Risks

Risks taken, risks avoided. this is the life everyone leads. Crossing a street, walking under a tree, marriage. All of these have an element of risk involved.

When i was first informed that I was selected to travel across the galaxy aboard the Diogenes craft, I felt honored and somewhat afraid. The risk involved. Death in space, swift or slow, is a lonely business.

The government men assured me that the risks were low, at least as far as non-intelligent dangers were concerned. They actually had an estimate of how likely it was I would survive the journey; 94.6%, apparently above that of staying on our planet. But the catch was fairly obvious, and I've always been a skeptic. What if we do contact aliens? After all, that is the point of this whole debacle, right?

I was then told that the odds of contacting sapience out there is 0.025%. That's only slightly higher than my quarterly interest.

But they want to go anyway, because 0.025% is a heck of a lot more than zero in the eyes of the higher ups. To me, that number, which for some reason I believe it to be accurate, is the same as nothing. There's nothing out there.

But here I am, standing on the bridge of the first manned inter-stellar vessel in recorded history. The Suntracker Drives are humming as we decelerate, and everyone but me is busy preparing for planetfall. This world was a whole other risk, it gleamed welcomely up at me, inviting me to come down, to get to know a new world.

The hard metal of the hull vibrated almost imperceptibly, as it had since our departure, except for the brief time in freefall. This place has begun to gall me as much as my old home did.

I winked at the planet below. Sure.

The Last of My Kind

    As I consign this brief record to the stars, I hope that other races and beings heed this warning, and that our accidental sacrifice is not in vain. I only ask that you who receive this message do not allow it to sap your will to resist alien invasion. They are merely extremely difficult to kill; it is not impossible. If you believe you have the capabilities to defeat them, strike first and with conviction!

    But you must weigh your options carefully before you commit yourselves to war. If you can hide from them, consider it seriously. If such is your decision, you must take thought for the future; for someday they will find you and it is imperative to be prepared. We thought we were ready; we should have been sure. You must be. We had become careless in our uninterrupted successes throughout the deep frontier of space. Until we found the aliens, we were the rulers of all we surveyed.

    I suppose when we located the aliens, we were scared. No one wanted to face the fact that we might not be the superior beings we imagined ourselves to be. Every species we had heretofore encountered had been obviously baser than ourselves. But these were, in some undefinable way, very different from the others.

    I conjecture that this was the underlying motivation when we unanimously decided on extermination even before we had established mutual contact with them. Let this be a lesson to you who read this to avoid hastiness and to make logical decisions, especially as regards the Killers. We thought we knew how to make war. To the Killers, we are but as children in this ancient practice. What we did occasionally they have made into a horrible art. And they have used us to hone their skills at it.

    We have not met many other alien races besides the Killers, but our experiences had led us to believe that all advances in science are made gradually and logically, climbing the hill of technology one step at a time. Another well-supported theory we had developed was that all of the alien sciences would not be irreconcilable with our own but still extremely difficult to incorporate. Two races always have very different ways of thinking and problem solving. But the Killers proved us wrong.

    In the preliminary stages of our preparations for war, they disabled one scout ship with pure, brute force kinetic weaponry. (They have all the style and subtlety of an animal hitting another with a rock. But do not let their brutishness deceive you; it masks a murderous cunning.) And they exploited this ship beyond our darkest dream. If they had merely used it, there would have been no problem. As well suited as it was to its own specific purpose, it could never have defeated any of our many battle cruisers.

    But they took this ship and, impossibly, modified it, cannibalized it, reproduced it. This was an idea that had never entered our lowest thought. We had unintentionally gifted them with interstellar travel and the principles of our military secrets. (We are sorry for this and for the trouble we have caused any who receive this missive. Before wallowing in your just anger, recall who we are who send this: a race being pushed over the canyon edge of our ending. We have paid dearly for our carelessness.)

    Thus began what we believe to be the greatest war in history of the universe, and we do not say this lightly.

