground, limiting the radius of its trajectory to the local area. By happy coincidence, hobbled by his own ballistic incompetence, Mr. Upstairs could generally send the cheap frisbees about the same distance as Lee could, albeit Mr. Upstairs¡¯ throws mostly travelled in a curving sideways roll along the ground in an unpredictable direction while Lee¡¯s were, increasingly, straight and accurate. He looked out of the window. It was an absurdly nice day. And he had, mere hours before, resolved to change his life forever by getting out in the fresh air and exercising. All his possible reasons to say no withered and crumbled as he stared at the messages printed expectantly on his phone screen. Come on then. I¡¯ll meet you in the hall. he typed, and paused his game. 13: It doesnt taste of ash Meanwhile¡­ A few miles away¡­ The countryside, near Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Amanda- Amanda stood, absorbing the sun, the breeze, and an after-lunch cigarette, failing to enjoy any of them. Her mind was still in a state of meltdown. She knew it would stay that way until she had time to sit down somewhere quiet and turn it off and on again. Until then, soft and well-intentioned as it was, Kylie¡¯s voice was nothing but a constant stream of demands for reactions that she didn¡¯t have the machinery to generate. It irritated her. ¡®I mean, like who does he even think he is?¡¯ She had been talking for some time. Amanda wasn¡¯t taking any of it in. She supposed Kylie would effect an appropriate degree of ¡®how dare he¡¯-themed outrage, for an appropriate length of time, before doing some quiet sums and realising that the idea of her future handed to her on a silver platter wasn¡¯t quite so disagreeable. And then she would be his. How had he worked it out? She hadn¡¯t thought he knew gay women were real. in her parents¡¯ world they were the sort of thing you saw on television, and possibly in the more eccentric parts of London, but certainly not in the countryside. She had always assumed that the idea of their daughter being a homosexual would be as absurd to them as when she had insisted she would grow up to be a pterodactyl. Clearly, she had placed too much faith in their old-fasionedness. Been careless¡­ ¡®Like, why would you reveal that at lunch, in front of everybody? Why not just sit down with you one-on-one, and¡­¡¯ Kylie didn¡¯t know her father. ¡®Because that wouldn¡¯t have been him winning,¡¯ she said absently. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Nothing.¡¯ Mr. Darcy, Heathcliff, and Ronaldo lumbered, walked, and trotted over, respectively. Mr. Darcy lay on the ground at Amanda¡¯s feet; Heathcliff wandered over to Kylie and briefly snuffed at her but as she reached out to stroke him, he turned and left. Ronaldo paced irritably in the long grass, baring her teeth at it and puffing out little half-formed barks as a general statement of menace, as Dachshunds do. She needed to be by herself, to process and analyse, to work out how to deal with the problem. She needed peace while the mushroom cloud in her mind settled. Her mental machinery was a disordered mess and disordered people made mistakes. There was, however, one thing that was perfectly clear to her. ¡®I mean, it¡¯s not that I¡¯m not grateful or anything¡­¡¯ Of course she was grateful. They were now officially ¡®out¡¯. Amanda Poffingsworth, lesbian, and her girlfriend Kylie, free to hold hands and kiss each other on the mouth in public. Amanda shuddered involuntarily. This was what Kylie had wanted from the start¡ªnow she had it, and with a golden handshake to boot. This was probably the best day of her life. ¡®Like, it¡¯s really generous, obviously. Really generous¡­¡¯ There it was: the pause at the end. Waiting for a reaction. She didn¡¯t need to look over to know that Kylie¡¯s eyes would be glancing sidelong at her, subtly looking for a cue. What are we going to do, Amanda? Agree, or disagree, Amanda? Furiously condemn her father outright, or acknowledge the outrageousness but sagaciously consider the proposal, Amanda? That was what Kylie did: hover and dither non-committally, broaching the subject and then hesitating, waiting for Amanda to choose a direction for them both. Decide for me, Amanda. She loved it when someone else took control. It was why they worked. And, Amanda realised bitterly, it was also why her father¡¯s strategy had been so effective. The clever bastard had done it again: walked past her defences, reached out a fat, sweaty paw, and wrapped it around her favourite toy. ¡®But, you know¡­ I¡¯ve just never felt so violated. No one¡¯s ever spoken to me like that, ever.¡¯ Oh, shut up, thought Amanda. You love it. Look at you. ¡®I mean, imagine being in debt to him! A man like that!¡¯ ¡®Mmm.¡¯ she said. ¡®Come on, let¡¯s go.¡¯ ¡®What? What do you mean, go? Go where?¡¯ ¡®I need to go into town and you need to go home. I¡¯ll give you a lift.¡¯ ¡®Oh. I mean, now?¡¯ ¡®Mm-hm.¡¯ Amanda turned and walked towards the car. ¡®Can¡¯t we- I mean, aren¡¯t we talking?¡¯ Kylie called after her. Amanda didn¡¯t reply. She unlocked the front door, sat in the driver¡¯s seat and started the engine. Seconds later, the passenger door opened and Kylie sat, fastening her seatbelt as she talked. ¡®I mean, I know it¡¯s a shock and everything, like it¡¯s so, so rude, but you know how there¡¯s always part of me that, like, tries to to look on the bright side?¡¯ ¡®Listen,¡¯ said Amanda. She had to do it now, and she had to do it without emotion. ¡®We¡¯re going to have to cool things off.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ Amanda didn¡¯t repeat herself. Kylie was quiet as Amanda pulled out of the drive. Amanda wondered whether she had been expecting this. When she spoke, her tone was level, as though she¡¯d planned and rehearsed the question in her head before asking it. ¡®Can you explain specifically what you mean by ¡°cool things off¡±?¡¯ Better to just make her cry now than leave her unsure whether to cry indefinitely. ¡®Break up.¡¯ The following silence was longer. Hedges rolled past the windows. The engine quieted at the approach to each turn, allowing the sounds of tyres on the stony roads to rise up through the floor of the car. Then the engine would rev again as Amanda accelerated away. Stolen novel; please report. ¡®I know there¡¯s no point arguing with you,¡¯ said Kylie eventually, through a faceful of tears that Amanda was glad the act of driving gave her an excuse not to look at. ¡®Just¡­you have to promise to do one thing, okay?¡¯ Amanda drove. ¡®You have to write me a letter. I won¡¯t ask you to explain it now because I know you can¡¯t and I understand that, and I know you feel like you have to do this and I know better than to try and fight you over it now. Because I understand you, and that¡¯s what loving someone means. But you owe me an explanation. Not an explanation like you have to justify yourself, just an explanation so that I can understand what you¡¯re thinking, and what you¡¯re feeling, and why you feel like you have to do this. I need you to do that. Okay?¡¯ Amanda nodded. Kylie was being admirably stoic. Perhaps she had learned something from her. Or perhaps she was just trying not to irritate her. It didn¡¯t matter. ¡®Can you drop me off at Tesco, please?¡¯ And then, on the ¡®please¡¯, the dam burst. Kylie shook, emitted a little high-pitched noise, then began to cry like a child. Amanda pulled the car neatly into a space. As soon as she lifted the handbrake Kylie opened the door and ran off towards the shop. Amanda lit a cigarette¡ªher last one. She would have to go in and buy more.
-Lee- As with every day, his mother coming home from work broke his reverie, throwing his actions over the previous hours into sharp relief, illuminated no longer by the soft yellow glow of his own feelings but by the Megawatt surgical lamp of external observation. ¡®Bradley! Come here please!¡¯ ¡®Wait...¡¯ ¡®Now, please.¡¯ ¡®Wait, just let me kill this-¡¯ ¡®Now please Bradley!¡¯ ¡®Can¡¯t you wait two minutes??¡¯ ¡®Bradley!¡¯ He paused his game resentfully, certain that on his return he wouldn¡¯t be able to remember what he was about to do and would probably either die or have to run away as a result, undoing almost an hour of careful battle preparation. ¡®What?¡¯ he shouted indignantly as he ran up the stairs to the kitchen. Entering, he was faced with a sight more ferocious than an army of giant warcrabs: his mother¡¯s teeth. They looked angry. They were surrounded by her angry face atop her angry body, which was angrily indicating a washing machine with its door standing open. ¡®What did I ask you to do this morning?¡¯ Lee didn¡¯t like the way she stood protectively over the washing whilst attacking him, and knew a strange moment¡¯s jealousy. He cursed his traitorous, forgetful mind. ¡®Oh,¡¯ he replied. ¡®Sorry. I¡¯ll do it now.¡¯ ¡®It needed to be done this morning, which is why I asked you to do it this morning,¡¯ she said in a deflated voice, sitting down and throwing back into the washing machine drum a wet pair of her own underwear that she¡¯d been brandishing for emphasis. ¡®Sorry, I¡¯ll-¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s not good enough, Bradley. This is not good enough. How could you forget the washing when you even made a stupid bloody song about it?