Category: Trunk Stories

Trunk Stories

March of the Slabs

prompt: Write a story that spans a month during which everything changes.

available at Reedsy

It started on March 1st. Or rather, it ended on March 1st. The world as she knew it, that is.

First, GPS and satellite communications went silent, and contact with the ISS was lost. Within twelve hours, the rain of fire started. Satellites, abandoned boosters, and all the junk humans had polluted Earth’s orbit with began to fall. Most of it burned up in the atmosphere or landed in the sea, but that still left enough to bring devastation to population centers world-wide.

For people in remote areas that relied on satellites for communication, the world went silent. The rest of the world, relying on the undersea cables, took to the internet. Container ships were lost at sea without GPS. Trans-oceanic flights ended up far off-course. A cruise ship ran aground when the captain tried to keep in sight of land to navigate down the coast of British Columbia.

By March 12th, when the rain of fire had ended, not a single large city didn’t have at least some fire and impact damage. Then They showed up.

Everyone called them the “slabs.” Thousands of huge, black rectangles, like floating paving stones, featureless and silent, hung in the air above the largest cities, menacing and implacable.

What appeared to be clouds of dust rolled out of the slabs, covering every inch of the cities and spreading out to the countryside, ignoring the winds and moving on their own power. Electron microscope photos of them appeared online; barely 500 nanometers, they were neither viral, bacterial, nor fungal spore. They were the nanobots that science fiction had promised, but they weren’t made by humans.

Aside from a slight tingle on first contact with skin they did nothing. No strange illnesses, no mutations or mind control, no special powers. Like the slabs themselves, they menaced merely by their presence alone, but did nothing visible.

A brave few tried to engage the slabs, firing artillery, missiles, even taking to the air in fighter jets and bombers. To say it was ineffective would be to overstate the impact. March 14th, someone launched a nuke against the slab hanging over New Delhi. When the dust cleared, it hadn’t budged. That was the last news anyone had from abroad.

The internet went down on March 14th, after the failed nuclear attack in New Delhi. The slabs generated waves of massive EMP bursts that destroyed electronics and the power grids worldwide.

That night, roughly four billion city dwellers saw the night sky as it had not been seen in a century. The Milky Way splashed against the stars, broken only by the shape of the slabs. And still, the slabs were silent, while the cities beneath them emptied.

Susan walked north out of the suburbs, amid the dead cars on the freeway, following the scattered crowd. Her aunt had refused to leave her house, instead outfitting Susan with a pack of clothes, a pack of food, a box of ammo, and a pistol which Susan kept tucked into a side pocket of her pack where it was safely hidden and easily retrieved.

As she got closer to the crowds, her hand stayed hidden in the pocket of her pack, gripping the pistol. Some dug through cars, looking for anything useful; others chose to sleep in the cars; and still others, like herself, continued to walk.

When dawn broke over the hills, Susan sat down by the side of the road to take a break. She shrugged out of the packs and moved the pistol to her lap, under the edge of her sweater. In the food pack she found breakfast bars and pulled one out. A woman stood looking at her, a question clear on her sunken face.

“Are you hungry?” Susan asked.

The woman nodded, and Susan pulled out another breakfast bar and offered it to the woman. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft.

Susan was still working on her own breakfast bar when she realized the other woman had already wolfed hers down. “Still hungry?” she asked.

The woman nodded.

“You can have more, if you tell me your name,” she said. “I’m Susan.”

“Aura,” she answered, slightly rolling the r.

Susan handed her another bar. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Three or four days.” Aura took her time with the second bar. She took a breath as if to speak but remained silent.

“What is it, Aura? You can tell me.” Susan had finished her bar and wished she’d brought more water.

“I came for my cousin, he’s a migrant worker,” she said.

“In the fields?” Susan asked.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t eaten in three or four days?”

“No. We ran out before the border, and the coyote put us in a van that dropped us in the city.”

“You’re welcome to travel with me,” Susan said. “I can use the company.”

Aura’s eyes pooled with tears. “Thank you. I’ve been so scared. Some men tried to—,” she faltered.

“I can imagine.” Susan showed her a small flash of the pistol in her lap. “We’ll keep each other safe, yes?”

“Yes. I’ll carry this one.” Aura stood and lifted the heavier food pack.

“Are you sure?” Susan asked. “It’s heavier than the other.”

“Yes, but it’ll get lighter as we eat.”

“You’re a smart cookie,” Susan said. “What did you do before you came to the US?”

“Factory secretary,” she said. “All I needed was a little English, and to smile at the gringo bosses.” Aura smiled a crooked smile.

“Your English sounds perfect to me,” Susan said.

“I was going to say your Spanish sounds perfect.”

They looked at each other for a moment, trying to decide if one of them was deluded.

Susan gave up on the question. “And your cousin is here somewhere?”

“Last he said, he was in the vineyards.”

“So, northeast of here, in the valley. Then that’s where we’re headed.” 

Susan tucked the pistol in her pants pocket and shrugged on her pack. They were ready to get back on the road when a low rumble from the south got their attention. The slab was doing something.

A thin cylinder, the size of a skyscraper, extended from the bottom of the slab. It detached from the ship and slowly moved down. As the bottom of the cylinder disappeared behind the buildings, a roiling cloud of dust and ash rose around it. When it stopped moving down, the top expanded to a sphere.

The sound rolled across them, like an extended explosion, the leveling of skyscrapers in a crushing destruction. Susan felt a moment of relief, knowing that it was downtown, and not in the suburbs of her aunt’s place.

The slab started to move, for the first time since it had shown up, gliding north. Susan and Aura watched it glide overhead, large enough to be a city in its own right. Neither moved, transfixed by the spectacle, and frozen by indecision.

The slab stopped less than a mile ahead. There it sank until it seemed to be on the ground. It stayed there for more than an hour. The illusion was broken when it finally did set down completely, dust rolling out from all sides as it sunk tens of meters into the earth, crushing any buildings, vehicles or heaven forbid, people unfortunate enough to still be under it. The sound of rumbling, felt through the ground itself, lasted for several minutes.

Opening like a flower, the former top of the slab stood as four triangular sides, perpendicular to the ground. Slowly, those sides folded out at ground level, studded with unfamiliar buildings and landscape. When it had finished, a new city lay directly ahead of them, straddling the freeway.

A voice carried on the wind, at once incomprehensible, and completely familiar. “The Empire claims the star Draesis and its system, as vital to the needs and desires of the people of the Empire. It is the will of the Empire that this wild system be civilized, and the natives be made full citizens. As a token of respect for the natives, the Empire has renamed the star Draesis to its native name of Sol. We offer food, shelter, medicine, education, and the technologies needed for this world to house a trillion. Armed resistance will be met with force. Those who wish to maintain their primitive life will be offered a place to do so, once we have established a safe reservation. After this world is civilized, the Empire will modify the second and fourth planets of the Sol system for habitation and open them up for all citizens of the Empire.

“Come to the nearest outpost to join civilization and leave behind your scrabbling in the dirt. We offer the culture and teaching of thousands of worlds, over thousands of millennia. You are now citizens of the Empire, and as such, have all been inoculated against all known diseases, and given your universal translators. Long live the Empire.”

Susan looked at Aura. “D—did you understand all that?”

“Yes, it was in Spanish.”

“I thought it was in English.”

“Universal translators?” Aura asked.

“Maybe the nanos? I don’t know.” Susan looked back at the outpost. “You’re really speaking Spanish?”

“Yes. And I guess you’re really speaking English.”

Susan nodded and took a deep breath. “Which way, Aura? Try to go around it to find your cousin, or back to the city?”

“Around. The vineyards are no more than a day’s walk from here.”

Fleets of flying vehicles poured out of the outpost, heading in all directions, but the bulk of them headed south towards the city. The roar of a prop engine got their attention. A vintage fighter plane zoomed overhead, flying low.

The plane zeroed in on the outpost and began to fire. Green sparks shimmered in the air above the outpost, the machine-gun fire doing nothing. Then a loud whoosh, and the plane disappeared in a cloud of dust. The sudden silence was shocking.

“Armed resistance will be met with force,” the voice said. “Long live the Empire.”

Susan and Aura turned east to move around the outpost when one of the flying vehicles landed nearby. Susan gripped her pistol.

“No!” Aura said. “They’ll turn you to dust.”

Nodding, she released her grip on the pistol and took her hand out of her pocket. They stood silent, waiting to see what was going to step out of the vehicle.