    We anticipated a simple extermination in our first assault, and we did meet with initial success. But then the defenses which they had been building since they had captured our first ship came into play. As yet their models were still imperfect, but they came, and they came, and they came. They were repugnant, indescribable, there were many, they never gave up, and they wouldn't die. You could shoot off a sizable chunk, and they still killed. They knew they were dead, but mortally wounded they fought on. It made no sense and was as repulsive as the way they moved. (And as you value your soul you cannot look into their eyes.)

    In specific, one-on-one combat, their strategy was all hot calculation. Yet as a whole, their overall battle plans were cold and incisive. (We theorize a higher and a lower caste. What this is based on we cannot agree: Accident of birth? Age? Width? Mental quirk?) Some Killers actually boarded our two heavy cruisers and suicidally wrought incalculable damage. They have little or no regard for life. They throw the lives of their own beings away with wild abandon. We suspect that the Killers are a hive mind species, though we have never met one before. But there is can be no other explanation as to why the individual beings would be so ready to toss out their lives unless they had no say in the matter. No individual could place so little value on his own survival unless insane; and insane races cannot build space ships. At least that is our hope, but to be starkly honest we do not know.

    We tried to study the data we gathered when scouting and when in battle with the Killers, but it is impossible to contemplate for any length of time. It is possible to think like someone else, to put oneself into his place. This can be done even if his motivations are opposite one's own. It is a mere reflection of one's own values. But our type of thought and the Killers' way of thinking (if indeed they do think) are skew. They do not intersect at any point, making research impossible. One cannot understand the Killers without becoming an alien in mind if not in body. We lost many of our best psychological analysts to this alien insanity (as we perceive it) before we understood what was occurring.

    They destroyed us methodically and also intuitively. We had bases on other planets. We did not have many colonies, but we did have munitions dumps and refueling/repair stations on or near many worlds. They found them all. It seems they tracked us through the portals we created, or followed us through without our knowledge. Either of those was considered impossible and is still unexplained by our most thorough researchers. There was an early attack on the headquarters itself but it was fended off with only a little difficulty. That is our one major victory against the Killers. However, we recently discovered that it was a mere feint and testing of our defenses. It was when we deduced this that we entirely lost hope.

    It is when they are irrevocably doomed that the Killers are at their worst. Never back them into a corner if it can be avoided. If they have nothing to live for the Killers wholeheartedly embrace the coming of death, both ours and their own. They become virtuosos of killing. We do not think that resignation even translates into their atrocious form of communication. In all their tactics of last-ditch battles there is a desperate efficiency. It is for this we have named them the Killers; that is not the name they have taken for themselves.

    On their language we have wasted much time and effort, and are back where we began. We have failed to determine for certain whether it is a language or not. They communicate, yes. That much is definite. But how far can communication be carried without becoming a language? Perhaps it is a language to them, with clearly defined rules, but to us it is less than gibberish. Their body movements are strangely limited and apparently contradictory. As usual with the Killers, research was made useless by the very alienness of them. Do they have some sort of cycle that they suit their communication to? We speculated often on this, for even if we observed a single alien its modes of expressing itself changed drastically. Did it know we were watching? Were they trying to confuse us? We do not know. WE DO NOT KNOW. We are being slaughtered like beasts in the pen and still we know nothing, nothing...

    For those who regard life so lightly the Killers have an unshakable confidence in their right to live over ours. Yet ours is much the older race, and as far as we understand they have no art or civilization to speak of. If they have any, it is a rough and chaotic social structure. But somehow they excel in the art of war, in spite of a contradiction we have not even begun to understand. If one will sacrifice itself so easily, then why do they not give up and leave us in peace? Death comes naturally to them, so why do they not let it come?

    We want to kill them, and for such short-lived creatures they are strangely uncaring of death. On the surface it seems an easy victory for us. Underneath the surface is something we do not understand, and it is massacring us. Even now I hear the news from the headquarters' defenses of the defeat of the fleet and the fall of my world. I am not like the Killers. Though I do not welcome it, I recognize when my death is upon me. I accept it.

    I have little time left.