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ll do it now.¡¯ ¡®What is the point of me doing the washing is if you¡¯re going to just leave it lying around like a pile of rubbish?!¡¯ He would have done anything to be allowed to go back and hang out the washing when he was supposed to, and not appear to his mother as this selfish, useless, parasitic creature. But what she saw, Lee knew, was what was in front of her. It upset him deeply to think what she must think of him. Distressed by these emotions, and under attack, he responded the way most mammals do when distressed and under attack. ¡®I said I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t do it on purpose, did I?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ve really had it with this Bradley, it¡¯s not like these are other people¡¯s clothes I¡¯m asking you to hang up. They¡¯re your clothes, which you wear and spill food down and dribble on and get heaven knows what on and expect to show up clean for you to wear again.¡¯ ¡®Yeah but I didn¡¯t do it on purpose, did I?¡¯ ¡®And there are my clothes in there, which I need for work.¡¯ ¡®Yeah but I didn¡¯t do it on purpose though, did I?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s not whether you did it on purpose or not Bradley, it¡¯s that you thought that messing around playing wizards and silly-buggers with Mr. bloody Upstairs was more important than doing what I asked you to do.¡¯ ¡®No, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s more important, I just forgot. Do you think I forgot on purpose, is that why you¡¯re shouting at me?¡¯ ¡®No, I think you forgot because you didn¡¯t make an effort to remember.¡¯ ¡®Yeah well-¡¯ ¡®No, Bradley. If I ask you to do something I expect it to take priority over your personal projects. How is it fair when there are two of us living here that one of us earns all the money, pays the rent, and has to do all the housework as well?.¡¯ ¡®I did all the other housework! Look, I washed the dishes.¡¯ ¡®Is that what that mess in the sink is? You¡¯ve washed the dishes?¡¯ ¡®No, they¡¯re soaking, they¡¯ve got stuck bits on.¡¯ ¡®They didn¡¯t have stuck bits on this morning¡¯ ¡®No, because I cooked something after I did the washing up¡¯ ¡®Oh. And what did you cook, may I ask?¡¯ ¡®A peanut sauce.¡¯ ¡®Peanut sauce?¡¯ ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s a lot of washing up for a peanut sauce.¡¯ ¡®Yeah well there was my lunch as well.¡¯ ¡®I-¡¯ She took a long deep breath, and exhaled. ¡®Well tell me about this peanut sauce. What¡¯s it for having with?¡¯ ¡®Anything. It¡¯s lovely, it can go on anything.¡¯ ¡®So you didn¡¯t make it for anything, you just¡­ made it?¡¯ ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®Why?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know, why are you asking me that? Why does anyone do anything? It¡¯s peanut sauce.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t talk to me like that, please.¡¯ ¡®Sorry. But it is actually nice.¡¯ She inhaled deeply. ¡®Good, well¡­ that¡¯s nice. Well done, I¡¯m glad you did that. You¡¯ve made a contribution. Let¡¯s have it for dinner then.¡¯ ¡®Alright.¡¯ ¡®What can we have it with?¡¯ ¡®What? I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s lovely, it goes on anything.¡¯ ¡®Like what?¡¯ ¡®Anything!¡¯ ¡®For example?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know, everything! How can I give you an example when it goes on everything?¡¯ ¡®Does it go on steak, for example?¡¯ ¡®Yeah.¡¯ ¡®Fish?¡¯ ¡®No, that would be disgusting.¡¯ ¡®Oh. How about eggs?¡¯ ¡®Well no obviously it can¡¯t go on fish and eggs, it¡¯s peanut flavour, who would put peanut sauce on fish and eggs?¡¯ ¡®So it doesn¡¯t go on everything?¡¯ ¡®Yeah everything except things that it would obviously be disgusting on.¡¯ ¡®So if it doesn¡¯t go on everything then I¡¯d like to know exactly what it goes on please. As it¡¯s the sum of your entire day¡¯s worth of input towards the upkeep of the family, I think we should make the most of it, so hurry up and decide what we¡¯ll be having it on please.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know do I, I¡¯m not a Michelin star chef, it goes on everything except fish and eggs!¡¯ ¡®Does it go on carrots?¡¯ ¡®Er¡­ maybe. No.¡¯ ¡®Does it go on bananas?¡¯ ¡®Bananas? What, why would you put it on bananas?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s an example, Bradley! Would it go on bananas?!¡¯ ¡®Yeah, probably. Well, no. It¡¯s spicy. And oniony. And garlicky.¡¯ ¡®And peanutty?¡¯ ¡®Yeah, a bit.¡¯ ¡®It sounds a bit¡­ horrible, Bradley. Are you sure it¡¯s not horrible?¡¯ ¡®I said it¡¯s lovely, didn¡¯t I? And if you want a pudding sauce there¡¯s still some of my burnt caramel left.¡¯ ¡®Oh have you kept that? I thought it was burnt.¡¯ ¡®Yeah it¡¯s supposed to be burnt.¡¯ ¡®It wasn¡¯t supposed to taste of ash though, was it?¡¯ ¡®It doesn¡¯t taste of ash, it tastes of caramel and a bit of burntness.¡¯ ¡®Well I¡¯m sure it will have gone off by now anyway.¡¯ ¡®No, it keeps forever.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Good. Well¡­ let¡¯s think about dinner before we focus on pudding. What else can we have with steak and peanut sauce?¡¯ ¡®Er¡­ potatoes.¡¯ ¡®Well then that¡¯s settled. We can have steak and potatoes with peanut sauce for dinner, and bananas with optional burnt caramel for pudding, can¡¯t we?¡¯ It was hard for Lee to willingly subject his mother to what he knew would be an awful dinner when she was making such an effort to give him a chance to prove himself¡­ but therein lay the problem: the peanut sauce was his only chance at redemption, the only card left in his hand, and so he had to play it. ¡®Yeah, good, that will be lovely, probably.¡¯ ¡®So you can go to the shop and buy some potatoes then, please.¡¯ ¡®We¡¯ve got potatoes.¡¯ ¡®No, we haven¡¯t.¡¯ ¡®Yes we have.¡¯ ¡®No, we haven¡¯t.¡¯ ¡®Yes we have, I saw them.¡¯ ¡®No, Bradley.¡¯ ¡®Yes we have, how can you say there are no potatoes when I saw them with my own eyes?¡¯ ¡®Go and look in the fridge, and I will give you a hundred pounds for every potato you find.¡¯ ¡®Alright, fine I¡¯ll go and buy some potatoes.,¡¯ he said, storming over to the corner where his coat lived on the floor. ¡®God,¡¯ he added, to claw back some dignity. ¡®Don¡¯t you want to check the fridge?¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®You might win hundreds of pounds.¡¯ ¡®No!¡¯ ¡®And hang the washing out before you go please. If you¡¯re lucky it¡¯ll dry before it gets dark, and if it doesn¡¯t you can finish it off in the airing cupboard.¡¯ ¡®Alright!¡¯ ¡®And if they smell you will wash them again and dry them properly!¡¯ They smelled of washing, he couldn¡¯t tell if it was the right smell or not, and he didn¡¯t think it was the right time to ask his mum to come and smell them for him. So he bundled the stiffly cold-and-half-sodden garments into their plastic basket, carried them into the garden, and began to peg them onto the washing line. He took care to do it properly, because being told off again wouldn¡¯t be worth the minor relief of venting his frustration by doing it badly. As he pegged, taking care to space the garments effectively for maximum surface area exposure and air circulation, he silently wished for the warm summer evening to undo what his cursed negligence had wrought. He reflected that it would save the two of them a great deal of stress and misery if his mum would find a way of making him listen to her properly. 14: Two Beings Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ A point in spacetime impossible to describe with human language Two beings contemplated the infinite void. One flicked a bogey into it. ¡®Bloody hell,¡¯ it said. ¡®Mmm,¡¯ said the other, contemplatively. ¡®No, seriously¡¯ said the first. A comet streaked past in the distance¡ªor perhaps close by. The infinite void made it hard to tell. ¡®He''s pulled some stunts before, but...¡¯ ¡®Quite something, eh?¡¯ said the other. ¡®Quite something?? That doesn''t even begin to... I mean did you see....¡¯ ¡®Mm-hm.¡¯ ¡®I mean they were...¡¯ the being flapped its appendages in a remarkably human gesture as words failed it. ¡®I know.¡¯ They spent some time in quiet thought. ¡®Some of the physics was cool,¡¯ said the second. Its interlocutor turned to stare at it. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®I mean. I quite like that stuff. Just, you know, I thought some of it was... cool.¡¯ The first stared some more. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Just saying,¡¯ said the second. ¡®I... how is that the thing you come away thinking about?¡¯ ¡®I know, I know, obviously it was wrong and dreadful and everything, obviously...¡¯ Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®I just...¡¯ ¡®You just what?¡¯ ¡®Nothing.¡¯ ¡®I mean, apart from anything, apart from all the... other stuff, did you see what he set as the circle number?¡¯ ¡®Yeah, that was weird.¡¯ ¡®What was it, three point one something?