A short figure with wrong proportions stepped out. It had two short legs, a stout torso, two long arms that almost reached the ground, and a bald head above. A mask covered the lower half of its face, and fine, iridescent scales covered the rest. Large blue eyes with no visible sclera and a slit pupil scanned side to side in wonder. It wore a skin-tight garment in stripes of green and gold, without visible seams or joins. Apart from the head and top of the face, only the hands, covered in the same scales, were visible. It had three fingers and a thumb on each hand, with a small, vestigial nub where a fourth finger might have been.

“Hello, native females! I’m Alacurananaxin, but you can call me Nanax,” it said. Its voice was strange, and whatever language it was actually speaking sounded impossible for human speech, with its clicks, pops, squeaks and hisses.

“I’m, uh, Susan, and this is Aura.”

“Are you male or female?” Aura asked.

“Both and neither. My kind are hermaphroditic; we can both lay and fertilize eggs.” Nanax’s eyes turned a darker blue as a hint of uneasiness played around them, then returned to their bright blue.

“That makes for an uncomplicated dating pool,” Susan said. “Kind of envious. How many of you are there?”

“In the outpost? In the expedition? Or in the Empire?”

“All.”

“There are just over 50,000 citizens in the outpost, and 6,000 outposts on this planet. Over 700 trillion in the Empire.”

“That’s 300 million aliens just landed on Earth,” Aura said.

“Right! And there’s another trillion lining up to colonize this system. You’re lucky we discovered you before the Conglomerate.”

“Discovered? You discovered?” Susan was agog.

“Now you know how my ancestors felt,” Aura quipped.

“Fair enough.” Turning back to Nanax, Susan said, “I suppose the Conglomerate are the bad guys and the Empire are the good guys.”

“Nothing so simple,” Nanax said. “We have a colony at the closest star, the one you call Alpha Centauri, and the Conglomerate have been trying to expand to our borders. It’s all about space to live. The Empire’s not perfect, but I’d rather deal with our AI Emperor and elected cabinet than the Conglomerate’s autocracy. Besides, they sterilize worlds and settle. We colonize and try to incorporate.”

“I guess it does sound better than the alternate,” Aura said. “Although I wish you’d have left us alone.”

Nanax ignored the comment. “I’m so excited to take part in this colonization,” Nanax said, eyes tinged with pink. “I heard you natives were tetrapods and I just jumped at the opportunity! So many hexapods and octopods and decapods in the Empire. We tetrapods only make up about twelve percent of the population. Oh, your nanos show that you’re dehydrated. Would you like some water?”

“Our nanos show?” Aura asked. “How are you seeing them?”

“I’m a doctor, so I can see every citizen’s health status when it’s deemed necessary.” Nanax reached into the vehicle and pulled out two containers. “Here, drink up. Doctor’s orders.”

Susan took one of the containers and tried to twist off the top. It didn’t budge. She tried to pull it off, still nothing.

Nanax’s face animated with unvarnished amusement. “Silly me, I should show you how to open it.” Taking another container from the ship, Nanax held it up. Pulling the mask down, Nanax blew on the top and the seal popped open with an audible hiss, after which Nanax drank down the entire container.

Susan blew on the top of the container and it popped open. The container grew cool in her hand, and she took a test sip. Water. Nothing special, just water. As she drank it down, she saw concern cross Nanax’s face. “What?” she asked, before she realized the pistol was peeking out of her pocket.

“You should dispose of that weapon before you get any closer to the outpost. The automated defense system may vaporize you for it.”

“Thanks for the warning, but we’re going around the outpost. We have to find her cousin.”

“Simple enough.” Nanax focused on Aura, then seemed to stare off into space. “Your cousin is in a vehicle heading for the outpost. He should be there in…,” Nanax’s eyes closed and fingers twitched, “five minutes. Sorry, had to convert from Imperial timescale to local.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“He shares the right amount of DNA to be the offspring of one of your parent’s siblings.” Nanax’s eyes turned a pale yellow. “Did I get that wrong?”

“No, you didn’t. We have to go to the outpost,” Aura said. “Get rid of the gun.”

Susan pulled the gun out her pocket, dropped the magazine, pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber, then handed the weapon and magazine to Nanax. “Have a souvenir,” she said.

Nanax’s eyes turned bright pink. “That’s… that means a lot to me. I understand how important weapons are to a warlike culture. I’ll cherish this.”

“Warlike? Fair enough,” Susan said.

Wrapping the pistol in a piece of cloth and stowing it in a box, Nanax said, “If you’d like, I can give you a ride to the outpost.”

Susan looked at Aura, who shook her head. “That’s all right, we’ll walk. It’s not far.”

“Okay, stay safe! Long live the Empire and all that!”

At the outpost, Aura’s cousin whisked her away from Susan. Unsure of what to do, she was considering returning to the city when a tall, four-armed creature with six eyes accosted her.

“Citizen,” it said, “please, follow me.”

Susan shrugged. Despite the strangeness of everything around her, there was no sense of danger. The creature led her to a small room and offered her a seat.

She felt something tickling her mind; eerie but not frightening. In a flash she knew the history of the Empire, all 3,731 races that inhabited it, and how their government, elections, and money worked. She knew their measurement systems, for time, mass, length, and temperature, and all the derived units based on them, energy, area, force, volume, and so on.

“That history, it’s just what the Empire wants to teach, right? To look good to the natives?”

“Second age,” the creature said.

“Bloody. Horrific. How could they… oh.” The horrors the Empire wrought in the Second Age were part of the knowledge she’d been bestowed. Not the sort of thing a whitewash would leave behind.

“You look strong for a human,” the creature said. “Would you prefer a manual task?”

Susan thought about it. “What about your faster-than-light travel? Can I learn that?” She was certain that would be forbidden knowledge for “savages” like herself.

“Astronavigation and physics. You can find accommodation near where you entered. Be back here tomorrow to begin your lessons.”

The next two weeks were a blur, her mind filling with concepts she doubted any human physicist had even pondered. She knew the secret to folding space, and once learned, it seemed simple. When she finished her training, she spoke to the captain of the incoming transport ship and secured a spot on the return voyage to the Empire’s center.

Susan had just enough time to take a flyer to her aunt’s place to say goodbye, then she’d be leaving on a shuttle from the outpost. After returning from a night at her aunt’s, on March 31st, another 6,000 outposts landed on Earth, and Susan left it.

Trunk Stories

The Ogre That Loved to Dance

prompt: Write a fairy tale about an outsider trying to fit in.

available at Reedsy

Back when the world was young, the morning skies promised adventurers excitement in undiscovered lands. Hilda, a tall, stout woman, dressed in nothing more than a loose tunic and short trousers, was one of those adventurers, having traveled years, far from her home in the north.

She hadn’t wanted to be an adventurer at first. Her people kicked her out for her love of dancing, and every other place she visited wanted nothing to do with her. Over the years, though, she had grown to enjoy her adventures. At this time, however, she was tired and hungry and needed a place to regain her strength, and thus, found herself on the outskirts of a village.

The people of this area were smaller and fairer than Hilda; quick and slender, and given to much dancing. Knowing this, she worried how she would be received, wishing she too, could dance with them. Hilda fashioned a hooded cape from her travel blankets and pulled it close around herself. She bent her knees and stooped as far as she could to appear short like the villagers and so, made her way to the market.

As she passed the villagers, they carefully made way for her and greeted her politely. She nodded at them in what she hoped was a friendly enough gesture.

At the market, Hilda spoke as softly as she could to hide her gruff voice, and ordered what was, for her, a light lunch. “I’d like one of the roasted hens, a basket of greens, and a loaf of rye bread, please.”

The vendor looked at Hilda, and then at the rising sun. “Venerable lady,” he said, believing her to be ancient by her stooped posture, “it’s a warm morning. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable loosening your cloak?”

“Oh no,” she said, “my customs require modesty, and I must stay covered at all times.”

The man gathered her food and waited for payment. In order to avoid showing her large, dark hands, she said, “Take the money from the purse that hangs at my waist, plus an extra copper for your trouble, and put my goods in the sack. I lost my gloves and cannot expose my bare hands.”

He took the money he was owed and put her purchases in the sack she carried over her shoulder. “I hope you enjoy that meal with your friends,” he said, “as it seems you have enough for four. My name is Henri. If you require anything else, ask for me by name.”

“Thank you, Henri,” she said. “I am Hilda. Do you know where I might find a room?”

“Priscilla, the shepherdess who lives at the end of this road, has a spare room,” he said, “for a low price. Tell her I sent you.”