    Beware of the Killers. No doubt you will recognize them when you see them, yet I will include their description regardless. When fighting or moving they have their longest side vertical to the gravitational force. They are supported in this fight against gravity by two segmented appendages, with two more jointed offshoots from the upper portion of the holdall containing the vital functions. The offshoots are revoltingly divided into manipulative pieces at the ends. They have a central nervous system with the nexus located inside a very roughly spherical piece perched on a protruding stalk. This also contains the terrible visual sensors. On top of this is a strange repulsive group of extensions that seem to flow viscously in moving fluids. We call them Killers, but they call themselves humans.

Battlefield

A low flying plane reconnoitered the battlefield. The scorch marks and craters, the men, dieing and dead. The battle was lost. The enemy seemed to have slain all of the defenders, each trench was shattered, it's men lost. Many families would get black letters this day. The army of evil marched on towards new lands, many detachments stepping onward, synchronized and organized. The plane disappeared in a column of smoke.

But wait, something moves on the ground below. A lone figure has survived the battle. The rest are dead or fled, but one remains. He is only slightly wounded, some miracle of skill or fortune has left him alive.

The vehicles of the enemies grind slowly over the plain. Tanks of immense size move over the smaller trenches without pause, having difficulty only at the largest craters and blockades. A bridging vehicle rolls forward slowly, it's device held vertically over it. Then the transports and the artillery, their shells spent. It seemed ironic that these engines of destruction were having trouble traversing the land that they themselves had made nearly impassable.There was once grass here, even flowers, but now it is destroyed, nature's work unwrought by man.

The single man wacthed the machines come towards him. He was not done yet, he still had blood to spill for this cause.  If he could destroy a single transport, or just one of the giant guns he would have helped his cause.

There had been many traps set by his commanders before the barrage. Mines, triggered by weight or by radio. A bridge that must be destroyed. A pit filled with gasoline that must be ignited. And more, many more plans with no time or men to execute them.

A look of resolve came to his smoke blackened face, as he seized a motorcycle to carry him wherever he had to go.

He would harass these people, these killers, as long as it was granted he should live.

The Search

"The name Quinton Pendant is likely unknown to you. It is the name of the greatest artist that ever lived.

"I have never seen any painting by him, neither has any living man, to my knowledge. For he only made on work, one masterpiece. It is apparently not overstating it to say that it is the masterpiece of the human race.

"The work was described by the (very) late Leonardo DaVinci in one of his many notebooks. The legend that DaVinci's teacher once, upon seeing DaVinci's latest effort, throwing down his brush and never painting again is an evolution of the tale of Quinton Pendant. The main essence of the story is apparently accurate, a great artist did throw down his brush never to paint again. But this artist was not DaVinci's teacher, it was DaVinci himself. And the painting, was the greatest work of man, Quinton Pendant's life work.

"Very little is known about Quinton Pendant. His name suggests an English background, and he is referenced by several alleged contemporaries. But the name may be assumed, and the references are vague. There is the air of the supernatural about this man and his work.

"Apparently Mister,  Monsieur, or perhaps Senor Pendant was a simple man. No direct references are made to his lineage, but it is hinted to be of a low nature. A son of a shepherd, or of a trader who sailed the seas.

"But how did he create such a masterpiece? That which geniuses and super geniuses had spent so long striving for, and failed to reach? Leonardo DaVinci, when death was upon him was heard to say 'I have offended God and mankind because my work didn't reach the quality it should have.' Pendant's work was all it should have been, all that it could be.

"But his work, alas, was lost. Stolen? Destroyed? Lost in some mass of confusion? I don't know. But I know this, gentlemen.

"It must be found. And it is worth all the effort, all the toil, all the destruction and cost that it is possible to spend on it."

The Bridge

He had stayed up until dawn the night before, sketching his idea. The bridge would solve so many problems. No longer would people have to scurry down and clamber up the walls of the massive canyon to get from one village to another. No longer would food and supplies be lost down that crevasse. The brigands and thieves of the canyon would be hard pressed to ply their trade in such open territory. But first, he had to be sure it would work.

