The Beam

Kiela had no words to express the nightmare beyond.
Kethel breathed, swearing, the grip on his hot pistol loosened by shock. But even his reaction fell short of understanding.
They stood in the doorway of Dorn's chamber aboard the dreadnought Saber. There was a sucking vacuum, something orbital, that maintained a fractured perimeter of air and light. At the center of the room, floating and twisting in thin blackness, was Dorn: a mutated infant, the size of a grown man but soft and frail, crowned with a pulsating skull both grotesque and enormous.
His giggles echoed everywhere.
But before Kiela could scream, the shrieking emptiness converged on Dorn. And in that sudden silence, the levitating thing she once called friend dove into her mind and started speaking.
Welcome, welcome! Welcome, old flame! Don't be alarmed. This is just a change. I'm changing, you see, thanks to our red friends below! So much planned...we must be alone to speak. No more of your new friend, just you and me!
She turned in time to see Kethel raise his weapon. Dorn wasn't even in his sights when the General paused, gulping and belching. What could have been a cry of pain or surprise became gelatinous and buttery, like the bones in his face that Dorn was liquefying. General Rae collapsed, hands clawing to maintain the structure of his own head. His hands cupped and cradled and accidentally clawed into his brains, and when he hit the floor the entire mass popped and spread like a balloon full of soft pink cream.
Dorn laughed in Kiela's mind.
She turned back to him, willing herself away from Kethel's twitching stump of a body, mouth agape with sorrow and fear and confusion. She started running toward Dorn.
Stop, dear. Stop this. I've so much planned for us! You've no idea the things I've planned for us! Stop and let me tell you.
Kiela kept running.
Let me show you what I've built here, dear. I know the secrets of the star above! Use these secrets with me...we can remake so many worlds together!
She was close now, fists clenched in full sprint. The tears in her eyes did not keep her from reading his dark patterns. She knew where he was and what he was. Kiela knew what the freak wanted, and she would kill him.
Stop! Ha-ha! Stop now!
And as she leaped, the beam crushed and folded the outer hull of the ship. When she set her curled fingers for Dorn's eyes it pierced the chamber. And before she could dig into his weak, horrible flesh, it struck them both. Dorn was vaporized, every particle of his newly omniscient self razed and sliced by the mental laser. Kiela, however, was enveloped. The warm blue light showered upon her. Memory flooded every sense, every strand of hair, and swallowed her into sweet, immortal comfort. Then the beam plowed onward. On and on, so close to its unintended target. For years of flight, it had traversed the empty space with one unknown goal. Yet when it entered the heart of that local star, Finnis...when it stalled the sun's hot and mysterious clockwork...when the solar gears shifted and reversed, the beam simply faded. It felt peace, for the first time since it illumined the stratosphere of a world left to waste.
Finnis folded. It fell and bled into the surrounding space. When it had leaked most of its strength, there was a flush of crimson light in which the Nim'roh basked and prayed.
From the inner-galaxies, had they dark skies, there was a faint glow.
The news came quickly via Earth Forces Wire that a certain fringe system was lost.
Although being little danger to altering navigation, the various merchant guilds saw no gain in pillaging the exploded area.
And somewhere on Earth, the warm bones of a man and his friend were slowly turning to ash.