“Thank you again, and I hope your day is profitable and as pleasant as you are,” she said.

Hilda made her way to the end of the road, her stooped posture tiring her and making her joints ache. At the end of the road she found a cottage next to a field where sheep grazed. A broken-down barn, fallen fences, and overgrown brush marked the edges of the field.

While she was trying to decide how she would pay for lodging, the shepherdess approached. “Hello, grandmother,” she said.

“Good morning, Priscilla. Henri sent me,” Hilda said. “My name is Hilda and I have travelled far.”

 “Are you in need of a place to rest?”

“I am,” she answered.

“Are you not over-warm in that heavy cloak?” Priscilla asked.

“My customs require modesty, and I must take care to stay covered at all times.”

“You can sleep in the loft. It’s two coppers a night, unless you can clear the brushes from the field,” she said with a wink.

“I can clear them,” Hilda said, “but I must do it at night, and no one may watch me, for I fear for my modesty.”

Priscilla seemed unsure but agreed to let Hilda clear the field that night. “There’s a shovel in the barn you can use,” she said.

Hilda went into the cottage and up to the loft, which creaked and groaned under her weight. In short time she had finished the chicken, greens, and bread. The bed was far too small, but she lay down curled up to sleep until the middle of the night.

Rising when she was certain Priscilla was sound asleep, Hilda made her way out to the field. Once there, she removed her cloak and stood up straight. With large, clawed hands she ripped the brush out of the edges of the field, all the way to the woods. She was about to return to the cottage when she spied a wolf sneaking toward the sheep.

Hilda pounced on the wolf and tore its heart out with one swipe. She left the wolf carcass with the pile of brush and snuck back into the cottage.

When Priscilla woke, she found the wolf with the pile of brush. “She must have used the shovel to kill it,” she thought. She left a few coppers on the table with a note to Hilda that it was payment for ridding her of the wolf.

Hilda returned to the market, to buy another meal from Henri. “Henri, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said.

“You as well, grandmother. I had a very profitable day yesterday, indeed. I believe it was the smile you put on my face that made my customers happy.”

They repeated the previous day’s exchange, Henri taking the money from her purse and putting the goods in her sack. This time, she told him to take two coppers for his trouble.

Hilda sweated terribly under the heavy cloak, but she dared not reveal herself for fear of not being accepted. “If you are interested in a wolf pelt,” she said, “Priscilla has one from a wolf that was threatening her sheep. She would probably part with it for few coppers.”

“Thank you for the news, Hilda,” Henri said, smiling broadly. “I’ll collect it later today. Enjoy your day.”

Back at the shepherdess’ cottage, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or for repairing the fences.

Hilda looked at the fences. “I can fix them, tonight. But no one must see me work, as I fear for my modesty.”

“Of course,” Priscilla said. “There’s a hammer in the barn you can use, along with nails, posts, and rails.”

That night, when she was certain Priscilla was asleep, Hilda snuck out of the cottage. She gathered the nails, posts, and rails, and carried them out to the field in one large bundle. Working as fast as she could, she tore the rotting posts out of the ground by hand and replaced them with the new posts, pounding them into the ground with a single strike from her fist. With her thumb she pushed the nails in to hold the rails in place.

She was returning the left-over nails to the barn when she saw another wolf sniffing around the field. She pounced on it and smashed its head with one blow from her fist. Hilda left the wolf with the pile of old posts and rails and snuck back into bed.

The following morning, Priscilla found the wolf and thought, “She must have killed it with the hammer.” Again, she left a few coppers on the table for Hilda.

When Hilda returned to the market, Henri had her food ready to go, along with a bundle of cloth. “Lady Hilda,” he said, “I know you value your modesty, but that cloak cannot be comfortable in these warm lands. Please, take this gift.”

The bundle of cloth was a cloak and gloves in a lightweight linen. Hilda wished she could show her smile to kind man. “Thank you, Henri. You are too kind. And with your cooking skills, you must be the catch of the village.”

“It’s a small thing,” he said, “and I need room to start gathering furs for winter.”

“Priscilla has another wolf pelt she would probably sell you for a few coppers.”

“Thank you, Hilda. I’ll check with her later today,” he said, his smile threatening to extend beyond his face.

Hilda returned with her bundle and changed into the light cloak. It hid her as well as her heavy cloak. The gloves were far too small, but she could put just her fingertips and claws in, and by being very careful could make it seem like her hands peeking out from the cloak.

That afternoon, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or the repair of the barn.

“I’ll repair the barn,” Hilda said. “But no one must watch, for I fear for my modesty.”

“Of course,” Priscilla said. “I am curious how an old, bent woman with such a soft voice like yourself can do such heavy work, but I will respect your customs. There are nails, a hammer, planks, and a saw in the barn.”

That night, Hilda snuck out to fix the barn. She cut the planks to length with a sharp claw and pushed the nails in with her thumb. In no time at all the barn looked fresh and new, and the old planks were piled next to it.

Another wolf crept into the field, moving slowly toward the sheep. Once again, Hilda pounced, and with her claws cut its head clean off. She left the carcass next to the old planks and snuck back into bed.

When Priscilla found the wolf in the morning she thought, “She must have used the saw to kill it.” Again, she left a few coppers for Hilda on the table.

Hilda collected her coppers and went to the market in her new cloak and gloves. Despite not overheating, the stooped posture and bent knees were taking their toll on her.

Henri greeted her with her lunch, packed up and ready to go. “I see you wore your new cloak,” he said. “It looks far more comfortable.”

“It is, Henri. I can’t thank you enough.” She carefully handed him coppers for her meal, plus three extra, and took the bundle from him. “Priscilla has another wolf pelt,” she said.

“I’ll go round and collect it this afternoon,” he said. “The big village dance is tonight. Will you join us?”

“I love to dance,” she said. She realized, however, that she would be unable to dance while stooped over and hunched. “But, I’ll have to see.”

“If your joints are too tired, there’s always a warm place by the fire to sit and listen to the music,” he said.

“We shall see,” Hilda said, then returned to the cottage.

“I do not have any work for you tonight,” Priscilla said, “but if you’ll come to our village dance, I will let you sleep in the loft another night.”

Hilda considered it. Priscilla and Henri had been nothing but kind, and the other villagers she passed in the market each day shared that trait. “It would be an honor,” she said.

The entire village turned out for the dance, held in Priscilla’s newly rebuilt barn. Musicians played a lively jig and the villagers danced and frolicked. Hilda wanted so to join them, but there was no way she could without showing herself, so she sat by the fire and tapped her toe to the rhythm.

It was during the late hours of the night, the party still in full swing, when a clamor arose from the edge of the woods. A boy ran into the barn, shouting, “It’s an army! Come to raid!”

“What will we do?” Henri asked. “They’ll take all my goods!”

“And all my sheep!” Priscilla added.

“There’s no use,” the mayor said. “We can’t fight them! We’ll have to give them what they want.”

Hilda threw off the cloak and gloves and rose to her full height, her gray-green skin shining in the firelight, and her long tusks gleaming. “No!” she exclaimed in her full, gravelly voice. “I wouldn’t let the wolves take Priscilla’s sheep; I won’t let these dogs either.”

She ran out of the barn, her steps thunderous, and yelled defiantly at the soldiers, “Come try to take it! I dare you!”

The villagers stood stunned as she slashed and pummeled the entire army with her bare hands, sparing only the cooks, the medic, the drummer boy, and the animals. An ogre had been staying among them for days, but they didn’t know.

“She’s an ogre, she should go!” the fiddler exclaimed.

“No!” Henri and Priscilla said at the same time.

“She has been helpful,” Priscilla said, “clearing my fields, fixing my fences, killing the wolves that would take my sheep, and repairing this barn. And she has been nothing but polite.”

“This is true,” Henri said. “She has been an absolute delight each day in the market.”

“We should not shun someone just because of their looks,” the mayor said. “If she wishes to stay, she is welcome as long she would like.”

Hilda had been listening to all this and smiled. She did like the idea of staying in the village for a while, at least.

“If she wishes to join us,” the mayor said, “she can join in this next dance!” The mayor signaled for the band to start back up and the people began dancing again.

Overjoyed, Hilda joined in, her steps light and agile despite her huge size. They danced until the early hours of the morning, then Hilda went out to clean up the battle site. She built a huge pyre with the old slats, posts, and rails, and used the brush for kindling. She gave a reverent funeral for the fallen soldiers. The cooks, medic, and drummer boy were offered a wagon and an ass to leave if they chose, but having been pressed into service, they all chose to stay.