As he pushed aside the blanket and stretched in the noonday sun, he mentally scrutinized his blueprint. He could remember every detail perfectly. The first realization had been that it was possible to span such a gap. The canyon was both wide and deep, it was impossible to build piles all the way down to the water below, the water was to strong, the distance too far, the conditions too perilous.

He felt a surge of pride as he considered his idea of a single span bridge, with no pillars or other supports, just a single simple arch accross the pit.

The sun shone into his workroom, where he had planned and tested so many schemes. Blue prints covered the walls, scraps of wood and tools lay everywhere, glistening in the light. He pulled back his chair, his eyes going to the desk before him.

The plans were destroyed.

They had been burned, the ashes lay in place of the plan that would have meant so much. In the middle of the remains a note was pinned to the table, a spike deeply driven into its once pristiine surface.

"Dear Solver,

Some problems are best left alone. Save your talents for other matters.

- A Friend"

His body tensed in frustration, anger at whoever had written this.

The brigands that haunt the canyon would lose much be such a bridge. But he swore, then and there, on the tools of his trade, that he would build it, alive or dead.

Old Friends

He sat at his desk, depressed. What was he thinking about? I don't know. I am his Guardian Spirit. I was long ago assigned to him by the Great One, and I watch him by night and by day. I can deduce much, for I know much, but I cannot read his secret thoughts.

He does not know I exist, though I believe he suspects it.

A note was delivered to him today, unsigned and unmailed, it must have been placed there by hand.

"Do you remember your old friends? We will be arriving shortly. Prepare."

I tried to think who they could be. Why would he be distressed at this epistle? Old friends visiting should be an occasion of joy. Who could be coming? My charge's life had been a happy, if uneventful one. He had no enemies beyond the ordinary caliber, rivals, unfriends, competitors. Never anyone of import. Perhaps he had been mistaken for someone else? No, I think not. Something about the letter told me the writer knew my charge.

Unless the one I guard is... One of the Recurrences.

I know of them, but not who they are. They are sometimes found, but lost in death, save to themselves. The Recurrences are nearly immortal, if anyone may be. They die often, but never for good, and will be reborn until the End of Days.

My mind was filled with many clues, many hints in the past of this truth. He was one of them.

The sender of this note must know him... Perhaps better than I. Some associate of his past existence, some enemy or nemesis from his from an earlier life.

I checked the door with my invisible hands, the window with my invisible eyes.

I must protect him.

Power

I bend over the gasket again. I feel like I've already adjusted this one a dozen times tonight, but it needs tightening again. My wrench, named Orville, is so worn that my fingers are imprinted in the iron handle, but is still solid as ever. I run back to the main control panel, swinging levers to balance the pressure and mentally noting low pressure areas in the system. We need all the power we can get tonight.

I reflect, as I slide down the ladders to tighten the gaskets in the lower levels, how strange it is that it should all come down to one night. All this toil could be undone so easily. We are lifting the Spire tonight.

Originally we'd planned to raise the Spire in the daylight, but the wind today had been too strong, only dying out after sunset. It had been built on its side, and through the whole process everyone remembered that all could be undone by lifting it erect. The Power Machine is powerful, but unreliable. If the power fails, the Spire falls, and all our labor is undone.

I check myself mid-slide down another ladder by locking Orville between the struts, then I frenziedly claw my way upward. An explosion is the last thing you want to hear down here.

I get to a catwalk, I have a view of the entire Power Machine.

A whole wing bad blown, only eight were left in operation. The steam was already clouding my vision. I would die if I couldn't stop the leak.

I ran to one of the main gaskets, swinging Orville into motion, trying to check the flow if not stop it. The gasket was jammed. The thought of sabotage flashes through my panicking mind.

It's going to be a bad night.

The Fire

The fire was spreading, Aldren knew. It had already claimed hundreds. Soon it would engulf the entire city. From there it would spread even more quickly.

He wandered the streets of the city, watching its progress. Others would have seen no fire, but in his wizard's eyes it blazed brightly. The Cleansing Fire had come to Fannen City.