Becoming

Dorn set the Amplifier back in its casing and reclined. It felt good removing its tight weight from his grotesquely enlarged skull. He stared at it fondly, smiling. He was proud.
Then he noticed the dead clumps of hair that had come off along with the device and the moment was spoiled. Then they were burning, in his mind and on the desk. With a controlled fit he extinguished his rage and waited as the ribbons of stinking smoke dissipated. Although visibly vanished, the matter that once was a part of the organism Dorn Ricker, something of them was hovering. Dorn recognized this remnant after a moment of study and reacted as swiftly as he had before. He removed the atmosphere from his office with a ear-shattering howl.
Much better, he thought.
This minor holocaust reminded him of his efforts upon the demons in the caves. Oh, the mental gymnastics employed to make them turn upon the hiveminders! The irony of uniting broken minds in unity against an entity that sought the very same! His earlier pleasures regained, Dorn searched to enjoy this moment more thoroughly and removed the gravity.
Sweet weightlessness...his blood flowed in steady bursts with a heart long robbed of unconscious function; it was in Dorn's control now, like as nearly everything else. And, in time, just everything.
He was above his desk, floating near the ceiling in peaceful reflection. These breaks were still necessary, but less so than in cycles past when all of this was first set into motion. Total Awareness is exhausting, he thought, upside-down three feet in the air. I deserve this.
But then the Earth-lights caught his tiny eye and the halos of fuzzy light upset him so he shut them off. He vanquished all light in his office and wallowed in its absence. Back, he thought, back back back. Dorn spun himself in such a way that the top of his head became the centrifugal focus. He was rotating upon his enormous mind, the room around him; the ship, the stars, etc. And with things just the way they would be, Dorn was very happy.
He would not need reading or even the promise of writing. His Amplifier was just a crutch, part of the rehabilitation for his changed mind. His work now required no deciphering of exterior minds or cramping them under the will of his own. Dorn needed only feel what things become, and that would make them so.
"Great-Father, praises be." A grin showed.
"Ha-ha ha! And blessings in the red sun see!"
His hysterical laughter set Dorn spinning faster and faster. The blackness created began to swirl and spill into the whirlpool of glee. Light bled in.
He heard a strange pop but hesitated, too enthralled to prematurely cancel his joy. Instead he succumbed to it. He savored it like a fine orgasm. He let himself last there, a mutated and fleshy simulacrum of all black holes, his pleasure forever corralled in his own event horizon. Dorn ignored the seeping light for his own indulgence.
And it was all the time they needed.

A Song:

NEKRON!

Welcome To Communion

It is a strange scene:
A dozen or so bodies, some human but many more of alien species. The Spint beings of the inner-galaxy, formless floating shadows, and the double-boned, quadrupedal Mistiff stand out most oddly. But their council is met in peace. However strange their collective may appear, the true weirdness is the discovery that they are governed by a single mind; calm, wise, and and seemingly unbroken.

"We are concerned." says a small man.
"Yes. The Earth forces keep Us down in these caves. We feel threatened."
"The Under-Roads are protection. The Nim'roh have been great allies."
"Allies commune, they cannot." many of them speak in unison.
The pause that follows is not tense, but patient. The group waits while more bodies wander into the growing choir. More systems, they think together, more strength. Welcome.

"We can go deeper. We can wait out the Earth forces." two fat things say.
"We do not have enough resources for Our systems, and We can no longer survive the loss of more systems. Resurrection is still many systems away, and more Minds are lost across this galaxy with every passing cycle."
"The last Mind before to void to fall was opposite the dark center. There will be no more resources from beyond the void. We must reach Resurrection here on Our own, for the sake of this galaxy."
"Practice communion with Us." whispers a child to a Hrathi lord towering beside her.

For several minutes they hum arias.
Newly focused, another piece of the whole says, "The Nim'roh are kind, even without communion."
"Yes." they all agree.
"It is their prophecy that keeps them so. They think We play a part."
"Do We?" some whisper.
"Yes." they all agree. "We have seen much prophecy, many fates made true by passing time."
"Then We wait for the death of this sun, Finnis."
"Yes." they all agree.
More silence follows. The hiveminders are in deep melding, concentrating their great combined knowledge and seeking answers.
"The Nim'roh have followed Us into rebellion, but they do not understand Our goal of Resurrection. It is their weak minds. They were mind-slaves once and may ever be. If We cannot share communion with them, perhaps We can persuade them."
The council, now measuring over a hundred, immediately grumble away this shared plot. Their noise resonates throughout the high and cavernous meeting ground, worming through the tunnels that end in this singular place. At the mouth of one of these tunnels, a hiveminder notices a pair of red eyes dividing the blackness. Soon, they all notice.
All together, "We respect your ways, native. Respect Our communion."
The devil emerges, armed with a pilfered human weapon.
Then there are more eyes.
More weapons.
Damn, one hiveminder thinks, I was a fool to trust Them.