In the morning, Henri and the mayor came out to talk to Hilda. “I see the army left fourteen horses, six asses, two oxen, and four wagons,” the mayor said. “Those are yours, as the spoils of combat.”

“I have no need of any of them,” she said, “but would like a place to build a shelter where I can stay when I am not adventuring.”

“The land between my field and the forest, which you cleared the first night,” Priscilla said, “belongs to no one. I’m sure the mayor would let you claim it and homestead there.”

“Yes,” he said, “that is now your land. Do you need help building your house?”

“I can do it myself,” she said, “though I would like to trade these animals for some milk goats, a few hens, and a bed.”

“I can make a bed big enough for you, with a blanket and pillow,” said the carpenter, “for one of the wagons.”

“I can provide six goats for one of the asses,” said the goat farmer.

“I will give you eight hens,” said the fiddler, “if you can but accept my apology. I was wrong.”

“I do accept your apology and will give you an ass as a sign of good faith.”

Despite her protestations, the entire village stayed to help her build her house. The sawyer provided all the lumber she needed in exchange for one of the oxen. The blacksmith provided the nails in trade for a promise of the first cheese she made from the milking goats. Others provided labor, and a large lunch for everyone on the promise of Hilda not leaving too soon.

So it was that in one day Hilda’s cozy cottage, and pens to hold her goats and hens were completed. The furniture maker brought the bed in his new wagon, and she had the first comfortable sleep in days.

She stayed until she had traded away the last of the spoils, then met with Henri in the market. “I must go adventuring,” she said, “but I will return before the new moon.”

“I had something to give you,” he said, “but if you must go, take this with you for good luck.” Henri gave her a ring he’d had made, large enough to fit her massive finger, yet still delicate in its design.

“Is this a declaration?” she asked.

“It is,” Henri said, “if you would have me. If not, keep it anyways, as my feelings will remain unchanged.”

“Why?” she asked.

“When you were hiding who you were, you were polite enough,” he said, “but no one could tell anything more about you. Now that you are yourself, you are a wonderful woman, ogre or no, and any woman who can dance the way you do is the woman for me.”

“You will have your answer when I return from my adventure,” she said, her heart light.

When she returned from her adventure bearing a sack of gold and dragon scales, she married Henri, and he moved into her cottage. There she lived to the end of her days, bar the occasional adventure, repairing fences and barns, clearing fields, killing wolves, chasing off raiding armies, and, once a month, dancing with the rest of the villagers in Priscilla’s barn.

Trunk Stories

Let Them Play

prompt: Write about a mischievous pixie or trickster god.

available at Reedsy

Horace A. Grimwald was, to any casual observer, a serious little man of indeterminate age with comically thick glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. Closer inspection would show that behind his coke-bottle glasses his bright, green eyes were flanked by laugh lines, and the few other wrinkles he had were consistent with someone who smiled a lot more than he seemed to.

His employees knew him as a collection of self-contradictions. Horace encouraged his employees to personalize their workspace, but the only decoration on his desk was a hand-carved raccoon, that looked over a hundred years old. While not given to overt frivolity himself, he excused his employees’ frequent tomfoolery with a wink and a smile. Easily old enough to be a parent, if not grandparent, to all his employees, he still insisted on first names and that they all treat each other as siblings. Despite looking like someone who would be at home in a suit, he wore only jeans and band t-shirts, ranging from death metal to EDM acts, all of which he had purchased at their concerts.

Sarah finished the changes to Horace’s computer and locked the screen. “Come on, Bon, we’ve got to sit down and keep it together.”

“I wonder who’ll be the one he suspects when he unlocks it and it blasts that out at full volume,” Bonita said.

“Last year was a bust,” Sarah said. “All that time to wrap his computer and keyboard in foil over the weekend, and then come in on Monday and everyone had new computers.”

“And a nasty email to you from the contractor about it.” Bonita giggled.

“Shush, he’s coming in.”

Horace walked into the office and sat his desk. A half-smile crossed his face. He logged on to his computer, and to Sarah and Bonita’s disappointment it was silent. “Sarah, can you take a look at my computer? I think my sound isn’t working.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Horace stood as Sarah walked over. “I’ll just log in from your computer to get through my email while you fix it.” He winked on his way past.

Sarah checked the connections, rebooted the machine, and finally reinstalled the sound drivers before she could get a test sound from the speakers. “All fixed, Boss.”

“Please, Sarah,” he said, leaving her desk, “call me Horace. We’re all family here, right?”

“You’re right, Horace.” Sarah smiled and returned to her desk.

“What happened?” Bonita asked.

“Sound driver was corrupted.” Sarah frowned as she logged back into her computer. “We’ll get him one of these days. Maybe we can get—” she was interrupted by her speakers blasting at full volume. It was the clip she’d tried to use on Horace.

“YES, DADDY! RAM ME! HARDER, DADDY! HARDER!”

Everyone in the office was staring at her. Her face burned in embarrassment as she frantically tried to turn off the speakers, stop the clip, anything. Nothing worked until she finally unplugged the computer. Laughter spread through the open office until even Bonita was turning red trying not laugh out loud.

“You too?”

“Come on, it was funny!”

“Why didn’t you stop him? Or warn me, at least?”

“Stop him what? I watched him log on, answer a couple emails, and log off. If he did it, he’s a computer ninja.” Bonita looked around the office. “I bet it was Rick and Tim.”

Sarah leaned over to whisper in conspiratorial tones. “That’s okay, Mark said he was lining up something for Rick at break.”

“Did he say what?”

“Just don’t expect any donuts, he said.”

When break time rolled around, Horace called out, “Take a break. I’ll watch the support lines, just save me an old-fashioned.”

Rick was the first in the break room. A shade over six feet tall and rail-thin he was well-known for his diet of junk food and sweets and aversion to anything resembling a vegetable. “Nice,” he said, “Silver Street donuts! Thanks, whoever brought….” He stopped short on opening the box.

The box that promised to hold crullers, old-fashioneds, glazed and jelly donuts instead held a well-appointed vegetable tray. Rick’s shoulders dropped as he looked at the broccoli, cauliflower, red and yellow peppers, cherry tomatoes, carrots, and two types of dip.

He turned to see Mark filming him on his phone. “Damn it! You guys suck,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to stop by Silver Street on my way home and buy my own.”

“April Fools!” Mark sang.

“Works for me,” Tim said, loading up a small paper plate with vegetables. “Means I won’t break my diet today.”

“Going for your summer beach body?” Sarah asked.

“My fifth anniversary is in three months, and I want to fit back into my tux to surprise my husband.”

“Oh, you better send me pictures if you do,” Bonita said.

The conversations crossed; anniversary plans, the latest episode of the show everyone had been watching, that one customer that was a total pain in everyone’s ass. Meanwhile, everyone except Rick was helping themselves to the veggie tray and picking it clean. Rick left the break room first to take over support.

Horace walked in and filled his coffee cup. On his way out, he stopped by the donut box and reached in. He turned to the others sat around the table with an old-fashioned donut in his hand. “Thanks for saving me one,” he said.

“What the hell? Where did that come from?” Mark asked.

“Did he sneak it in here?” Bonita asked.

“He had his coffee in one hand and his phone in the other when he walked in,” Sarah said.

Horace sat at his desk and enjoyed his donut, the look of bewilderment on Rick’s face putting a smile on his own. Once he finished his donut, he got back to work.

Shortly after lunch, a Nerf battle broke out in the office, soft foam darts flying everywhere. Horace sent a document to the printer at the far end of the office and rose to collect it. While he was never directly involved in the Nerf wars, he always maintained that he was a fair target. “Let them play” was his motto, or so he said.

Tim lined up his patented, off-the-ceiling bounce shot whereby he could hit the printer no less than nine times out of ten. As Horace approached the printer, Tim let fly. The dart headed for the ceiling at a slightly higher velocity than usual, intersected a sudden gust from the air handlers, and ricocheted back to land in Tim’s coffee, splashing a small amount of it on his desk. “Gah! Stupid AC!”

Laughter echoed through the office as Horace took his document from the printer and walked slowly back to his desk. He stopped to check a message on his phone as a dart whizzed past just where he had been about to step. Done with the message he began moving again, another dart intersecting the space he’d been only a half-second earlier. He made his way back to his desk unscathed by the myriad darts flying every which direction.

During the afternoon break, Horace again manned the support lines while the others gathered in the break room.