¡¯ ¡®Three point one four seven something something... it went on forever, I think.¡¯ ¡®What''s the point of that? Why not just make it three, like everyone else?¡¯ ¡®Yeah, I didn''t get that.¡¯ ¡®Weird. And all that quantum¡­ jibber-jabber.¡¯ ¡®I quite liked that bit.¡¯ ¡®It didn''t make sense!¡¯ ¡®I kind of did, just in a really... sideways sort of way.¡¯ ¡®Don''t pretend you understood it.¡¯ ¡®I did!¡¯ The other looked at it pointedly. ¡®Well most of it. I can¡¯t remember all of it, but I remember liking it.¡¯ ¡®It was nonsense. Things being in two places at the same time, sneaking around in secret extra dimensions. That''s not laws, it''s just... stupid.¡¯ ¡®Well I wouldn''t mind spending some more time looking at it. I thought it was clever.¡¯ ¡®Hey now. Don''t start getting any ideas.¡¯ ¡®What? Oh, come on. Obviously I don''t mean- obviously I would never-¡¯ ¡®Be sure you don''t. We can''t have anything like that happen again. Ever.¡¯ ¡®No, of course. Agreed. It was... messed up.¡¯ ¡®Messed up?? They were living without their god!¡¯ The two gods dwelt on the horror of the idea for a moment, like parents reading Lord of the Flies. ¡®They were making up their own! And WORSHIPPING them! Worshipping things they had never even seen! Things they had made up themselves!!¡¯ ¡®Yeah. That wasn''t cool at all.¡¯ ¡®I mean¡­¡¯ The flabbergasted appendages flapped again. ¡®How?! How have they survived so long, with nothing to¡­ with nothing?!¡¯ The other shrugged. ¡®Resilience,¡¯ it said, simply. ¡®And at what cost?¡¯ That was the real question. Yes, the creatures had survived. Yes, everyone was horrified at the conditions they¡¯d been left in, and yes, everyone had cry-clapped at the strength they¡¯d shown in living on, alone and godless and bound by those Laws¡­ But what had it done to them? What had they had to become in order to survive? And there was one other, possibly even bigger question¡­ ¡®Where are we going to put them?¡¯ ¡®What do you mean, put them?¡¯ ¡®Well¡­ we can¡¯t leave them there, can we?¡¯ ¡®Can we even get them out? If we get too close those Laws will¡­.¡¯ The other god shuddered. ¡®No, we can¡¯t. But he can.¡¯ ¡®Who?¡¯ ¡®You know... Thingy.¡¯ ¡®Thingy?¡¯ ¡®Xoth¡¯s friend. The spacetime guy.¡¯ ¡®Oh. Him¡­ Ugh.¡¯ ¡®I know.¡¯ ¡®Thinks he¡¯s so clever. What did he call himself?¡¯ ¡®Cant remember. Something stupid. Anyway, he said there¡¯s a back door, but it¡¯s tiny, and even if he can get it to work, he can¡¯t keep it open for long.¡¯ ¡®So..¡¯ ¡®So he reckons can get some of them out. Not many, but some.¡¯ ¡®And do what with them?¡¯ ¡®Well, that¡¯s the thing.¡¯ The first being¡¯s expression darkened. ¡®What¡¯s the thing?¡¯ The second being inhaled, then spoke quickly. ¡®Well, everyone knows you¡¯ve got a place you¡¯re not using.¡¯ ¡®What? No! That¡¯s my- that¡¯s mine!¡¯ ¡®Yeah, but.¡¯ The second being didn¡¯t need to finish the sentence. It¡¯s not even finished!¡¯ ¡®Some of it is.¡¯ ¡®A few islands! I haven¡¯t even got a proper continent down yet!¡¯ ¡®I know. Look I know. Really, I do. But¡­ you could let them use it. Just that bit.¡¯ ¡®No! I was going to put my¡­¡¯ the god began, but it knew the matter was already decided. These were desperate times, and nobody wants to be the one to say what about me? in the middle of a humanitarian crisis. ¡®It¡¯s mine!¡¯ It finished indignantly. ¡®Just one bit. A peninsula. Wall it off with mountains and sea. Maybe an island or two to keep them busy. Then you can do what you want with the rest.¡¯ The first being huffed in resignation. ¡®Fine.¡¯ 15: Now! (1) Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ The sea Not far from the coast of New Thrimp A world as yet unnamed -Saskia- The man thrashed and kicked, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rope around his neck. His eyes bulged and a harsh, rasping sound rose from his throat. Behind him, Igor pulled tighter on the rope. ¡®You two, grab his legs,¡¯ he grunted. Dhyani and another woman nodded and moved forwards; taking one leg each, they restrained the increasingly desperate man as Igor¡¯s knee pressed into the back of his head. ¡®Remember, up and back. Not just back. Up and back.¡¯ The man squirmed in their grip, tapping desperately at Igor¡¯s forearm. ¡®See how long it takes? It¡¯s not like in stories. People don¡¯t die easy!¡¯ He released his grip and the man curled up into a ball on the floor, wheezing and spluttering. The sounds of festivity from upstairs were loud enough now that there was little need to worry about noise. ¡®And you want to go another twenty seconds or so after they¡¯re dead, if you can. To make sure. If they wake up again, you¡¯ve just wasted all that effort.¡¯ Around him, prisoners nodded. With the Urge compelling them, there was no dissent. They were united in purpose. He tried to pull the man he had just half-killed to his feet, but his efforts were met only with frantic gasps and wheezes. ¡®Might just leave him for a bit. He¡¯ll be alright. anyway, We outnumber them probably about four to one. We¡¯ve got the element of surprise. Plus they¡¯re all off their faces on Lilymilk. They can sober themselves up deliberately, but it takes a few minutes, so it needs to be over in those minutes, you hear? They get themselves sobered up and organised, we¡¯re just people getting slaughtered by the polity. I.e., dead. Now.¡¯ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ¡®Groups of four. Form up quick. Go with strangers, not friends.¡¯ He counted down from ten. By the time he was done, they were standing obediently in groups of four, awaiting the next instruction. Saskia marvelled at the power of his Urge. The average Forceborn could generally bully, charm or persuade their way to getting what they wanted from people, provided they used their Urge on one individual at a time and the target was already at least somewhat open to the idea, whatever it was. The stronger among them tended to be in positions of influence and power, leaders able to motivate entire groups of people into doing things like marching down the street singing protest songs, or agreeing to more unpaid overtime. Igor had just completely reversed the free will of forty-nine complete strangers. He was dangerous. ¡®Billy. You¡¯re not fighting. We need you safe. Wait down here.¡¯ Billy nodded apprehensively and stepped to one side. ¡®Now Saskia, you swap into that group of three. The three of you, Saskia and you two, your job is to keep the hatch open until everyone¡¯s out, then you¡¯re roaming. Don¡¯t take on any Polity by yourselves, just assist other groups. Saskia, you go round speeding up any kills in progress with your blades. The other two, cover her. Everyone else, each squad takes one enemy. Tackle them to the ground all at once, then whoever¡¯s nearest the head, get your rope around the neck. Remember, up and back. Keep your head tucked in. If they go for your face and catch an eye, you¡¯ll let go, and then you¡¯re dead. No time for practice. You¡¯ll just have to remember. The other three, take the arms and legs. Don¡¯t let them get their feet under them. If they stand up, you¡¯re dead. Keep your eyes open while you¡¯re killing. Make sure none of their mates come to help and if they do, either abandon the kill or call for support. If your crew isn¡¯t engaged and you hear a call, head towards it.¡¯ Prisoners silently nodded assent. They all held the ropes that had bound their own wrists. ¡®Remember. If they have time to realise what¡¯s happening and organise themselves, we¡¯re all dead. When you see one, don¡¯t hesitate and start feinting and circling and looking for an opening. You run towards it, in a straight line, and trust in your teammates to back you up. You knock it down and kill it as fast as you can, and if it¡¯s got any weapons, you take them and use them to get the job done faster. Who¡¯s Selfborn?¡¯ Two people raised their hands. ¡®Figures there wouldn¡¯t be many of you in prison. Don¡¯t get caught, do you? If you wanna take your clothes off, do it now, but don¡¯t dive until we go up.¡¯ The two Selfborn men¡ªone enthusiatically introduced himself as Phil¡ª stripped their clothes off with no sign of embarrassment. ¡®Anyone Truthborn or Skyborn with a weapon they can use?¡¯ When there was no response, he continued: ¡®Right then. One of two things is gonna happen. If Holly can unlock the hatch for us, she will. If she can¡¯t, we wait until the Polity open it. Either way, the second that hatch cracks open, we charge out and commit a massacre that our great-great grandchildren will learn about in school. Now, everyone on the stairs. We wait.¡¯ -Holly- Belle¡¯s legs thrashed wildly in the air. He roared in panic. His arms swung, grasping uselessly at empty space. Laughter surrounded him. ¡®Go on, Belle!¡¯ ¡®Very impressive, Mr. Hammerplank!¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re wasted as a sailor!¡¯ ¡®Definitely wasted.