A Deep Spear

It was a short while before the attacks that Kiela found herself in the doorway of an Earth-lit pod on Finnis IV. Walking through the encampment was a nightmare to her senses. The words of hundreds of minds bled into their rhythmic shouting and cheering. She was mentally crippled. With her reanimation post-hibernated jaunt across the galaxy to this fringe world only hours behind her, her eyes muddied by the blend of the rotten cherry sky above and electric light beyond, it was a wonder she was even still conscious. Perception skewed and body tense, she dared to read deep into the pod for any sign of activity. An alarm sounded, and what was at first a feeling of anxious rage became a curious lust and an affront to her very presence: Mind yourself, woman! There’s nothing for you in these dark thoughts.

“Cease alarms.” And they obeyed. “It’s a read-scanner…lets me know when one of your kind starts misbehaving. Of course, I didn’t expect you here so quickly. For fuck’s sake I only got of the V-comm with the bastard a second ago!”

“You, you are General Rae, yes?” Kiela stuttered, still barely maintaining her composure.

“Damn, woman! Kiela, was it? You sound like a wreck, come in.”

Her legs wobbled, feet lifting a flush of dull, red silica, but carried her far enough for the pod’s door to slip shut. She closed her eyes, grabbed her head, and prepared to faint. All at once the General was at her side. He guided her to a chair by a large, tidy desk. He stared down at her a moment to be sure she wouldn’t fall. He got down on his haunches. The grunt he made was short and well hidden, enough to coax Kiela’s left eyelid to rise and explore.

“The Starports accept dozens of ships a day, here, with little time or regard for passengers just out of hibernation. War world or no, I apologize. You’ll be fine, shortly. Drink this.

“Drink wha-“ and then she was drinking something. It was smooth and sweet and she did not cough. “Thank you, but what was-“

“It’s a stim; Marine-juice. Here.” The General handed her the cup, now less than half-full. “Personally, I hate the stuff. You looked like you needed it though. And besides, we need to talk. Can I trust you to respect my wish? Will you keep out of my thoughts?” His words were nervous but not without conviction.

“General Rae, it is hard to trust someone without reading them. It’s sort of a habit these days.” Honesty, at least at the start, Kiela felt, was simple courtesy.

“The nature of our conversation requires perfect transparency, Kiela. I’m sure that snake Dorn gave you some files on me, while here I am calling you by your first name. I was about to call up your papers when you…call me Kethel, by the way.” He sighed deeply and cradled his rocky chin. The pause gave Kiela a moment to consider the offer he was making, or trying to make; as he began again. “This world is a wreck, strategically. I assume you’re talented, since Dorn sent you, but I’ve also assumed you’re a spy. Tell me why you’re here and maybe we can figure this out.” He was finished and had no idea what to expect.

They both waited.

“He gave me all your files, Kethel, and I have no idea why I’m here. Dorn is an old friend from Earth,” she lied, “and demanded I come. He made it seem urgent. I was desperate to leave home anyway, so that’s why I spent ten years snoring across space to almost die walking across your little party. I was hoping you’d have more to tell me, really.”

“My readers are worthless,” he continued, “colony-bred; and the Earth-Readers planet-side are Dorn’s personal lackeys. If you’re here for anything I would hope it’s to end this ridiculous siege, but that asshole up in orbit may just be playing a joke on the both of us. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” And she was. “But I can’t shake this feeling of dread since I’ve arrived.”