Burn, burn on! he exhorted it in his mind. It had been a long and a hard quest to bring and start the fire here. Many good men, mages and others, had died.

But now it blazed in the very heart of the Dark Ones' dominions. And he saw their power was no match for it.

All around him were men and women who, all their lives, had walked with darkened minds and deadened hearts. Thoughtless, hopeless, with no chance of knowing freedom unless, by the strongest of spells, they had been rescued by one already free, and brought beyond the scope of the cloud of evil. But without great protection, the rescuers themselves would fall under its influence. Its strength seemed irresistible.

But as they caught the Cleansing Fire, they were freed.

The Beacon

"You couldn't have just come into port Sam, not in this fog. You should have looked in sooner," the friendly tavern keeper said as the sailor walked in. The hour was late, the oil lamps had been lit, and all but the most inebriated had long since departed.

The sailor walked up to the counter, and sat down wearily. "That's just what we've done, the nearest thing I've ever seen."

"I'll tell you the tale."

---

A mist lay over the shore, so heavily that it was impossible to see the stern of the ship from the mainmast. The seaman in the crow's nest couldn't make out the deck two hundred feet below him. The officers were all down below, listening for the sound of breakers on the reefs and rocks, trying to avoid the sound of rending wood.

There had once been a lighthouse on the point. For all they knew it had long since been abandoned or destroyed, but the Captain still ordered a look out aloft. He kept his watch well.

He constantly scanned from left to right, and right to left, high and low alert to the faintest glimmer in the all encompassing mist.

He looked to stern, to starboard, and then, there, in the darkness, was a bright gleam. He called down to the deck below. They knew where they were, they would live to see the dawn.

---

"So you see, if it hadn't been for that lighthouse, I'd be sleeping with the fishes by now."

An odd look came across the landlord's visage.

"That lighthouse burned down six months ago."

Flight

Spinning through the air. Spiraling through the firmament. The sun caught my eye between the clouds, and swung by.

I had done this so long for mere fun that it was difficult to remember this was war.

I can feel the air through the stick and the yaw of my craft. I ride the wind. Five feet to my left my wingman movements matched mine. We were in a vertical climb, attaining the altitude we needed for the mission ahead. We had been assigned to escort a flight of heavy bombers. Why only two of us? Too many bombers, too few fighters.

Plus I suspect that the higher ups had come to realize the abilities of my friend and I. he'd been a farmer before the war, but he took to the air like a...

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT

Small caliber fire ricocheted off my cockpit and fuselage. We kept in perfect formation.

"Green Beta engage bandits. Repeat, Green Beta engage bandits."

This was it.

I shoved the stick forward and climbed as my wingman rolled left. I had managed to keep an eye on the bandit. He had the white triangle emblem on both wings.

A fellow High Ace. This would be a challenge.

He dove into a cloud bank and I followed.

Suddenly I remembered the old days, playing tag in the clouds with my dad, before the war...

For A Better World, Part 1

Bandaging a serious injury is always messy. When one is not a doctor, it becomes an annoying process of trying and retrying. And when it is your own injury it adds a whole new dimension of interesting to the equation.

Anyone who had not realized this before would have come to these same conclusions after watching a tall male in his late thirties. He was attempting to mitigate the bloodflow from his right stump with his remaining hand.

Having finished with this unenviable task, the man tried to light a cigarette with his shaking hand and found it much more difficult than he had expected. He gave it up as harder than it was worth, and gave himself up to the contemplation of the pain. Inevitably, this led to thoughts of revenge. His state of mind was not enhanced by his surroundings, which he was beginning to notice again. Then he passed out for the third time.

He was pulled back to consciousness by a pain cocktail of throbbing and stabbing pains with some nausea thrown in, apparently for good measure. He blinked, vaguely surprised to find himself in such a shabby hotel room. He froze at the sight of a second figure. It took him three full seconds to realize it was himself in the cracked mirror, which he could see from the bed. The room was dimly lit by a single bulb in a cracked lampshade. He looked around but saw no luggage, just a gun and a small black briefcase. Memory came storming back.