¡¯ He hung six feet in the air, leaning backwards with all four limbs thrashing ridiculously, struggling for balance as though seated astride a bucking horse. Only his tail touched the ground. The huge thing emerged from the base of his spine through a hole in his trousers, as thick as a thigh at its root, narrowing to the width of a forearm towards the tip. It was hairless and thickly muscled along its length, like an eel, but covered in distinctly human skin. It twitched and jerked under his control as he waved and wobbled atop it, briefly righting himself and grinning at the encouragement of his crewmates. Holly winced as he then overbalanced backwards, but he somehow corrected himself with a mighty clench of the tail¡¯s muscles, grunting with the effort. Once steady, he slowly lowered himself towards the ground, the tail coiling up on the deck beneath him like a rope. He hovered comfortably, a foot off the ground. ¡®It¡¯s easier the lower you are,¡¯ he explained breathlessly, indicating the coil of flesh beneath him, which Holly noticed shone with a patina of sweat. It didn¡¯t simply merge into his lower back, she realised; there was an entire girdle of musculature that anchored and controlled it, leaving him with gargantuan buttocks and a bizarrely thick waist. ¡®Because there¡¯s more of it on the ground. The higher you go, the less of it¡¯s on the ground and the more unstable it gets. And then,¡¯ he continued with sudden enthusiasm, ¡®when you get really good¡­¡¯ ¡®No!¡¯ someone shouted, realising what he intended. The crew, recognising the danger, all hurried back, calling for him to stop. ¡®¡­you can do this!¡¯ he finished, sinking down for a moment before swinging his arms up and propelling himself skywards with an explosive flex of the tail. It burst upwards like a spring and he was launched, far higher than Holly had ever seen a human jump, slowly turning what he intended to be a backflip. Her hands flew to her mouth despite herself. At the apex of the jump, some twenty feet in the air, he came unravelled. As he began to descend, his rotation stopped. Arms, legs and tail all flapped like a swimmer as he accelerated face-first towards the deck. Holly gasped. He was going to splat belly-first onto the planking. The fool had drunk too much Lilymilk and he was going to- ¡®No!¡¯ She heard herself yell. In the moment before he collided with the ground the squat figure of Lady Broadwood rushed forwards on her stout little legs and placed herself under him. Her enormous arms wrapped around him as he smacked into her and the pair crunched into the wooden floor. Holly¡¯s heart was in her mouth, believing she had possibly just witnessed one, maybe two people die tragically, but the crew around her exploded with laughter and cheers. She remembered Gennara¡¯s words¡ªwe are less fragile than you. Holly knew they reinforced their bodies to withstand injusry, but still, surely they must¡­ Astonishingly, Lady Broadwood stood up from the tangle of limbs on the deck, her expression sour but otherwise seemingly unhurt. Before Belloe could get his bearings she had grabbed him by the ankles and lifted him back into the air, far above her head. Her arms, Holly realised, were longer than her entire height when straightened. She was like a Goblin crane. Holly could tell from the ease with which she lifted his that she could tear him in half by the legs if she wished to. Belle¡¯s arms flailed idiotically as she gently lowered him, dangling him upside-down so that his face hung inches from her own. ¡®You!¡¯ she roared. His arms and tail flopped down to dangle below his head. He grinned. ¡®Sorry!¡¯ he said. ¡®Sorry. Thank you. Sorry. I-¡¯ ¡®Utter tit!¡¯ she interrupted, vituperatively, then dropped him. He fell head-first the rest of the way to the deck with a bonk, collapsing into a heap. ¡®I will fling you over that railing if you don¡¯t stop showing off,¡¯ she admonished. ¡®It¡¯d be a kinder death than the broken neck you¡¯re going to give yourself. How much brain did you have to sacrifice to the control of that idiotic appendage?¡¯ ¡®Sorry,¡¯ he said again, sheepishly standing and dusting himself off. He turned to return to his seat, but her long arm whipped out again to clip him around the back of head. He yelped. ¡®Idiot boy,¡¯ she grumbled. ¡®Show some humility!¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ he asked, confused; then a light came on behind his eyes, as if suddenly realising something. He stood to attention before going down on one knee with theatric obsequiousness, dropping his voice to a smooth, rolling lilt. ¡®My lady. Your humble servant overflows with egregious gratitude and voracious apology.¡¯ ¡®That doesn¡¯t even come close to making sense,¡¯ she laughed. ¡®Someone teach this imbecile to talk properly before he¡¯s let out in public.¡¯ ¡®I quiver with lugubrious desire to compensate my egregious Lady for her, um-¡¯ ¡®Stop saying ¡°egregious¡±, you absolute fool,¡¯ she chuckled. ¡®Shut up and make yourself useful, cretinous boy! Lace me!¡¯ ¡®Forthwith, My Lady!¡¯ Belle stood and bowed deeply. Holly wondered whether he ever stopped grinning. Gradually, the crew returned to sitting in a circle on the deck. Belle sat beside Holly and pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket, into which he reached and pulled out a glob of thick black paste the size of his fingernail, thinly veined with bright, sparkling orange. Amberlace. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The lump he was preparing was enough to lay out ten ordinary people. As he began to roll it between his fingers, it warmed, emitting a familiar, woody musk. The amount he had in that bag was probably worth more than her house. He saw her staring and hesitantly proffered the bag. She shook her head violently, looking away, and he shrugged. He talked as he rolled. ¡®I can normally stand a lot longer that,¡¯ he said, conversationally. ¡®Probably messed up my co-ordination a bit.¡¯ Holly jumped as his tail appeared over his shoulder, its tip curled around a bottle of Lilymilk. He chuckled, shaking it. ¡®This stuff can make you a bit clumsy. And overconfident. Probably the worst possible combination for someone like me.¡¯ The tail raised the bottle to his lips and tipped it. He took a sip. The smell of the Amberlace was growing stronger¡ª intoxicatingly so¡ªas it heated up. He began to pull it apart expertly; when warm it didn¡¯t break, but stretched like dough, a thin strand extending between the two halves. He brought the two halves back together to reform the blob, then stretched it out again, repeating the motion as he talked. Gently, the heat generated cause smoke to rise. ¡®Sorry,¡¯ he said. ¡®I hope you don¡¯t think I¡¯m rude, not offering you any Lily.¡¯ Holly shook her head. ¡®It¡¯s one of the first betterments we learn, you know. Making the enzyme that lets us drink it without¡­ you kn.¡¯ ¡®Oh, really?¡¯ said Holly. ¡®I always thought you grew horns first.¡¯ ¡®Oh, well, yeah, obviously. But they just sort of grow by themselves, when you¡¯re little.¡¯ Holly remembered being that age; she and her friends¡ªevery child in their class¡ªall desperately hoping they would wake up one morning with the nubs of horns beginning to sprout from their hairlines, marking them as Skyborn. Every child wanted to be Skyborn. As they approached the age where their affinities would start to show, they gossipped and chattered and speculated about their futures as Skyborn: the betterments they would give themselves; the Goblins they¡¯d create; whether they¡¯d try to join the Polity or live an ordinary life among the layfolk. ¡®Hardly anyone keeps them, though. Mostly people let them drop off as soon as they can. No one wants great big heavy lumps stuck to their heads.¡¯ Holly would have given anything for Skyborn horns. To be taken away to the Manse for Skyborn training¡­ ¡®The first year¡¯s no fun at all, you know,¡¯ he continued. ¡®You just learn the standard betterments that everyone has. The Lilymilk enzyme, basic health stuff like healing and repairing, strengthening muscles and tendons, thickening bones, stopping aging, that sort of thing. It¡¯s actually really boring. It doesn¡¯t get fun until a few years in, when you choose your path and get assigned to your mentors. And even then, it¡¯s hard work.¡¯ Holly didn¡¯t have the mental resources to participate in the conversation, but luckily he seemed willing to do almost all the work himself. ¡®You should see my grandfather,¡¯ he continued, oblivious. ¡®He¡¯s got two tails, both of them bigger and stronger than mine. He can walk on them!¡¯ ¡®Wow,¡¯ said Holly. She remembered the day Saskia, then a girl she barely knew, two years above her, had shown up at school with those little lumps under the skin on her forehead¡­ How everyone had stood around in the playground and felt them. She thought about her down in the hold now; her anti-anaesthetic gland; her boneblades... Belle was apparently planning to keep talking until something stopped him, so Holly was relieved when when the girl sitting on the other side of her suddenly leaned over. Holly had seen her once when she was first boarding, climbing up the mast towards the crow¡¯s nest. Up close, she saw they the girl¡¯s eyes were huge, at least three times normal size, making her look both childlike and nightmarish all at once. They had no whites¡ªthey were all iris, a swirling pattern of colours, with a curved, ribbon shaped pupil stretching across each from edge to edge. She spoke slowly, her voice surprisingly deep. ¡®You¡¯re never going to reach your grandfather¡¯s level sitting around drinking,¡¯ she said. ¡®You should go practice more. I bet Holly will think you¡¯re really awesome if you learn some more tricks.