And then the ground swelled and shook and split open. A whirring like a thousand high-frequency drills pierced the air. Kiela and Kethel grabbed their ears, the latter forced flat on his back in a sudden loss of footing. But as abruptly as the wailing stopped so did the fighting begin. Kethel crawled to his feet and released his sidearm. Grabbing Kiela, he ran toward the pod’s exit. It opened, a mouth revealing catastrophe and chaos. “COME ON!” The General screamed.

Kiela froze and gawked at the spectacle before them. Some enormous machine, some spear, had erupted from the deep. Compartments along its metallic rims were erupting alien warriors. Dead humans encircled the crater like some sophisticated, macabre drama. Lasers cut through the smoke and dust, and a final tug on her arm dragged her and her focus toward the aging General. They were charging.

“How’s that stim treating you now!?” Kethel bellowed.

Kiela shook off her stupefied face and cupped her free hand to her open mouth. “It’s- HOLY SHIT!”

The plasma shield of a Lancer just to their left was pierced by shrapnel. It dug into a large tube on his back which emitted a crescendo of squealing energy. The Lancer burst, a nearly invisible shockwave sending Kiela, Kethel, and some of the late-Lancer soaring thirty meters through the air. They crashed into the soft wall of another pod. Kiela opened her eyes and let the thick, angry sky engulf her. Everything ached, but when she looked around the General was already standing and firing. His wide stance revealed a severe gash down his left leg, and before anything else could register his free hand was searching for Kiela’s shoulder. Kethel pulled her up close to him, pistol squawking intermittent death, and said, “We’re leaving.”

Another charge, this one more direct with a clear target in sight: a rover in the distance untouched by the spreading destruction. Kiela couldn’t help but question this gambit as she witnessed the growing field of dead men and monsters. She was reading them all, and she was overwhelmed with sorrow and fear. Plasma shields were bursting all around them, the soft crimson orb of each expanding and enveloping the two as they dashed through, raining warm dust upon them. General Rae laughed when they reached the rover, exhausted and bruised. He tossed Kiela aboard like a pack of gear and lit the engines. As they swirled away and picked up speed, she observed the panorama of camp. Never had she wished more to be back in the Wastelands of Earth.

With fierce revelation she shouted, “That’s not what I’ve been worried about, Kethel! It’s something else! What the HELL is happening here!?”

Kethel pushed hard on the throttle and leaned back, checking his pistol before turning to his new companion. This lovely woman had brought with her more trouble than he could have possibly imagined. So pretty and so cursed…aren’t they all, he joked to himself. Her breathing was erratic, still charged by that magical stim. Kethel relished how her looks were magnified by the disaster upon which she was now the foreground...maybe even the cause. And, deciding to ignore her beauty for a moment, just a moment, he gave her an answer:

“If you’re ready for another trip up into space, Kiela, I know just the bastard to ask.”

Altman Be Praised!

The Spirit Of Men

As the door to his quarter-pod slipped open, the General heard commotion on the grounds outside and frowned.

“LONG LIVE KETHEL RAE!

LONG LIVE THE SPIRIT OF MAN!

WE REMEMBER BROX, WE RE-“

And then the door shut. His scout, Feldrey, was staring at him now. Feldrey knew his General’s face, and quickly tried to reorganize his report into something more agreeable to his superior’s mood. General Rae had not the time to spare.

“Your report, Fel. Stop staring at me and speak, you dumb bastard.”

Feldrey started, “Uh-of course sir.” The General’s frown sunk deeper. “In-in, in in…”

“Unless my armies are stationed in these pretty green eyes,” the General said slowly, blinking “I suggest you gather yourself. You are easily replaced, Fel.”

“In the North, sir. The Ignite Falls are under Human control. Even with the high-ground, Nim’roh defensive capabilities are overstated. Your plan was a success, and your K/D ratios were within an incredible margin, sir. General, we’ve pushed them back to the cave beyond the rear lines. They have only the webbing of the Under-Roads and a fractured city presence remaining in this sector. And Lancer teams from the West report more retreats from the enemy. There are rumors that they are surrendering the campaign, sir.” Feldrey breathed, waited.