“Okay, we’ve got to get Horace at least once for April Fool’s Day,” Rick said. “I set something up with the cleaning crew last night. The storage closet is full of balloons. Like, way full. When he opens the door, they’ll come pouring out.”

“How do we get him to open the door?” Tim asked.

“Bon, head to the ladies’ room, and when you come back tell him you heard a weird noise from the closet. Since he’s the only one besides maintenance with the key, he’ll have to check.”

“Sounds weak, but I’ll try it,” Bonita said.

Following the plan to the letter, Bonita went to the ladies’ room, waited an appropriate amount of time, and returned to her desk. “Horace, there’s a weird noise coming from the closet. Since you’re the only one with a key….”

Horace raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what it could be?” He crossed the office to the closet, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. After a moment he stepped back out and closed the door. “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “Just so you know, the lock’s been busted for a few weeks now, and I’m not going to replace it. Seems silly to lock up cleaning supplies.”

All eyes were on Rick, accusing stares and glares, except for Bonita. She nodded. “Okay, you got me, Rick,” she said.

Horace took his mug into the break room for another cup of coffee. “Back in a flash.”

As soon as he was out of sight, Rick bolted to the supply closet and flung open the door. An avalanche of balloons poured out, building a pile around him up to his knees. “What the hell!?”

Horace returned from the break room, looked at Rick and raised his mug. “Cheers! Who got you this time?”

“Uh, I… I did?”

“If you say so,” he said, sitting down at his desk.

The day ended as most did, with friendly chatter among the employees before they left. It was as though they were loath to leave each other’s company.

“Hey Horace, are you going straight home?” Sarah asked.

“No, I have a few things to finish up here, then I’m going for all-you-can-eat at the Indian place on Third.”

“All you can eat, huh?” Rick asked.

“Yep. If you ever go, I suggest you start with the pakora.”

“What’s that?”

“Pakora? Deep fried amazing,” Horace said with a smile.

Rick seemed to ponder for a moment. “You know, that sounds good for some reason. Pa-kor-a….”

Sarah leaned close to Horace. “Should we tell him that it’s vegetables?”

“No, let him find out after he realizes how good they are,” Horace answered with a wink.

After all his employees had left for the day, Horace leaned back in his chair, holding the hand-carved raccoon. “Another good year,” he said. His body began to glow and he channeled the energy into the carving, transferring the glow to it. He set it back on his desk and the glow faded, but he could feel the warm thrum of its energy.

The phone rang and he answered, “Grimwald.”

“It’s me, Azeban.” Glooscap sounded weaker than he had in the past.

“Glooscap, how are you cousin?”

“I’m well, how about you?”

“You don’t sound so hot,” Horace said, “but I’m better than ever.”

“Are you getting enough worship?” Glooscap asked. “If you don’t get enough worship, if your stories aren’t told enough, you’ll fade away, like so many of our brothers and sisters.”

“I’ll let you other gods have your stuffy rituals and stories,” he said. “As long as the humans play, I’m fed, especially on this day. You say let them pray, I say let them play.”

Trunk Stories

Missing Pieces

prompt: Write about a character coming out of a long hibernation (either literal or metaphorical).

available at Reedsy

The doctor said I have to go out today. I don’t know why she’s doing this to me. She doesn’t listen when I tell her I’m not ready. It would be better if she’d said I have to go “outside” today, because I’ve been doing my exercises. Yesterday I stood outside the door forever… well, five minutes, but it seemed like forever.

She’d show up, wearing her bright colors and cheery smile. I liked that. There wasn’t much about her I didn’t like, even when she was poking around in my head to find my hurts. It’s just that she’d been going too fast for me.

“Good morning, Effie! You ready to go for brunch?” She was her usual, ebullient self.

“Morning, Doctor.”

She pursed her lips. “Now, now. I know you only call me ‘Doctor’ when you’re unhappy with me.”

“Sorry, Julia,” I said, mostly under my breath.

“It’s okay, we’ll get through this together.” Julia gave me a big hug. “Now, let’s find your shoes and go out, yeah?”

I held her hand, trying hard not to squeeze with every step away from the safety of the front door. While I expected to be loaded into a car and whisked away, Julia led me down the block, our pace slow and steady.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d start out small,” she said, “with brunch at the cafe down the street.”

“There’s no cafe down here,” I said. “I should know, I’ve lived in the same house for forty-four years.”

“They opened three years ago,” she said. “Where the used bookstore used to be.”

“No!” Tears came unbidden and I froze in place. “Simon loves… loved….”

Julia held me close while sobs wracked my body. Another piece gone. I wept for the loss of another piece of our history. Most of all, I wept in anger at myself for not visiting it while it still existed. I’d never see it again and it was my fault.

“I know it’s hard, honey, but you’re doing really well.” The doctor’s voice was gentle, but it wasn’t helping.

I pulled myself together. “Let’s just get this over with, Doctor, so I can go back home.”

“I’m back to being ‘Doctor’ again, eh?” She smiled at me. “Maybe, when I’m Julia again you can tell me about the bookstore?”

I grunted noncommittally and walked faster. The sooner we got there, the sooner I could get back home.

The front of the store looked the same, except for the painted window. There never had been a sign other than that. The script was the same swirling letters that had marked the bookstore, but now it was called The Reading Room Cafe.

Stepping in, I was overwhelmed with the familiar scent of old books. For a moment I thought I smelled Simon’s cologne. Not the way it smells in the jar that still sits on the vanity, but the way it smelled on him. I held back another crying jag and looked around.

The front of the store was now open, with a few small tables and a coffee bar. It looked like the stock room had been converted into a kitchen, but the back part of the store still had shelves and shelves of used books.

I didn’t wait for Julia’s okay, but let go of her hand and walked to the books. As I ran a hand along the spines, the tears came again. Simon and I used to play a game. We’d each walk along, running our hands along the spines without looking. One of us would say stop, and we’d exchange the books we were touching. The rule was that we had to read the book the other had landed on, regardless of how awful it was.

“Julia,” I called, “I need you.”

She looked worried. “What is it, Effie?”

I explained the game. If I had gone first, I’d want Simon to still have the chance to play the game with someone else. I was sure he’d understand.

“I’ll let you tell us when to stop,” she said, smiling at me as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books.

“Stop.” I pulled the book I was touching, The History of Whaling in the New World. I offered her the book. It was a hefty book, and judging from the title, was probably dry.

Julia traded books with me. I looked at the book, Drums of Never. This was one that I’d pulled for Simon ages ago, and we’d traded back in the next week. I knew it was a fantasy, and terribly written, but he said the plot had promise. The memory dropped me to my knees. For the second time in less than an hour I was openly weeping.

“We can put it back,” Julia said.

“No, no.” I sniffled and tried to pull myself together. “I made him read it once; now it’s mine.”

When I was back on my feet, Julia paid for the books and we went to one of the small tables. I looked over the brunch menu. “They have eggs Benedict. I want that.”

“Sounds good. I’ll have the same.” Julia sat close enough that I could hold her hand if I needed to.

I watched the waitress taking drinks to the only other occupied table. “Julia! Mimosas! Let’s get snockered!”

“Effigenia Alice McWhorter! I’m shocked.” Julia laughed, her bright smile matching her canary and vermillion dress.

“Please? At least one?”

“Just one,” she said. “I need to drive later, and I want to get you home in one piece.”

As we ate, I looked around, taking in the new shape of the place. There was a wall filled with pictures that looked like they’d been taken in the bookstore. When Julia was looking elsewhere, I snagged the receipt to see how much I’d have to tip her to cover the cost of my book. Even if it was terrible, I wouldn’t trade it back in. This had been Simon’s, even if only for a little while.

The receipt still said Second Page Books. The book that sat on my lap had been $3.99. A bargain to regain a little piece of him. I opened the book and scanned through the first couple pages. It was poorly written, but it gave me an excuse to grab the receipt to use as a bookmark. There was no way I would tell her that it was just because of the name on the receipt.

After our meal, I was feeling a little more comfortable being in the bookstore; cafe, I reminded myself. “Can we look at the pictures?” I asked.

“Sure.” Julia held my hand as we looked over the wall of photos. I spotted them first; three pictures of Simon. The first was both of us smiling at the camera. I remembered the original owner taking a picture of her “favorite customers.” She had a camera in her hands most days.

The other two were candid. One of him laughing at something, and one of us walking on opposite sides of the same row, fingers on the spines, playing the game. Our eyes were on each other, smiles of contentment on our faces.