¡¯ Belle blushed and took another sip of his Lilymilk, still smiling. The girl shifted closer and put an arm round Holly. ¡®You know he can pick his nose with the tip? Show her, Belle.¡¯ ¡®I can¡¯t! Well, I could, but, I mean I don¡¯t. Obviously. That would be disgusting.¡¯ Even Holly wasn¡¯t convinced. His blush deepened but the grin remained. ¡®That¡¯s Ilya,¡¯ he said. ¡®Lady Omnivident to you, monkey boy.¡¯ ¡®She gets off on scaring layfolk with her crazy eyes. She¡¯s waiting for you to notice them.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said Holly. ¡®Don¡¯t worry,¡¯ said Ilya, ¡®it¡¯s fine to be freaked out by them. Layfolk always are. I don¡¯t mind if you stare. They¡¯re good at seeing things you can¡¯t see. That¡¯s why I¡¯m on the crew. I stay up in the crow¡¯s nest, watching the sea.¡¯ ¡®I see,¡¯ said Holly. ¡®Not like I do. I can see heat, you know.¡¯ She looked pointedly at Belle. ¡®Little changes in temperature. Even through clothes.¡¯ Belle set the Lilymilk bottle dow. His tail reached round behind Holly to flick at Ilya, its tip almost catching her face. ¡®Get that revolting thing away from me, I don¡¯t know where its been. Or rather, I suspect I probably do.¡¯ ¡®Shut up, Ilya.¡¯ They were like a teenage brother and sister, Holly thought. Probably both well over a hundred years old, and squabbling like schoolchildren. That was the great contradiction of the Polity: a near-infinite natural lifespan, yet most of them behaved like they were still stuck in the latte stages of puberty. ¡®Look, I just wanna say, thank you.¡¯ Ilya laid her head on Holly¡¯s shoulder affectionately, as though they had been friends for years. She had to fight to stop herself pushing it off. ¡®I mean, you literally saved our lives,¡¯ she laughed. ¡®You¡¯re a hero. I just want you to know I¡¯m grateful.¡¯ She rubbed her head against Holly¡¯s shoulder, like a cat. ¡®So thank you.¡¯ She remembered the other thing Gennara had said¡ªwe of the Polity are known for our affection. It seemed to have been an understatement, especially with Lilymilk added to the equation. She genuinely couldn¡¯t tell whether they were just naturally very intimate people or whether there was a suggestive heat underlying their apparent warmth; either way, it made her intensely uncomfortable. If Belle talking at her was intrusive, this was a full-scale invasion. Suddenly, Belle stood. The glob of amberlace in his fingers was now aflame. Amazingly, he kept it held between his fingertips¡ªhe must have grown heat-resistant calluses¡ªand approached Lady Broadwood. ¡®About time!¡¯ she cried, happily. Holly watched in astonishment as she opened her mouth wide and tilted her head back. Belle moved his bottle of Lilymilk to his left hand and poured a large measure into her open mouth, which she did not swallow. He followed it immediately with the little flaming lump, which hissed when it hit the liquid. A puff of heavy black smoke escaped the woman¡¯s mouth but she closed it immediately, sucking air in through her teeth which bubbled through the Lilymilk. Her chest swelled as she pulled in more and more air, the bubbling sound rising in pitch, her eyes growing wide, her eyebrows rising further and further, until her face looked as though it was about to burst¡­ And she exhaled. She threw her head back and blew into the air a billowing fountain of black and orange, vast clouds blooming and expanding as more and more smoke flowed. It flowered, little cracks and pops and sparks dancing through it, spreading outwards, leaving a trail in the air behind them as the gentle wind of the ship¡¯s passage slowly carried it away, the two colours twisting and interweaving to form a dark, woody brown that slowly faded into the distance. Suddenly she coughed and the steady plume of smoke stopped. She bent over, hacking, a ragged puff of smoke bursting out with each cough as the crew laughed and jeered. She sat back down, thumping at her huge, tub-like chest with an arm like three hammers strung together. ¡®Good boy,¡¯ she wheezed happily. ¡®Dear me. Oh, that¡¯s made me giddy,¡¯ she chuckled, gently lying down. ¡®Think I¡¯ll just have a little look at the stars.¡¯ A man next to her reached over and patted her upturned tummy in a supportive manner. Conversation flowed. Holly tried to switch between Ilya and Belle often enough that neither managed to truly engage her. Bottles clinked and sloshed. Before long, the voices grew louder, the topics more adventurous. Ilya had also taken a hit of amberlace and lay on the floor with her head in Holly¡¯s lap, oblivious to the unhappiness this caused her. Her enormous eyes, now heavy-lidded, stared up into Holly¡¯s face. Holly had to stop herself from staring back; the patterns in her irises seemed to swirl, iridescent twists of colours swimming across them as she gazed blissfully into Holly¡¯s own. ¡®You don¡¯t have to keep looking away,¡¯ she said. ¡®I said you can look. It¡¯s fine. I¡¯m looking at yours. Let¡¯s just look into each other¡¯s eyes.¡¯ She smiled. Holly immediately turned away, towards Belle on her other side, but he was deep in animated conversation, seemingly about the stars. ¡®¡­that the sky is actually a dome, right, like a bowl turned upside down and painted blue on the inside, right, but it¡¯s got little holes in it, and at night¡­¡¯ She looked back down at Ilya¡¯s upturned face, for lack of anywhere else to look. ¡®What¡¯s it like? Diving, I mean?¡¯ the girl asked. ¡®I¡¯ve always wondered. Does it feel nice? I bet it does. Tell me about it.¡¯ Holly had put it off long enough. Now was as good a time as any. Better, in fact, if it got her away from these¡­ weirdoes. Her heart began to race at the thought. ¡®Er,¡¯ she said. ¡®I¡¯m really sorry. I need to go to the loo.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said Ilya. ¡®No worries.¡¯ She rolled over, extricating herself. Holly stood. ¡®Where do I, er¡­.¡¯ ¡®Just over the side there.¡¯ Holly looked blankly at the railing. ¡®Pardon?¡¯ ¡®Ah! Time for your first sea-wee, is it? Let me show you,¡¯ interjected Lord Certainflex, brightly, clearly having read the situation. He, at least, seemed to be relatively sober. ¡®Observe!¡¯ he called gallantly as he walked over to the rail. He clambered over it holding onto the bottom rung and bracing his legs against the outside of the ship so that only his head was visible and his bottom hung out over the sea. ¡®Like this. If you do it standing on the deck, the wind¡­ gets involved,¡¯ he called, laughing, before climbing back up. ¡®Belle found that out the hard way.¡¯ Holly knew the method; she had seen a few of them doing it. ¡®I don¡¯t think I er¡­ I mean, not here,¡¯ she said. ¡®I, um. I think I¡¯d be happier with some privacy.¡¯ A few of the others had stopped to listen to the exchange with amusement. ¡®Oh, come on!¡¯ ¡®Dont be shy!¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re part of the family now!¡¯ ¡®Nothing we haven¡¯t smelt before, love.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯d really rather¡­ go over there.¡¯ She gestured to the far end of the ship, shrouded in darkness. ¡®Nonsense. We all do it here, it¡¯s fine. Go ahead.¡¯ ¡®No really. I don¡¯t want to. I¡¯ll¡­ just be over there.¡¯ She started to walk away but Lord Certainflex¡¯s voice called her back. ¡®Holly! Hang on hang on, what¡¯s wrong? It¡¯s no big deal, just-¡¯ Her heart raced faster. Her hands trembled. ¡®Look, I¡¯m not going to the loo in front of you all, alright? I don¡¯t want to be rude but Gennara said you were supposed to make sure I-¡¯ That was all it took. ¡®Yes, no, right,¡¯ he stammered. ¡®Alright. Okay, just, be er, careful, then. The wind can suddenly pick up. If you get into trouble just shout, okay? Have you got, er¡­ everything you need?¡¯ She just glared at him. Then she nodded and walked away, a sudden gust of wind carrying some muttered comment about sensitive Selfborns, which was quickly hushed by the others. She plodded towards the back of the ship. When she reached the hatch, she stopped. She turned. ¡®Don¡¯t look!¡¯ she called back to the group. She forced herself to laugh, effecting mock outrage. ¡®I¡¯m embarrassed!¡¯ As she called out, she tapped her foot on the hatch. Three times. Doomp. Doomp. Doomp. ¡®No one¡¯s looking!¡¯ someone called back from the group of sailors. ¡®It¡¯s you that¡¯s making it weird. Just get on with it!