“If I wanted rumors, Fel, I would leave my fucking door open and have no need of you.” Finally, General Rae began to regain his composure. “Look here with your dumb eyes and learn something.”

The General marched over to his Holomap, enormous under the humming Earth-light. Feldrey followed, momentarily overwhelmed by this impromptu lesson. He was listening intently. General Rae stood tall and shifted his sight into emptiness beyond. The vacuum was opened and a gust of hot wind blasted them both. Feldrey covered his face; his General did not.

“Finnis IV, or Nim in native tongue. We hunted the Hiveminders to this red rock. See?” The General, shifting his gaze to the impressed scout at his side, was satisfied and continued. “Sixty sectors mapped in standard A.R.T.H. Sixty thousand men for every sector: Lancers, Engineers, Infants, Squalls, Shifters, Readers, and even those pill-popping Marines. In orbit, dozens of Star-Galleons, beams pointed with astonishing accuracy at every enemy post. If it weren’t for this shit terrain and the unfiltered atmosphere, we would have simply burned the beasts to a cinder cycles ago. And now, after seasons and seasons of surviving our sieges and disrupting our Starports, they suddenly retreat? Look.”

The General forced his hand into the heart of the planet and flicked his wrist. A sequence of exploding light illuminated the entire war. Feldrey watched, searching for an answer that would surprise his General, but none came.

“The retreats happen so quickly, sir. It began at sectors twelve and thirty four, but the pattern appears random. One would assume they are simply reacting to individual defeats. You think otherwise, sir?”

General Rae smiled, and Feldrey nearly burst with pride. “This sequence is accurate, Fel, as is your first impression. But this map is incomplete.”

“Of course, General.” Feldrey said, “There exist no maps of the Under-Roads. There cannot, as our treaty with the Nim’roh forbid it…even in times of war.”

He stared at his General. Kethel Rae knew that the boy wanted to be taught. “Your mind is lazy, but not without hope. The Under-Roads are an unbelievable maze of trade routes, safe havens, and fucking fortresses for all we know. It is surely one of the first things the Hiveminders coveted. And I have no doubt they won their prize from these barbarians. Their alliance is our greatest weakness. We see no Hiveminders on the surface. When our plasma shields bloom and break like tiny red hearts, we fall to Nim’roh; not Hiveminders. They hide in the depths.”

“But we guard the entrances, General!” Feldrey interrupted.

“No, fool. We are simply stomping at moles...nevermind, it's an Earth-term. We are being led to believe that they are pinned, hopeless. But we are the ones who are trapped here. This surface world is unbearable to Humans, and with every cycle we weaken, no matter how many sectors we take. Beneath us lies the battlefield, Fel. In all the histories of all the species circling every star I’ve had to misfortune of destroying, no resistance surrenders. To them this is a revolution of body and spirit. And as long as they hold in their burrows, their dream lives; grows, even.”

Feldrey delved into his own mind for understanding and reply. Again, General Rae could not spare the time. As he was about to send the boy off on another errand, the General’s V-Comm flickered and squeaked.

“Kethel, we have to talk.” The face hesitated, noticing the young scout at the old General’s side. When the image settled and came into view, General Rae frowned.

“Dorn, a moment.” Before he could lift an eyebrow, Feldrey was gone, his leave marked by another wash of cheers from outside. “We’re alone, what is it?”

“It’s Commander Ricker, Kethel. How long will it take you to understa-“

“If you called to waste my fucking time, Dorn, I’ll just mute the damn thing and have a good laugh at your flapping mouth.” The General knew that his outburst was probably unwise. In fact, he didn’t care. Dorn was just a Reader. A worm.

“Hm! I’d say you have the wrong attitude about me, Kethel! Regardless, it’s about these numbers of yours…”

“I’m a strategist, not a goddamn mathematician. Dorn. Get on with it.”