The tears that came were happy, this time. Memories that I’d thought long forgotten welled up.

“You two were head over heels,” Julia said. “It’s obvious in the way you looked at each other.”

“We were. From the very beginning.”

“Will you be okay by yourself for a minute?” she asked.

I nodded, lost in the memory the photo evoked. It was too far away to make out the titles on the books, but I imagined that it might be the one I held clutched to my chest.

I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. What would have panicked me earlier in the morning just got my attention. I turned to face Julia who held out a small paper bag with the Second Page Books logo. “It’s the originals,” she said.

“What?”

“I talked to the new owner. He said those on display are extra prints he made of his grandmother’s photos.” She held the bag out. “These are the original prints of those three.”

I couldn’t speak. Instead, I took the bag and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” I managed to squeak out.

“Are you ready to go back home?” she asked.

“No.” My answer surprised me. “I found a piece of him; I’d like to see if I can find any more.” When I turned away from the pictures, I felt faint. The weight of the last five years of isolated loneliness, of missing all the pieces of him, had been lifted and my head wanted to fly away.

“We don’t have to do it all in one day.” Julia put a hand on my shoulder. “How about we go out again next Sunday? You pick the place.”

“The seafood place by the wharf?” I asked. “We used to go there once a month. He’d always reserve table seventeen. You can watch the seals from there.”

“We can do that.” Julia took my hand and led me out. “It’s kind of a long drive, are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Not alone, no.” I hugged the book closer. “But now I know he’s still here, at least a little.”

Trunk Stories

Hellhole

prompt: Set your story in a major city that your character has a love-hate relationship with.

available at Reedsy

Mention New Amsterdam, New York and the response is either gushing love or hateful revulsion. When it comes to NANY, there is nothing between the two extremes. Some, however, have learned to embrace both sides. Seth Burdian, NAPD Precinct 47 Captain, was one of those.

In elementary school PS 422, he was bullied by the larger students. He was short, even for a gnome, with a “classic” gnome nose, large and straight with wide nostrils, and large, round ears he didn’t grow into until well after puberty. His frizzy, medium-brown hair and olive-tan skin didn’t help. He was called “tinker” by classmates and teachers alike. It was a different time, but things hadn’t really changed as much as people liked to believe.

That bullying led to him studying dan-tama, the halfling martial art, from the age of nine. High school was better for him, though. PS 47 was in the middle of the Bunker borough, between Potato Hill and the Arts District, and far more diverse than the mostly elf and orc schools he had previously attended. That’s also where he decided he wanted to be a cop.

After nearly fifty years on the force, though, being a cop was no longer what he had joined for. It went from busting criminals and helping people to budgets, paperwork, and press conferences, like this one. Seth approached the podium as one of the beat cops pushed a small set of steps in place. He ascended the steps to stand high enough to be seen and to use the mics.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the entire city’s police force, along with agents from the ATF, are hunting for the serial bomber responsible for the attacks on the subway. We are following all leads and have identified several persons of interest.

“We urge residents to remain vigilant. If you see an unattended package or bag, not just in the subway, but in the surrounding areas as well, please stay away from it and call 911. The hotline is remaining open for tips. Thank you.”

The reporters began shouting out questions. Seth held his hands up to quiet them. He was about to point to the reporter from the World News Network when a reporter from Eagle News butted in.

“Captain Burdian,” she yelled, her bleach-blonde pixie-bob bouncing around her long, pointed ears. “Is your leadership role in this investigation an attempt to pull heat off the allegations of racism and lack of diversity in the department?”

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You allege that I’m in charge of the investigation as a publicity stunt. Is that right? In other words, you’re saying that, as the Police Captain in the precinct in which the first and third bombings took place, and a life-long resident of the city, I’m not the best qualified? I can assure you that I’m quite capable, except as a handyman; I don’t have a mechanical bone in my body.”

“Th—that’s not what I said at all,” she sputtered. “I’m not a racist!”

“I didn’t say you were, ma’am, but you felt the need to defend yourself.” There was a smattering of laughter through the gathered press. He pointed to the reporter from WNN. “Your question, sir.”

#

Seth stood in front of a large subway map on the wall, holding a pointer with a black marker affixed to the tip. “Here’s the bomb locations, in order.” As he described the locations, he circled them on the map with the added reach of the pointer aiding him. “The first was three blocks from where we’re standing, here. The next two were spread out, here, and here. The last was across the bridge, here.”

“You said you had an idea of where the next would be.” Special Agent Sarah Ignatz, ATF, stood behind Seth. At five feet two, the light brown human woman with her black hair in a puff stood a foot and a half taller than him.

“You’re not from NANY, are you?”

“No, I’m from the Midwest. Small town girl in the big city, and all that.”

“If you look at these platforms, they all serve areas that are now integrated neighborhoods. They used to mark the boundaries between segregated neighborhoods.

“The first here, Little Albarth, the dwarf neighborhood, used to extend from there east. To the west was Grunnuk Town, orcs. Now, this entire area between them has been gentrified and integrated and those other neighborhoods have shrunk.”

“The others are the same?”

“Not all of them have gentrified, but they’ve all integrated. And the order in which they integrated is matched by the order of the bombs.”

“So, what’s the next target?”

He changed the marker out for a green one and circled two more stations. “It’s one of these.”

“I take it they both integrated around the same time?”

“Yeah, although my money’s on this one; the Arts District.”

“We can keep a team at both locations,” she said. “I’ll join you in the Arts District station.”

#

They sat in the controller’s office at the subway terminal. Even with all the cameras on the platform it was impossible to see everything in the throngs of commuters. Seth knew there were plain-clothes ATF agents and police in the crowd, but he couldn’t pick any of them out.

“This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” he said. “Every other person down there has a backpack, or gym bag, or briefcase… we’ll be lucky if we see the package and manage to clear the station. I doubt we’re going to catch our man here.”

“We still may. Five of my people down there have bomb sniffers.”

Seth scanned the monitors, trying to pick out the agents, and failing yet again. He turned to face her. “Do you know the story of the ’39 Hill Massacre?”

“Learned about that in my race relations history course. The humans around Hill Street protested the police not protecting them from the mafia. The cops and fire department attacked the protestors, killing, what was it? Fifty-two, fifty-three? Then the fire department sat by while fire ripped through the oldest buildings, the ones that were built by human slaves in the eighteenth century. Only the stone buildings remained standing.”

“Right. What’s now called Potato Hill used to be called Tinker Hill. I know, nasty, right? Gnomes had been living there since the early 1700s. Every ship that sailed conscripted gnomes to do repairs, build tools, build pulleys, and so on. Usually, they’d grab an entire family. Easier to force someone to work when their wife and kids are being held hostage. Once they reached the colonies, they’d offer to let some of them go. Most that were offered the chance took it. Like my grandparents.

“When the potato famine hit, the incoming halflings from Ireland were dropped on Hill Street. To the big people in charge there was no difference between us. Anyway, Hill Street used to be the divider between Darkfall, the dark elf neighborhood, and Potato Hill, until the massacre and fire cleared most everyone out. My mother was there; she told me about it many times. The police set the fires, and the fire department kept their hoses on the humans and anyone that tried to help them. The police shot, burned or bludgeoned to death forty-eight humans, two halflings, three gnomes, and one dark elf.”

“When did the humans come to Hill Street?”

“Started during the civil war. Prior to that, there was some animosity between the dark elves and the ‘littles’ as they called us then. By bringing in humans that had nowhere else to go, it gave our people a larger ally. The Hill Massacre was the end of the problems with the dark elves, though. Like people in this city tend to do, they pitched in to help everyone displaced by the fires. And to help bury the dead.”

Sarah’s phone chimed. “One of the bomb sniffers picked up a trace of TNT.”

They both pored over the monitors, trying to figure out where in the crowd the bomber could be. Instead, Seth saw a different kind of disturbance. “Look at that, nobody’s helping!” He keyed his radio. “All units on platform seven west, mugging in progress near the turnstiles.”

Turning back to Sarah, he said, “This city is a hellhole.”

Four figures broke from the crowd toward the scuffle. As they approached, the mugger started gesturing wildly, and the crowd moved toward them, blocking the approaching officers. The crowd started attacking the victim.

“Any unit on platform seven, what the hell’s going on down there?”

“Cap, the mugger started yelling that the victim was the bomber, still trying to get thr—” She was cut off by the crowd now scrambling away from the mugger and victim.

“Anybody, what’s going on?”