Tiring of all this, he pulled a phone forth from his pocket -- very carefully, with his left hand -- and called a number.

 ----

Elsewhere in the city, a phone began to ring into the special kind of silence produced only by despair. Mark (we mention no surnames, for his is a classified existence) fumbled for his phone. He was director of the Scientific Solutions Task Force, which entitled him to a large office all to himself. Even so, his agents had been speaking in hushed tones ever since the incident. They all liked the director, and his moods set the standard throughout SciSo.

"Hello?"

"Greetings, Mark."

Mark waved meaningfully to his subordinates, who got busy.

"I'm sure that you're feeling upset right now --"

"Why would I be upset?"

Mark wasn't sure how to answer that one. There was a bit of silence.

"Oh, yes. The matter of the hand. I remember now. You can put me down on my next performance review as highly disgruntled."

Mark was happy as long as he kept talking. His agent gave him the thumbs up sign, indicating that the tracing of the call's origin had begun.

"You stole the Object, and anything that comes from that is your own fault, as you well know. You also know I would do anything to get it back, which is why you called. What are your terms?"

"Well, I don't have any. I was thinking you could maybe let me keep it, and me and the agency go our separate ways?"

Mark almost laughed and almost cried. "Is that a joke? That is not an acceptable compromise."

"No, I didn't think so. That'll be all, then, I guess."

Mark tried to say something to hold him on the line, but it was too late. Mark whirled around to his agent. The agent held up his hand.

"No worries, boss. We got him. It's only about seven and a half miles from here."

Mark smiled for the first time since the theft of the Object.

"Get a team together. I don't want anyone shooting him out of hand, but the most important concern is the Object."

The room became a rush of activity and orders, as Mark strode hurriedly but with determination to the armory.

The Forest

Not just any forest, THE Forest. The definite article, it stands alone, separate and above all the other forests of the world both figuratively and literally. An immortal place in a mortal world. I could wax eloquent upon the noises or lack thereof, as well as the subtleties of the light or great trunks of the trees, but I have never been there, nor met anyone who has.

Which is not to say no one has been there, many have.

The Forest stands, as it will ever stand, upon a strangely shaped irregularity of the land, seemingly unreachable by ordinary means. This outcropping (though what it originally cropped out of I would never venture to guess) seems to slowly drift around the world, as a stranger drifts in an unfamiliar town; ill at ease, wandering, and not entirely welcome.

In my studies of The Forest I have sought to chart this drift, to find some rhyme or reason, some pattern that I could understand. All the things one might think of (and one, I, did) such as wind, altitude, waterways, geological or environmental consistencies, led to naught. After many, many years however, I did find a pattern, once I had discarded all the probable options and focused my efforts on the improbable.

Seven years after the forest was seen in each of these places, something of great importance occurred. Sometimes good things, sometimes bad things, but always events of great import and impact.

It has just been seen once more, an unusually swift alteration in it position, near the very capital of our world. I must tell all that I know.

The Exiles' Key, Chapter One

By Sleeping Inspiration


"Boys?" Katha leaned over the banister of her home, her long dark hair falling down on each side of her face.

A voice answered from the lower story."I think Mark's outside. What is it?" The speaker walked into her view. He was a boy of her age, and bearing a close resemblance to her. He looked up.

"I'd like to go on a bike ride, Alaric," she said. "Just a short one, before the feast. You think Markus would want to?"

Alaric looked thoughtful. "Probably- if we can find him, that is." He shrugged. "Where do you want to go? Willowgreen, maybe? There should be time to do something before it starts. We've got a little more than half an hour."

WillowgreenPark was a community park about half a mile away. It had multiple attractive bike paths, as well as a jungle gym and a small pond - and, incidentally, a large picnic area with pavilions, which was to be the site of the 'feast' they had both referred to.

"Maybe,"Katha said. "We'd have to dress up first, in that case, or else leave and come back here before the feast." She swung down thestairs, her skirt swirling gracefully about her legs."Anyway, let's go look for Mark, and then see what we have time for."