“Too high, old man. Send them back out. Somewhere we can lose a few squadrons. The transports have been landing like clockwork since you got the natives retreating, and we don’t have the supplies for every man. This is fringe space, and it’s getting too costly for you to keep winning.”

How the hell did wriggling, dishonorable scum like Dorn Ricker get command of this war? General Rae thought. Blackmail, intelligence, something like that. Readers are always using bullshit to get ahead. But command!? Of an entire world!

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent. Oh, by the way, I have a representative from Earth coming to keep an eye on you. Old friend of mine, treat her well. Name’s Kiela. And before you ask: yes." Dorn smiled and gave a flamboyant salute. "I’ll be seeing you, Kethel Rae…long live us both!”

And with a quick chuckle the screen dimmed to its desolate green matte. General Rae had a great deal on his mind. Dorn was sending spies, now. Earth Readers, extremely well-trained. Having them in the shadows was bad enough, but trying to keep one ignorant while she stands at his side would be impossible. In an instant, he decided to tell her everything. At this point, it didn’t matter. He walked back toward the Holomap and extended his arm again. The stance reminded him of the order Dorn had given. Kethel Rae, completely out of character, felt gloomy.

All at once the cacophony began again, and in the doorway of his small pod, consumed in the red light of Nim, world of flame, stood a lovely woman.

“WE REMEMBER BROX,

WE REMEMBER EARTH!

LONG LIVE DORN RICKER,

THE MIND-SLAYER!

LONG LIVE KETHEL RAE!

LONG LIVE THE SPIRIT OF MAN!”

Stare On

He doesn't know what he saw. Things; human things lined up by the stream the deer drink from. It's the only clean water-flow this side of the deep lake. He bathes in it with Kielo when the dust gets heavy and his eyes itch and Kielo starts to sneeze and whimper. He doesn't think Kielo has sneezed today.
Right, the things. Not strange to see life this far in his wood, but not right either. It's why he stopped, isn't it? He considers this and clicks his tongue, the weasel ten paces behind making haste to meet his side. The tall one stood and met his stare...she? She.
The weasel senses his thought-wandering, his sudden but daily distraction, and jumps on the net of refuse at his friend's feet. He doesn't realize until the drag quits. He turns and the weasel is tugging at the sack with its tiny fangs. Little guy needs attention, he thinks cutely.
He asks Kielo what is the matter. It cocks its tiny neck, looking through the wasted man above. He knows this act: Kielo is curious; concerned about some mystery the beast's mind cannot solve. He tries to think back, to reflect for his his introspective little friend. He peers into recent memory, already disintegrating in the familiar dusty flame of a failing mind. Something he did? Something he...she? The lady! Her hair was longer than it used to be. Wait. Someone he knew? She used to smile and lay her head upon his shoulder for a long time. What happened to the kids? Did they...
But the pictures have moved on. Always move on! he chimes aloud to Kielo, but the weasel is unamused. His forced smile drops as Kielo hops off the drag-bag and continues onward alone. He is hurt by this treason and sulks before steadying the sack.
Kielo is waiting for him on the shores of the deep lake perched atop a stone. The sun is setting behind the ruins of that nuclear plant across the deep lake. His long trek to find Kielo was full of revelation. This was all his fault, his exile. He let the kids die, magical little readers, his students, and she had disappeared, and his face feels sticky. Without hesitation, Kielo slipped from the rock and into the water. He stares at the weasel's heading for minutes before understanding. But why is Kielo swimming toward that decaying architecture? I better go; weasels are not strong swimmers.
---
As he swims, he is entranced by the gushing black beneath him. And yet, even as he races faster and faster, he cannot escape those memories reclaimed. Their burden reappeared, his heart has grown heavy. And even as the depths transition to an odd green glow, the silt floor rising to meet him, his chest beats rhythmically to a choir of shame and regret.
He nearly shatters his hand on the concrete wall. A sharp and rust-ridden rebar ladder calls to him, and after catching his breath he starts to climb the ancient edifice. He is determined to conquer wall and find his friend. Times stretches on, until near the top he hears a familiar whimper. He darts the final length of wall, refusing to look down. There, in what may have been a guard tower atop this fortress, a dim red light illuminates a thin, long shape.
Kielo is coiled upon a desk littered with dust and filth. As he approaches, a shocking fear creeps up his spine. It was warm up here, so close to...hell, they were sitting on top of an enormous belly of radiation. He had never even considered.
But it was true, the horror his imagination cooked up. Kielo was dead. In time, his friend would be cooked on that desk. In more time: dust. And so, naked and soaking wet, his body absorbing untold beams of atomic poison, he decides.
He pets his friend's head, something he has never done.
He searches the desk and finds some faded scraps of paper and pencils.
He writes a quick note.
He gathers up Kielo, still warm, and sits by the doorway with his friend in his lap.
He can see a long way from up there, and it is into the distance he stares when he goes blind.
But he keeps staring, even after he dies.
Somewhere beyond, a colony trading vessel is sheared in half as it sits in queue by a silent rift, tunneling through the void for points unknown.