“Bomb near the turnstiles. Two in custody. Clearing the station now. Divert the trains.”

Sarah grabbed her radio. “EOD, platform seven, near the turnstiles. Meet NAPD plainclothes and ATF agents there.”

#

The local “cop bar” was rowdier than usual, and a dozen ATF agents were mingling with New Amsterdam’s finest. Seth returned from the bar with two pints of bitters; one for himself and one for Special Agent Ignatz.

“Cheers to a job well done, Sarah.”

“And to you, Seth.” She took a long draught of the cold brew. “We’re lucky nobody set off the bomb when they attacked him.”

“Maybe. Although, I think if they’d noticed it any later, there wouldn’t be enough of him to stand trial. New Amsterdamers really don’t like it when you mess with their city.”

“What about the mugger?”

“We’re still debating on whether to charge him… on that count. He had two stolen wallets in his possession when they cuffed him.” He took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam off his lip. “The New Amsterdam Times will probably call for clemency and assistance for whatever injustices brought him to crime. The Wall Street Tribune will point out that he’s every bit as guilty as the bomber and should be tried for his crimes. Meanwhile, the Daily Crier will call him a hero and demand a parade in his honor.”

“Where do you stand on it?”

“I’m somewhere between the Times and the Tribune. He’s trying to claim that he knew that was the bomber and was just trying to stop him. I’m sure he can find a lawyer that will argue that, so the DA is torn on whether to add that assault and battery charge, or just stick to the possession of stolen goods charges.”

Sarah lifted her glass in a toast. “Where else but New Amsterdam would a mugger catch a serial bomber?”

“Where else, indeed?” Seth laughed. “NANY is a hellhole, but it’s my hellhole, and I love it.”

Trunk Stories

Harvest

prompt: Start your story with a character struggling to remember the date, because every day is like the last one.…

available at Reedsy

Jora sat on the edge of the bed. His warm, deep-brown hand, calloused and strong, ruffled Raz’s auburn hair. When Raz didn’t move under the covers, he shook the larger man’s shoulder. “Raz, wake up.”

“I don’t want to.” Raz tried to roll away from the intrusion but was held firm. Jora’s slight frame hid enormous strength.

“You don’t want to; I don’t want to. I just want to go home. Shift starts in an hour,” Jora said. “Get up so we can have breakfast together, at least.”

“We’ve made it this long,” Raz said. “We can see this through to the end.”

“Yeah, yeah. Captain Durand won’t be happy with anything less than the five-year, 250 percent bonus. I just didn’t think five years could feel so long. I can only do the same thing every day for so long, you know.”

“Even if that thing is me?” Raz asked.

“I don’t get tired of you, no. Because every day you’re a slightly different type of asshole.”

“Ouch. At least we’re together.”

“Yeah. But if there’s a mechanical reason to turn back, I’m calling it. No second-guessing, no talking me out of it.”

Throwing the covers off, Raz sat up on the edge of the bed. He was easily twice as massive as Jora. Muscles rippled under his olive-tan skin as he stretched. “Wait, is it our anniversary yet?”

“No, that’s next week.” Jora kissed him between his shoulder-blades. “Or is it the week after next? I don’t know, it isn’t today. Get dressed, I’ll see you in the galley.”

Raz stood and stretched once more, pressing his hands against the low ceiling. “See you in ten.” He rapped his fist against the ceiling once, making the metal walls of their cabin ring.

Breakfast consisted of one potato and one green onion from the hydroponic garden with egg-flavored protein powder reconstituted and cooked into an approximation of scrambled eggs along with a mug of strong coffee. The second-shift crew was in for a nightcap of vodka made in the still in engineering.

Lada Bird, the chief navigator, picked at her breakfast. Close-cropped black hair topped a pale pink face, currently crestfallen. “Man, I wish more of the plants we started with had survived.”

“At least we still have the potatoes,” Raz said, pointing to the bottle of vodka sitting in the middle of the mess table.

Ayla Durand entered, filled her mug with coffee, and added a shot of vodka to it. She was tall, having to duck through the low doorways, and had close-cropped black hair, reddish-brown skin and bright brown eyes. “It’s going to be all-out today, so be ready.”

“What’s up, Cap?” asked Raz.

“We’ll be harvesting today,” she said. “Decent nebula where we can grab up some more organics along with a full resupply of hydrogen.”

“Oh good,” Raz said. “I thought you were going to say it’s my turn to clean the algae out of the CO2 scrubbers again.”

“Good idea, Bianchi. You can top off the food generator with that before we get to the nebula.”

Raz groaned. “Okay, okay. That’s what I get for being a scientist on a science ship.”

“It’s not a science ship, it’s my ship,” Ayla said, “I was just dumb enough to take this gig.”

“Ah, you love this shit, Cap.” Lada raised her own mug of coffee. “Who else would volunteer for a mission like this? They said support yourselves in space for five years, and you heard, ‘Get away from everyone for five years’ and signed right up!”

There was a smattering of laughter among the crew. Jora snorted once and Raz nearly choked on his coffee. “Lada’s got you there,” Raz choked out.

Ayla ignored it. “Bashir,” she said, gesturing at Jora with her mug, “how’s the work on the recyclers?”

“Recyclers are back online since yesterday at sixteen-hundred hours. I can start prepping the gas separators for harvest right away.”

“Good, we harvest in ten hours, all hands.” Without waiting for a response, she left the galley.

After tossing their trays in the recycler chutes, Jora and Raz parted ways to do their work. Jora logged on to the terminal in the maintenance bay and checked the date: Thursday, 495-10-14, day 1472 of the mission, and three weeks to his anniversary.

Jora logged the task he was doing and the commands to lock out the controls of the gas separators in the terminal. With the muscle memory that came from four years of doing the same thing every day, he grabbed his tool belt as he walked by the workbench without looking and fastened it around his hips.

Jora’s work for the day was simple but tedious; a thorough inspection of the gas separator, replace any worn parts, and log the results. The gas separator would pull in everything they harvested from the nebula, filtering out the large carbon molecules, the metallic elements, and then the gasses. The hydrogen would be further filtered to separate out the deuterium from the protium.

For every part he replaced, he printed another, making sure they had at least two spares of every part, down to the smallest nut and bolt. The only exceptions were the large pieces, like the mounting frame and the vacuum chamber. If those failed it would require hand-welding smaller pieces from the printer.

Once he finished with that, he checked the supplies for the printer. They were good for iron, copper, zinc, nickel, gold, titanium, aluminium, silicon, and several types of plastics. What they were lacking was lithium. Without that, the fusion reactor would not be able to generate tritium from the deuterium, in order to run the more powerful deuterium-tritium reactions the ship relied on.

“Raz, do we have metallics analysis on the nebula?” he asked over the intercom.

“Not much showing,” Raz said. “There may be some further in, but the outer envelope is pretty soupy; blocks the scanners. We won’t know more until we get in there.”

“We’re running low on lithium. If we don’t find some soon, we’ll have to go back.” Jora smiled. “Not that I’d complain about that. We get the four-year bonus anyway.”

“Then let’s hope we find some.” Ayla did not sound amused. “We’re getting that five-year bonus even if you all have to get out and push.”

They all gathered on the bridge as the ship dropped out of super-C. The nebula shone in front of them, hinting at the stars in its midst.

“Deploy the catch-net and set a course into the nebula.” Ayla stood by her seat; her eyes fixed on the spectacle in front of her.

“Never gets old, does it?” asked Lada.

“Never.”

Jora watched for as long as he could, up to the moment the charged net began to flicker. It was dragging in material, and he would need to stand by the gas separator. The next two hours were slow, the numbers on the separator slowly rising. He keyed the intercom. “Aside from hydrogen, everything is still in trace amounts. And it looks like we’re slowing down?”

“Entering a void,” Ayla said. There was a murmur of voices over the intercom.

“What’s going on?”

“Maintain orbit here. Get up here, Bashir. I need an engineer’s assessment.”

“On my way.”

Jora entered the bridge and looked out the viewport. A small, bright star sat at the middle of an empty expanse. “It’s a star.”

Raz tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the terminal monitor. In the view from the telescope a disk appeared around the star, with a few bands swept clear. “There’s everything there, up through transuranic elements. We’re in the remnants of a supernova, and the birth of new star system.”

“Nice. So, what did you need engineering for, Captain?”

“There’s a lot of everything we might need out there, but it’s not gas and molecular dust.” She leaned on the edge of her chair. “Do you think we can harvest from there?”