¡¯ She turned and her walk away from the group. Slowly. Very faintly, from the decking behind her, she heard three knocks¡ªdoomp, doomp, doomp¡ªbut they were unnecessary. Standing on the hatch, she had felt the Urge of the man waiting mere inches below her. It was overwhelming. Stronger than anything she had ever felt. A roiling inferno of bloodlust. Whatever came up from that hatch was going to unleash hell. When she reached the darkest part of the ship, hidden by the mast and the little hut that housed Gennara¡¯s quarters and the ship¡¯s controls, she looked around. Gennara was nowhere to be seen. No one was watching. Moving quickly, she removed her clothes and stashed them behind a coil of rope. Then she dived. She went deep, deep enough that her vision went dark and blurry, deep enough that she would go unseen to anyone who wasn¡¯t looking for her, but not so deep that she was completely blind. Slowly, carefully, clumsily, moving as best she could with her senses so heavily muffled, she padded back to the hatch. She had no idea where Gennara was but if she had heard that exchange about the toilet, she would be keeping an eye out for her. She had to move fast. The plank holding it shut was huge. She had examined it earlier; it had to be slid out through two housing brackets that held it in place, one on either side of the hatch. She bent over, the plank it with both hands, and gently tugged. It didn¡¯t move. Crouching, balancing as carefully as she could, she gripped it more firmly and braced herself. Terrifyingly aware that she was naked and right in the crew¡¯s line of sight, she hauled backwards. The plank budged, but it was stuck. With her hearing muffled, she couldn¡¯t even tell whether it had made a noise. She couldn¡¯t hear the sounds of the crew either. Nor could she see well enough to check what they were doing. There would be no point anyway. There was no explaining this. No going back. She crouched, gripped, and heaved again. The plank stuck fast. What was wrong with it? She needed a closer look but surfacing could mean death. But then, so could delay. There was no time. She surfaced just enough to resolve the haze of brown into shapes. The plank was warped, probably from exposure to the salty air. It had gotten itself diagonally jammed up into the inside corners of the housings. It needed to be twisted before it would slide. She gripped it once again and applied downward force to one side. Gently. Gently¡­ Even with her hearing muffled , the wooden clonk was so loud she heard it as clearly as a gong. Now, she screamed internally. Now! Move! To her left, blurry movement. She heaved. The plank slid and she fell back. She heard the hatch pushed upwards from the inside, banging again and again against the plank, which was only halfway out, keeping the hatch shut. Her hands had lost contact with the plank and she searched for it again, her fingers scrabbling against the wood of the deck. Through her feet she could feel thudding footsteps, hear voices, louder now, clearer¡­ She surfaced. Sound and sight resolved instantly. Sky. Ship. Sea. Hands. Plank. She didn¡¯t look round. She gripped, leaned back, and heaved. It slid free and she toppled backwards, sprawling. The unmistakable sound of Gennara¡¯s voice roared at the same time as the hatched banged open and two dark figures rushed out onto the deck, followed by two more, then two more. Instinctively she rolled away from the roar, escaping by inches the heavy oak spear that slammed into the deck where her chest had just been. She looked up at the scene before her: the deck, mast, railings, and the distances between them. The clear path from where she stood to the far end of the ship. In an instant she memorised it all then dived, deep enough to disappear. The world turned black. She ran. Blind, invisible, vulnerable, she sprinted into the memory of what she had just seen; she accelerated, imagining Gennara rushing after her, stabbing madly at the empty air, expecting to pierce invisible flesh. Trusting her memory, she skidded to a stop, crouched, and rolled into the blackness on her right. She imagined Gennara rushing past her, chasing an invisible ghost. She had no way of knowing for sure whether the deception had worked, but she didn¡¯t seem to have been trampled or impaled. Yet. She reached out a hopeful hand. It felt like gripping jelly through seven pairs of thick gloves, but she felt it. The bottom rung of the railing. She grasped it with all her strength and blindly slid herself under it, off the side of the ship, bracing her feet against the side. Her other hand reached up and grabbed the railing and she hung there, over the side where she couldn¡¯t be seen. Just like Lord Certainflex had shown her. Holding on with all her strength, she entrusted her life to her friends and her luck, and waited. 16: Now! (2) Meanwhile (in a sense)¡­ Elsewhere¡­ Thrimp Wiltshire United Kingdom Earth -Lee- If Lee had known these were his last moments on Earth, he would not have chosen to spend them in the potato aisle. He had eyeballed each variety in turn, to little effect. He was frustrated: frustrated by the unreasonably wide range on offer, frustrated by his ignorance of which was the right variety, and frustrated by how this entire debacle accentuated his perceptions of his own inadequacy in general. He refused to ring his mum to ask what kind were the right kind of potatoes. Consumed by bitterness and bloody-mindedness, he selected some long, knobbly, organic ones that were almost definitely the wrong kind, but looked interesting. He was being unkind to the self-checkout machine, which accused him in formal yet compassionate tones of placing unexpected items where he oughtn¡¯t. This further inflamed him, and he was suggesting under his breath other places where unexpected items might soon be found. The machine¡¯s persistent mechanical refusal to respond to his threats increased his agitation, to the point that he was pressing the on-screen buttons with slightly more vigour than necessary. It was at this tense juncture that Mr. Upstairs appeared on the other side of the barrier separating the queue from the machine-users, took in the scene, and climbed over the barrier, causing raised eyebrows. ¡®Alright?¡¯ said Lee, self-consciously. Mr. Upstairs enjoyed a good relationship with the self-checkout machines. He lifted the potatoes off the scale, pressed something on the screen, then deftly scanned them. ¡®Can never get these stupid things to work,¡¯ Lee grumbled. Beep, said the machine, passive-aggressively. Mr. Upstairs gently lowered the potatoes into the bagging area and looked at him. ¡®Thanks.¡¯ ¡®Why you are buy this vegetable?¡¯ ¡®For dinner.¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ said Mr. Upstairs. ¡®This vegetable is a meal.¡¯ ¡®Er. Well not just this, obviously,¡¯ said Lee. The big man nodded knowingly. ¡®How to cook this?¡¯ ¡®Dunno,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®Probably just boil them.¡¯ Mr. Upstairs¡¯s eyes widened. ¡®I¡¯ve got a peanut sauce,¡¯ Lee added. He paid and put his potatoes into a bag-for-life that he¡¯d brought with him, then regretted the move and wished he¡¯d just carried them by the bag they came in, which was a lot smaller. Feeling foolish, and with the under-burdened bag-for-life brushing annoyingly against his leg, he walked the proper way out of the self-checkout area and then all the way back around to join Mr. Upstairs, who had climbed back over the barrier and rejoined his own trolley in the queue. The trolley contained three birthday cakes, a six-bottle multipack of the supermarket¡¯s own-brand cherryade, and 24 tins of cat-food, still in the manufacturer¡¯s cardboard tray and plastic wrap. ¡®Having a party?¡¯ asked Lee ¡®Mmm?¡¯ ¡®Never mind. That¡¯d be cheaper online you know. The cat food.¡¯ ¡®Mmm.¡¯ After an unproblematic checkout, excepting a twenty-pound note that took three tries and a confusing discussion about why Mr. Upstairs didn¡¯t have a bank card, they stood in companionable silence waiting for the lights at the zebra crossing to change, Mr. Upstairs carrying his bulky shopping without bags or any apparent difficulty. An unfriendly-looking woman in tracksuit bottoms was smoking in the shade under Tesco¡¯s awning, far enough away from the door as to be ostensibly making an effort to smoke away from the main thoroughfare, but not far enough away that her smoke didn¡¯t still blow all over the passers-by, as well as onto people waiting to cross the road outside. Lee considered making a show of clearing his throat and wafting smoke away from his face. Probably best not to, he thought. He¡¯d seen people on the news being punched to death for that sort of thing, and the woman looked unpredictable. She was definitely best ignored. The occasional car passed, too few to justify the signal crossing. Lee would have just crossed if he¡¯d been by himself, and he suspected that Mr. Upstairs would have done the same; but, together as they were, neither of them did. Lee considered mentioning the unreasonableness of the red man or the smoking woman, but then decided to relax instead. Pigeons pigeonned around. The sun sunned. It was a nice day. There was no need to be grumpy. Smoke and red lights and pigeons were the backdrop to his entire upbringing; he was at home among them, and it wouldn¡¯t achieve anything to start objecting to them now. And, if he was perfectly honest, he quite liked the smell of cigarettes. They reminded him of something or other that he couldn¡¯t quite remember. The sun warmed him and the general vrooming and chirruping of the suburbs tickled his ears; a pleasant little breeze ruffled his hair, and there settled upon him a happy realisation that there was nothing wrong in life that he couldn¡¯t fix by just doing the right things. He recalled the clarity of the cold shower and unwound a little, breathed in deeply, and¡ª ¡ªSomewhere incomprehensibly far away, a Creator said, ¡®Now!