Last Words

Think I remember her now.

Think I know what was done -- what I lost.



A swift death for my little friend here.
Maybe for me, too.

Who knows,

Wasters

The children marched single-file through dense brush, plodding along behind their teacher. She listened to their awkward stomps in the deep moss and wondered. This was a moment for listening, she said earlier, and urged them to appreciate a serenity so rarely afforded. If they had not learned yet, they will soon enough. The green path dove into a stream ahead. It was thin, not much of a beach, but clear. This glassy, shimmering escape was an ideal resting space. With a nod, the group lined up along the bank. They mimed her when she sat, though some more slowly for fear of dirtying their shorts.

The light reflecting from the stream illuminated the toes her boots and she smiled. They had nothing of the pristine youth that the children seemed to covet. They cared mercilessly for their matching class of footwear, maintaining every inch of glossy leather to achieve some immortality; and by lives so barely lived. “Remove them.” No upkeep for these old things, she thought, as she deftly unmade knots learned long ago. She knew every scar of darker tan. She remembered every tear and dent and sun-worn blemish. No upkeep, but love. And setting her heavy pair of memory carefully beside her, she dipped her feet into the cool stream. The children trusted and obeyed.

“No worry, children.” she said, “Yonder sleeps an abyssal lake whose mouth is too swift for the dust to settle.”

“But you don’t know that!” called a little boy.

“Hush now. Remember what I taught you. This is a time for listening…”

“Not Reading.” they hummed in harmony.

This unity set them at unconscious peace, and proud their teacher turned her attention across the stream. She buried her eyes in the mesh of colorful life beyond, allowing her mind to nestle amongst the quiet forest. All eyes were forward now, focused on nothing but attentive to the presence of empty mind-space. They explored it together and, finding nothing, were calmed. A vacation for the busy brains of New-Readers, her own teacher had called it; relaxation at last.

Suddenly, there was another. It had been moving silently within their circle without notice, but now there was no doubt. It avoided them all, every powerful mind indifferent. It was the shadow of a man hauling a net of debris across the wilderness. Before there was time to react, a tiny girl spoke up.

“It’s a Waster!” she said.

And with a moment’s hesitation, the man was gone. Behind him trailed an animal; a weasel, something gentle and obedient, alongside his satchel of refuse. The children whispered amongst themselves, finite experience and endless legend coalescing instantly into a lucid dream that would never be forgotten. The little girl turned to her teacher and spoke again.

“You knew him. Miss Graham…Miss Kie-Kiela? And he knew you. Also, you haven’t returned Dorn’s calls?”

“Nonsense, Fensa.” she muttered, wiping a secret tear. “Wasters are not known to us, and who are you to call him so!? Keep out of my mind. Or have you forgotten today’s lesson?”