"Sounds reasonable,"Alaric agreed. "It shouldn't take that long to find our own triplet, should it?"

Katha shrugged smilingly. From their shared lives, they knew well that even triplets could get separated - at least, they all could. And they were quite close.

"By the way," Katha said a few moments later, as they put on their shoes, "calling it a 'feast' has to be one of the worst misnomers in our history, don't you think? It makes it sound like a celebration."

"I know," he agreed dryly. "And a mass exile from your homeland isn't exactly something to celebrate, is it. Although I will admit," he added, "the United States have been pretty good to us."

"Yes,they have," she admitted, opening the front door, "but - still, none of our people have ever really felt at home here, have they?" She took a breath of the spring air, reflecting that the evening would be cool.

"No,I don't actually know of a single person who really has," he said thoughtfully. "Funny, it's been generations, our people practically have their own town here (or all live in the same area, anyway), and we just haven't settled in."

"It's in our blood," Katha said assuredly. "We belong in the old land. The old land was better anyway," she continued. "For instance -" they were now in their front yard, and she looked up and down the street "- there, triplets - oh, look! There's Markus!" She pointed at a figure walking down the street toward them. He saw them, waved, and broke into a run.

In a few moments he was beside them. He bore a close likeness to both his siblings, especially Alaric, with the same dark hair, dark eyes, and fair, aristocratic features. However, he had a more animated, dashing look than his graver brother. He was also more inclined to start things - good and bad.

He seemed inclined to start something now. "Hi," he greeted them. "I had a cool idea the other day."

Alaric looked at him a trifle warily. "Is this one of your 'urgent' ideas?" he asked. "If it isn't, do you want to go for a bike ride before the feast?"

"Well,there's not much time for that," he said doubtfully. "And my idea's not urgent...but can I just tell it to you?"

"You may speak," Katha consented.

"I think we should build a treehouse," he said eagerly. "A good one, with walls, and a real door. We might even be able to find a lock for the door.

"Wouldn't it be fun to have our own place? A three-man castle in a tree. We could use it for what ever we wanted," he continued.

"We do already have two bedrooms between us," Alaric pointed out "-ours, and Katha's. I don't especially feel the need for a private place."

"Neither do I," Katha interjected, "but I do feel the need for a treehouse. I like treehouses. The problem is, I don't think we have a good tree in our yard."

"We could make it in Willowgreen then," Markus said.

"That's exactly the kind of thing local governments hate, you know,"Alaric said reluctantly. He, too, liked the idea.

"So we build it in one of the deserted spots," Markus answered quickly. "It's a good-sized park. There should be a suitable spot somewhere. Ofcourse, then we'd really want a lock, if it was on public property."

"That's the second time you've mentioned a lock," Katha told him. "You seem oddly fixated on the idea - not that we wouldn't need one,"she added.

Moving to their front porch, they sat there and discussed the idea.

As it was getting dark, their older sister Chryssa came out. She was a beautiful, stately girl with dark eyes, like those of her siblings,and long golden hair. Normally, she wore this hair in one plain braid, but now part of it was braided ornately and the rest flowing down her back. She was wearing a beautiful dress of silk brocade that swept the ground, a cloak of golden-colored velvet, fastened at the throat with a jeweled clasp, and around her head was a coronet - a simple hoop of gold with a diamond, flanked on each side by one smaller, in the center of her forehead.

"What are you talking about out here?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? It's getting late."

Katha looked at her watch and jumped up. "You're right, Chris,"she said. "We were talking about a new project - building ourselves a treehouse, actually. We've been making plans." She looked at her triplets.

"Well,then," she said, "after the feast - or tomorrow, if there isn't time tonight - we can look around the park for a good place." She paused."Are we agreed, brothers?"

"Yes,"they both said.

"Guess we'd better dress, then," Markus added. "By the way, I was at the Falcons' just now, and Simon will be here today. Apparently his employer wasn't very happy, but he gave him the day off."