¡¯¡ª ¡ªLee felt a mild little zing in the brain area and his vision briefly flashed white, a bit like hitting the back of his neck with a cupped hand, which he did sometimes when he was bored. That¡¯ll be serotonin, he thought, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. Or dopamine. Or one of those sorts of things. When his eyes refocused, the world wasn¡¯t there anymore and everything was deeply, horribly wrong. A sense of things ending overcame him, like the background music of the universe abruptly switched off and harsh fluorescent lights turned on, except that instead of light they cast hollow darkness. The feeling of sun on his skin, the breeze, the sounds and smells of the city; they were all gone. There was no more city. Everything was gone, replaced by a hungry black void that stretched¡­ not as far as his eye could see, because there was no ¡®far¡¯ anymore. It was both inches from his face and infinite, all at once. Reality simply ended. Where the sky and the clouds and the streets and the grass and the trees and the houses had been was a sunless blanket of depthless nothing that sucked foully at his eyes. The part of his mind that told him what to do next suddenly went silent. It had no response for this, and so, for lack of anything more fitting to do, he blinked, but the infinite void did not respond; it remained, overwhelming his eyeballs with the challenge of focusing on nothing. Instinctively, he looked away; his gaze turned downwards and he saw that his feet were on the inside edge of a boundary between light and darkness, his legs and shoes and his bag-for-life illuminated by a bright light that came from behind him and cast shadows forwards into the void. An inch or so beyond his toes, the light faded to grey and grew dimmer; a further two feet beyond that, it faded entirely to black. Beyond that was black. The street he had been about to cross, and everything beyond it, was gone, replaced by incomprehensible, infinite black. Looking to his right, he found Mr. Upstairs. He stood as still and solid as a statue, staring directly into the void, his expression hidden in the depths of his beard. Lee slowly reached a shaking hand toward him, then cried out and pulled it back as the pale white of the man¡¯s face and neck were splattered with a thick, dark liquid that splashed onto Lee¡¯s arms. It was warm. Mr. Upstairs fell to one knee, dropping his shopping. The multipack of Cherryade burst open and highly-pressurised plastic bottles skittered over the pavement. He raised his huge hand raised to his neck, smearing the blood there. It welled between his fingers; he looked down at it with a frown as Lee¡¯s hands flew up to his mouth. At the same time, something thrashed wildly in the air above them. Hearing the sound, Lee ducked instinctively just as a grey mass hit the ground behind him with a wet splat like a boot in thin mud. He span round in terror. There, on the ground, was slightly more than half a pigeon. It had been sliced across the body so that the head, chest, and most of both wings remained; the legs and tail were missing. Where it hit the ground it rolled, gouting blood from its unsealed thorax onto its own wings and spraying it around wildly as it thrashed and tumbled along the pavement, leaving skid marks of blood and viscera in its wake. Lee gawked uncomprehendingly as, screeching, it spasmed and rolled and paddled its way across the pavement. Lee hadn¡¯t realised pigeons could screech. When it reached the boundary at the edge of the of the light, its colour faded and its movement slowed as though underwater, its lunatic screaming deepening to something more like whalesong. Lee stared as it continued further on into the grey, its movement slower and slower, growing darker and darker as it approached the black on the other side, until its mangled body and demented eyes were gradually swallowed by the emptiness beyond, with a final, low rumble like the yawn of a mountain. As Lee stared at the trail of red mess the stricken animal had left, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and yelped in surprise. Mr. Upstairs had made a poor job of wiping pigeon blood off his face with his sleeve. He pointed wordlessly upwards, to where the rear portion of the pigeon hung in midair, bleached to colourless grey in the space directly above the boundary-line on the pavement, twisting and tumbling slowly downwards towards them as though sinking through thick transparent oil. As it fell, it left a vertical stream of splashes and drops of dark fluid hanging in the air behind it, glooping like the wax in a lava lamp. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. They stared in horrified amazement as the twitching mass of flesh and feathers and bird-legs sank, slowly taking on colour and speed as it fell downwards out of the grey boundary-zone and towards the light in which they stood. Horribly, inevitably, it escaped the grey and dropped out of the air at full speed, as though casually thrown by a child, thudding softly onto the pavement where it lay still, dribbling blood. Lee and Mr. Upstairs stood and stared. Lee¡¯s mind was frantically searching for an appropriate reaction to the situation and coming up blank. What¡¯s going on? just seemed unutterably trite in the circumstances. ''Are you fine?'' asked Mr. Upstairs. There was no sound other than his voice. It didn¡¯t echo, but filled the silence for a moment¡ªdeep, warm and round¡ªthen disappeared. ''I don¡¯t know,'' Lee said truthfully. ''Are you?'' ''Yes'', said Mr. Upstairs. Lee nodded. ¡®I think everything else might not be fine,¡¯ he said, stupidly. Mr. Upstairs nodded. Gently, he took Lee¡¯s hand and led him away from the boundary, away from the darkness, back towards Tesco. ¡®Please one potato,¡¯ said Mr. Upstairs, holding out an open hand. ¡®What?¡¯ said Lee. Mr. Upstairs reached over and took the bag that Lee had forgotten he was still holding. He ripped the cellophane and extracted a single long, nobbly potato. He held it up meaningfully for a moment, then tossed it forwards, towards the boundary. It arced through the air, following the normal ballistic trajectory of a vegetable, until it reached the grey boundary. On reaching it, the potato slowed, spinning in dreamlike fashion as it continued along its path but at perhaps a tenth of its previous speed. Like the pigeon when it hit the boundary, the further it went, the more it slowed, and the darker it grew. When it was barely visible and almost completely still, Mr. Upstairs took out another potato and threw it vertically upwards. A few feet above them, it did the same as the previous potato. It slowed, still travelling upwards but with less and less speed, as though sinking in reverse, and darkening. ¡®No touch this grey things,¡¯ Mr. Upstairs said, his eyebrows furrowed. ¡®This grey things very, very kill you.¡¯ Lee nodded again. It seemed a sensible instruction. ¡®This grey things¡­ one minute.¡¯ Unbelievably, the man got his smartphone out and started looking up a word. It was still tethered to its battery pack. For a complete lack of anything else to do, Lee stood and looked around. In contrast to the gaping void that had replaced the world across the street, behind him Tesco itself blazed with brilliant light, like a sun at the centre of a tiny solar system. The light they stood in, he realised, was at the edge of a circle¡ªno, a dome¡ªof illumination, bordered by the grey boundary, with its centre¡­ Lee looked up then, and saw it. Erupting through the roof of Tesco was a burning column of light, as thick as an oak tree and too bright to look at directly. It rose to a few metres above the building, where it abruptly ended as though chopped off. Within the dome surrounding it, there was colour and movement: green leaves on trees, the grey-brown industrial functionality of a supermarket roof. Lee realised how close he was to the edge and took a few hurried steps inwards, towards Tesco. At the edge of the dome was the grey boundary, which slowed things down¡ªslowed them so effectively it had held onto the back half of a fast-flying pigeon as its momentum carried its front half forwards, Lee realised¡ªand beyond the grey boundary¡­ ¡®Chronostasis¡¯ said Mr. Upstairs. ¡®Eh?¡¯ ¡®Crow. No. Stay. Sis.¡¯ Lee didn¡¯t have the mental resources for playing what¡¯s-Mr.-Upstairs-trying-to-say right now. ¡®Look, what¡¯s that?¡¯ he asked, pointing at the column of light. Mr. Upstairs was already looking at it and nodding. ¡®This one the, maybe, mmm this one a¡­.¡¯ He looked down at his phone. ¡®Middle. Crux. Focal point.¡¯ ¡®Focal point? Focal point of what?¡¯ Mr. Upstairs looked at him reproachfully. With a wave of one arm he indicated the void beyond the dome. ¡®There, chronostasis. Here¡­ not chronostasis. The¡­¡® Lee didn¡¯t listen to the rest of what he said. He knew that when you don¡¯t understand, the next thing you¡¯re supposed to say is ¡®what does that mean?