The child listened again to the buzzing of her peers. Eventually, she gathered her boots and began the thorough task of inspecting them before lacing up for the long trek home.

Guarding The Dead

"Now descending from Level Six to Level Five:

Junction Wallows. Mind your manners, Dorn Ricker."

"Fine and fancy." mimed Dorn in a pleasant, mechanical drone. He laughed while checking himself in the drop-down mirror of his auto-flight taxi. It always got the better of him, hearing the dead politeness in these filthy cabs. They stink like Munk piss and used sex, but that voice almost makes the drops bearable. He laughed again, and his cheery, smiling reflection drew some confidence. Of course, his smile wouldn't help him gain entry to the Nim'roh tavern. In fact, he dropped a hand behind his back. Reminded and assured of his weapon's certain and discrete hiding, he flicked a coin into the deposit tray and opened the door. Feet on solid ground for the first time in over a cycle, Dorn Ricker felt positive he would get what he came for.

The change in pressure was a menace on the brain, so he shoved a hangover chew into his mouth and proceeded down the block. Bad lighting wasn’t a concern. Humans don’t live down here anymore, and the only things he expected trouble from were enormous, loud, and had a tendency to shimmer under this fuming red sun. Dorn stepped lazily over refuse and dented steel, his destination already in sight. The sign, borrowed architecture from Earth, flashed brown, Nim’roh lettering; probably something like “Drink to The Fathers.” It didn’t matter. He was here. One last obstacle between the Reader and the answers he was paid to seek: one big, ugly obstacle.

“Sape! You are lost!” it said.

“Nim’roh. Burn Victim. Mind-Slave. Asshole. I am not.” Ricker did not touch his weapon. Even when the monster bent over as if to remove his skull with a single bite, he remained steady. Dorn Ricker stared. He focused on the thing staring back at him. He watched it fall over unconscious, and he stepped over it, careful not to tread on its miserable face.

SHUNK!

The door opened and Dorn had to fumble to find his Earth-shades. The fucking lights these things were so accustomed to were blinding and dull. They would mock him for relying on glasses, a Human weakness, but who cares. They’d talk to him just the same. They had no choice.

Most of the patrons, equal terrors to the sleeping meat just outside, had noticed. None, it seemed, had bothered to care. Dorn kept his head up and let his eyes wander. He consumed as much group-thought as possible and realized how little a threat he seemed to pose. Reader or no, it was slightly devastating to feel so small. He Read what he was looking for, almost like a whisper, beyond a door at the far end of some smoking monstrosities; he did not hesitate. Suddenly, his concentration broke. Everything had been too easy, and his punishment came from his own lips; a laugh. It escaped his mouth, choked up from his throat, born from the memory of that ridiculous taxi voice.

Fine and Fancy! he thought, losing control. He was laughing now. And by the time he regained a fragment of control, he Read his name beyond the door. Dorn Ricker, he Read, stomp him. The door opened and they shared a moment of surprise.

“The simple pleasure in seeing your enemy face-to-face for the first time!” shouted Ricker.

And the last, Sape. he Read.

Dorns’ old hands knew where to find salvation, as they were taught. From his back he drew the elongated tube, simple radar-like dishes on each end. He aimed one at the enemy, and the other stayed directly in front of his face. He fired a thought through the tube, nullifying the space left uncovered by the dishes’ field. Around him, the crash of a dozen Nim’roh signaled success. Ricker lowered the weapon and stared down the red alien ahead. For all its unmatched strength, its endless rage, the thing was hopeless.

“They will be fine, Garroht! Surrender?” In response, the alien marched close to Ricker and settled on its haunches. Dorn marveled at how huge Garroht remained, even humbled, and offered a posh nod. Was he not asked to mind his manners?

“What do you want to know, Reader? My night seems spoiled considering you’ve milked my patrons’ minds of thought.” Garroht belched. “What could have possibly drawn you from the High City? Who has bought this disruption?”

Ignoring him, Ricker began. “Tell me about the one called Raike.”