"Oh,good," Chryssa said. "I always hate it when someone can't be here for this feast." She added, "Do you want help with your hair, Katha? Mother's a little busy."

"All right," Katha replied. "Thanks, Chryssa." The children went inside.

* * * * *

A short time later, they had arrived at Willowgreen's picnic area. The tables were crowded with people, all wearing strange clothing - the ceremonial clothes of their homeland. Every family seemed to have its own place at a specific table, and all looked toward one, almost unoccupied table at the head of the pavilion. Seated there, facing the rest, were six figures.

On the edges were Alaric and Katha; next to them, Chryssa and Markus. Katha was dressed as Chryssa was, save that her coronet had only one gem. Alaric and Markus wore rich suits, also of silk brocade, embroidered with strange devices. They also wore the golden cloaks and the coronets with the single diamond.

In the center, similarly clad, stood a man and a woman - the children's parents. They were tall and majestic, both, like their eldest, dark eyed and golden haired, as was not uncommon for their people. Their cloaks were not of golden velvet, but of gold cloth. In each of their coronets was a brilliant topaz, surrounded by a ring of minuscule diamonds.

The man rose. The last rays of the sun illuminated him, and the book on the table before him. Although carefully preserved, it was clearly an ancient volume.

"My people!" the man spoke. "Exiles of Pris-Kador! It is now the one hundred forty-ninth anniversary-" he paused sorrowfully"- of our exile. One hundred forty-nine years, since the day our fathers were by sorcery cast out of our homeland, of the land of Kador in the kingdom of Prismia - the day we were cast out of our very world, and thrown into a strange one - this world, of Science,and no Magic.

"You all know this, my people - my fellow exiles. Now, as is our custom,I, Hereditary Lord of Kador, Fifty-third of that title and of my house, and Sixth Lord in Exile, shall read to you the Account of our Exile, as written by Lord Darion, Fiftieth Lord of Kador and First Lord in Exile."

Crooked Bridges: Day Three

Greenland, 999 AD:

A horn blows in the distance, the warriors and watchmen ready themselves, peering into the night. A single light appears, a spark in the ashen darkness. The sound of hooves on hard-packed earth heralds his coming, his horn sounds again, this time the clear eyed among the Greenlanders see a gold gleam as the rider raises it to his lips.

The steed, almost exhausted, skids to a stop in front of the gate, dust billowing in the lantern light. The rider does not dismount, but cries from below in their own language, his voice hoarse from the dust of his ride.

"Has the ship sailed? I know the tide turns at midnight, and one of the crew... "

"Traveler, I know not know who you are, or why you want to know, but Eric's Son has sailed with Noon tide," the captain of the guard returned.

The Messenger bowed his head.

Crooked Bridges: Day Two

Camelot, Circa 700 AD:

The First Messenger has passed from this world long ago, his task unfinished. But in his son his mission lives on, and generation after generation the title of Messenger is handed down. With the title is handed the great burden.

A lone rider passed through the gates of Camelot, dismounted hurriedly and entered the King's Court. He bowed, but did not remove his heavy traveling cloak.

"Arthur, King of England, I come in search of a man, or tidings of him. He is noble of stature and bearing, his arms are a slumbering Eagle on a field of black. I have a message for him that must be delivered without delay. I ask no boon save this."

Crooked Bridges: Day One

Rome 475 Anno Domini:

"The message is of absolutely vital importance, and should be delivered at the earliest possible date. The contents would be useless to you, and detrimental to The Cause in the wrong hands. Godspeed."

The Messenger of the Navigantium bowed and withdrew. He mounted his steed and rode swiftly to the docks, knowing every instant could be the difference between life and death. Not the life and death of one man, or even one nation, but of everyone who would ever live. He reached the water and the tide was with him. The ship was pulling at its cables, the captain and the sailors waiting silently for his arrival.

The voyage was ill fated, the powers of the sea seemed to be set against them. The ship foundered and was shattered by the storms. But one escaped the oceans wrath, whether guarded by a power of his own, through his own merits, or through some mere twist in the loom of fate cannot be said.