¡¯ but his brain wouldn¡¯t let him. The back-and-forth of negotiating meaning with Mr. Upstairs was a thing for normal times, when everything was fine. Now the world was broken and the silent weight of the absence of the world he had hitherto existed in was making him panic. It was a nasty, dangerous feeling, like suddenly finding himself neck-deep in a pond; one of the still, stagnant kind where the water hasn¡¯t moved in so long it¡¯s turned green and started to rot. The kind the imagination populates with wriggling things. The air was¡­ heavy, almost wet, like it was full of something that the wind was supposed to blow away, only now the wind had stopped and it was building up, sticky and cloying¡­ It made his skin prickle. He needed to run, shout, scream, set off fireworks, anything to fight the stillness and silence. It was a horror, a feeling of being vulnerable and surrounded by slimy evil, like nothing he¡¯d ever felt. Mr. Upstairs was still talking but the words passed him by, distant and incomprehensible. Looking desperately around for the source of the feeling, he focused on the boundary. Surely enough, like his ears picking out the source of an unpleasant sound, his gut identified the boundary. Slowly, he edged back towards it, his eyes narrowed in concentration. ¡®Hey,¡¯ called Mr. Upstairs, but Lee wasn¡¯t listening. He got as close as he dared, and stared at the pavement, where the boundary was clearly visible. It was moving. Slowly, so slowly in was almost imperceptible, it moved towards him. Towards, he realised, the centre of the dome. Closing in. ¡®What do you??¡¯ cried Mr. Upstairs. ¡®This grey things kill you! I say!¡¯ ¡®Yeah,¡¯ said Lee. ¡®It¡¯s bad. It killed that pigeon. And, look. It¡¯s moving!¡¯ Mr. Upstairs crouched and stared at where Lee was pointing. Lee did the same. The two of them stared at the slowly-approaching edge of infinite nothing. ¡®Stay here, I think,¡¯ said Mr. Upstairs, ¡®is a scary.¡¯ ¡®We need to get away from this,¡¯ said Lee, urgently. He looked around the shrinking circle of reality. They were trapped on the pavement between the boundary and Tesco. There was nowhere else to go; nowhere except back into Tesco. ¡®Go to in this shop, I think, is a good.¡¯ ¡®Yeah,¡¯ agreed Lee, and they turned towards the automatic doors. They loomed like the gates of an ancient castle, silhouetted against the pillar of light that rose behind them, suddenly huge in this tiny remaining sliver of world. Slowly, cautiously, staying close together, they crept towards them. For a long time, there was nothing but the shuffling, scraping sound of their shoes against the pavement and the rustling of the bag-for-life. It was so quiet Lee could even hear the rustling of their clothes. He tensed, controlling his movements, trying to move as silently as possible. The sudden movement of the doors startled him so badly that he jumped backwards, crying out and shielding his head with his arms. They slid open with a rumble and a hiss, moving at an unnatural speed. It took Lee a moment to realise they had opened automatically, sensing his approach. He lowered his arms and looked up at what their opening revealed. What he saw made his jaw drop and his eyes bulge. A frightened little wail escaped his throat. The main aisle stretched away from them, branching off into its various perpendicular tributaries before ending abruptly in a wall of milk. It was a familiar sight¡ªthe same Tesco entrance he had seen at least once a week in the ten-or-so years since it had opened¡ªyet nothing had ever looked so alien. The light was all wrong: it blazed in fron the right-hand-side, throwing enormous shadows that were never normally there. The milk at the far end glowed so brightly Lee had to shield his eyes; the stand of discounted muffins by the entrance, by contrast, was in almost total darkness, lost in the shadow of a pillar. Somehow, the fact of goods under promotion not being brilliantly lit gave Lee a lurching sense of profound, fundamental wrongness. As he gawked, the doors moved again, sliding gently back towards one another. For some reason, they closed a lot more slowly than they opened. He had never noticed that before. He turned to Mr. Upstairs. ¡®Ready?¡¯ he asked. Mr. Upstairs nodded once. Lee steeled himself and took a bold step forwards. The automatic doors rolled open once again in response. But Mr. Upstairs¡¯s hand had reached out and gripped his arm. Turning, Lee saw that the man hadn¡¯t moved; he was still staring at where Lee had just been standing. Beyond it. At a spot further away, off to the side of the doors. Lee followed his gaze. The smoking woman. She was right in the grey boundary; she was a shadow, barely lighter than the darkness that threatened to absorb her. Smoke from her cigarette was floating upwards in the still air and getting stuck there, slowing as it rose and pooling into a mushroom cloud. She was looking around her in confusion, but her movements were slowed almost to the point of stillness. One hand was already dangerously close to the encroaching black. It was closing in; if they left her, she would be swallowed by it. ¡®Oi!¡¯ shouted Mr. Upstairs, his voice filling the eerie, still silence for a brief moment before disappearing. ¡®Excuse, Mrs. Woman! You are dangerous!¡¯ There was no response. This grey things kill you¡­ Mr. Upstairs¡¯s words from before echoed in Lee¡¯s head. Lee ran. Behind him, Mr. Upstairs roared a warning, then Lee heard thumping footsteps behind him as he raced towards the woman. It was an idiotic thing to do, but he had no choice¡ªthere was no question of leaving her to be mortally decelerated at the edge of reality¡ªand on some innate level he was desperately glad for something obvious to do. As he approached he reached his right arm out to grab her, bracing himself for the impact of hitting the grey¡­ which never came. He ran up to her as though they were standing on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day. As he drew nearer, colour flowed into her. Her movements quickened. She stood up completely, a gaudy multicoloured statue against the utter darkness behind her. She fixed Lee with a surprised look and began to form a ¡®wh-¡¯ with her lips. This was wrong. There should have been some kind of resistance, some kind of slowdown. Why had it been so easy to reach her? Not pausing to think, he wrapped his right arm around her wrist and, moving as fast as he could, turned back towards¡ª ¡ªbehind him, instead of the pavement he had just run across, was a wall of blazing, blinding white light. It hazed and roiled at him, like staring into the sun, but a sun inches from his face. He closed his eyes and screamed, blinded, turning away to shield his face. The woman behind him was surrounded by a haze of grey¡ªthe same grey as before, but up close it flicked and darted as though alive, swirling around her, clinging to her hungrily as it billowed in from from the black beyond. Lee stared past her and into the darkness and was sure he saw something, a darker black against the black background, move. He tightened his grip on the arm of the woman as he felt a huge, powerful hand grip his other arm and pull with the sudden machine force of a pneumatic drill. He travelled towards the pull, and realised; he had slowed down when he approached the woman. He hadn¡¯t noticed because he was moving at the same speed as her. Close to the grey, everything was slow, including him. Further away from it, things moved faster. His left arm, pulled by Mr. Upstairs, was further away from it than the rest of him. He felt his left arm, under the traction of the giant man, pulled away from him faster and harder than his slowed-down body and his woman-gripping right arm could keep up with, and felt a moment¡¯s worry. Then his shoulder began to tear. He screamed. It came apart with a crack as his arm, then he, and then the woman came rolling into the light and sprawled onto the pavement alongside Mr. Upstairs. The agony was unspeakable. His left arm dangled limply and he continued the scream, curled into a defensive ball with his head tucked into his chest. The pain was a mix of searing white and brownish-purple behind his eyes, the white a constant, penetrating, scalding heat while the brownish-purple came in waves of nauseating grind that travelled up his spine whenever he breathed. His body was broken. The arm was suddenly no longer a part of him but an enemy, clinging to his skeleton and hurting him. He was betrayed, made weak and vulnerable, and mindless with pain, the foundations pulled out from under his sense of himself. The wrongness of it caused his stomach to constrict and he vomited onto his knees as his body wretched and shivered and dribbled. The same huge, orange-haired, muscular arm that had caused the damage to him wrapped itself around his torso and he screamed again. ¡®I need to go to hospital¡¯, he managed to garble through strands of vomit, saliva, and tears. ¡®Very sorry¡¯, he heard form behind as he was hauled upwards and passed out in a blinding flash of white and brownish-purple.