“I’ll have to do some calculation, see what we have on hand, and get back to you.” Jora read through the numbers on the monitor. “The net as is won’t hold up, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do it.”

“You’re not telling me to pack it up and go home?”

“No. Like you said, everything we need is right there. I’m an engineer, and I haven’t had a good challenge in years.”

“You have twenty-four hours to come up with a plan, or a damn good explanation of why it can’t be done.”

“Yes, Captain.”

After poring over the numbers for four hours straight, Jora sighed. “This isn’t working.”

“Eat something,” Raz said, pushing a tray in front of him. “Might help clear your head.”

“Thanks.” Jora ate the bland soup.

“Maybe talk me through it? What’s the biggest problem?”

“The shields. Even if I rig something up that can handle the junk out there, the shields aren’t meant to take that kind of a beating.”

“Isn’t this ship rated for planetary take-off and re-entry? How do the shields—”

“Raz, you’re a genius!” Jora pulled up the images from the earlier scans. “These empty bands here… those are planets, or at least on their way to being planets. Captain, I think I have it!”

Ayla raised her head from where she had been resting on the mess table. “We land on one of the planets?”

“Not likely.” Jora began drawing diagrams on the terminal. “They’re probably still molten. What we need to look for is a narrow, partially cleared ring. There’ll be a large asteroid or planetoid starting to clear its neighborhood, but still small enough to not maintain the heat of the impacts. We hang on the back side of it, use it as a shield while we dig into from there.”

“Risks?”

“Something big hits it and it splashes us.”

“That’s easy enough,” Raz said. “We scan all the likely candidates and find the one with no large objects on an intercept course. For a couple hours, anyway.”

“Why only a couple hours?” Ayla asked.

“There are millions of objects out there, all colliding and interacting. It’s going to be chaotic for the next billion years or so.” Raz stood. “I’m heading to the lab to find our candidates and build an orbital probability model.”

Ayla turned to Jora. “Will a couple hours be long enough to get what we need?”

“Assuming the asteroid has it, sure.” Jora finished his soup and converted the rear cargo bay into a mining platform while Raz hunted for a suitable target.

With their target selected and course laid in, Lada maneuvered in behind the asteroid, matching its speed. While the ship turned its belly to the rock, Jora checked his vac suit and entered the airlock to the rear cargo bay. He had emptied it of everything except the loader arm on which he had attached a makeshift digger and evacuated all the air.

“I’m ready,” Jora said.

“Bird, bring our belly right up to that thing.”

“On it.”

Jora opened the rear loading door and watched the surface of the asteroid draw closer. He extended the arm to its maximum reach. “Five more meters.”

“Five meters, creeping in.”

“Easy, Lada.” Ayla’s voice was tense.

Jora watched the arm get closer to the surface. “Three meters.”

“Three meters.”

“One meter.” Jora retracted the arm before it impacted the surface. “Hold it here.”

“Holding.”

“Easy, Lada.”

“Digging now.” With slow, deliberate movements he began digging into the surface of the asteroid. As the scoop moved closer to the deck of the cargo bay, the artificial gravity overcame that of the asteroid, enabling him to dump the scoop and go for another.

The lights from the cargo bay reflected off the fresh scar, winking with what could be ice or metals. He pulled in the second scoop and dumped it when he heard popping noises over the radio in his helmet.

“How are we looking, Bashir?”

“Looking good, Captain. Raz, are you getting readings from the sensors in the cargo hold?”

“I’m getting it. Looks like —”

“Bashir, you need to hurry. We’re getting pelted out here.”

“Right. I’ll just keep digging until you pull us away.”

He pulled in the third scoop and felt the ship vibrate beneath him. The surface of the asteroid pulled away from the open door. “What’s happening?”

“We’re creating a gravity well, and everything loose on the surface is rolling in between us and the asteroid,” Raz said. 

“Quick guess on how much lithium we have?” Jora asked.

“You’ve pulled in eighteen kilos of material,” Raz said, “so my guess would be four or five hundred grams. It’s a motherlode.”

“We need at least twice that.”

“It looks like you found the sweet spot,” Ayla said. “We can keep going or try again later on another rock.”

“You’re right about the sweet spot.” Jora looked at the piles between himself and the open cargo door. “How much time can you give me?”

“We’ve tracked an incoming asteroid, off-plane, bigger than this one. Looks like a collision course. Forty minutes, max.”

“I can do it,” Jora said. “Get me back down there.”

The lights went red, and the impact alarm sounded over the radio. “Everyone in their vac suit. Bird, I’ll take the controls while you suit up.”

The asteroid approached the open door again, much faster than it had the first time. Jora winced, expecting an impact. Instead, the ship stopped closer than it had been before.

Moving as fast as he could, Jora pulled scoop after scoop out of the asteroid. As it was mostly just a collection of dust and rocks held together by gravity it was easy going.

“Five minutes to impact, collision course verified. Close it up, Bashir.”

Another vibration shook the ship. This time, Jora could hear it as a low thump; the sound waves carried up through his bones. He tried to pull in the scoop, but something in the asteroid had shifted, wedging it in place.

“Come on! Get back here!”

“You’re running out of time, Bashir. Close it up!”

“The arm is stuck.”

The ship pulled away from the asteroid, only to have the stuck loader arm jerk the two of them together. “We need to get out of here!”

“I’m going to dump the arm.” Jora stepped away from the controls and pulled the pins that held the front of the arm to the cargo bay floor. The rear pins were jammed, the mounting plate pulling hard against them. “I need you to give me a little slack. Ten centimeters, even.”

“I’m trying!” Lada’s voice was panicked. “We’re jammed on something underneath.”

“Lada, lift the nose, just a hair.”

“Uh, o– okay.”

As soon as the plate relaxed against the pins, Jora pulled them both and the ship began to separate from the asteroid, the loader arm falling into it, now a permanent part of it. “Go! We’re clear!” He closed the cargo bay door and collapsed.

“Get us out of here, Bird.” The relief in Ayla’s voice was obvious. “Bashir, I’m going to need some exterior work from you. We got dinged pretty hard there. Showing hull damage in section B-9.”

“Sure thing. Let me clean the dust off my suit and get my vac welder. We’ll have to leave the cargo bay in vacuum until we get the alkalis sorted and stored in oil. Don’t want to start a fire.”

 “We can worry about that after you get some sleep. We’re not leaving until we’ve all rested. But Bashir,” she asked, “did we lose my loader arm?”

“We did.”

“Can you build me a new one?”

“Maybe,” he said, “probably. But if we start running low on materials again, it’s someone else’s turn to do the mining. I don’t think my heart can take that again, and I want to be alive to collect that five-year bonus.”

Trunk Stories

The Blue Lady of Fallam Lake

prompt: Write a fantasy story about water gods or spirits….

available at Reedsy

She’s evil, she’s holy, she’s bad, she’s good, she’s a monster, she’s a hero… there are nearly as many descriptions of her as there are people who claim to have seen her. I’m talking, of course, about the Blue Lady of Fallam Lake. It’s said that she lives on the bottom of the lake, or maybe in a cave beneath the water where her hearth is warm and dry. How would that even work?

I’m on day eleven of a fourteen-day assignment to try catch the Blue Lady on camera. It’s all a bunch of nonsense, of course, but that’s what they pay me to do. Despite the thick evergreen forest that surrounds the lake, the area reminds me most of Loch Ness. The air is clear, with the heady, resinous scent of pine. Sunlight sparkles on the mild waves of the lake as they lap against the banks.

The only man-made things visible were the boat launch, made of paving stones, and a buoy in the middle of the lake. Viewed through the infrared camera, the inlet of the lake, below the waterline, becomes visible as a cold spot. Somewhere on the bottom of the lake the water finds its way into the bedrock to emerge again in springs near the foot of the mountains in the town of Fallam Cross.

I made my rounds, checking the batteries in all 47 cameras. Some were night vision capable, others were infrared, and of course the rest were standard cameras. All were set to record on motion detection or temperature anomaly. Thus far, I’d gotten loads of good wildlife shots, but no Blue Lady.

The sat-phone’s chirp pulled me out of my quiet enjoyment of my surroundings. “Go for Josh. It’s a beautiful morning, Rachel.”

“Yeah, it’s night here. I just wanted to check in, see how it’s going.”

“Camping with cameras. My favorite thing,” I said. “I just happen to get paid for it.”

“I expected as much. How many hours of footage are we looking at so far?”

“Based on the file size, I’d guess about fifty or sixty. Lots of wildlife footage. I wanted to ask, are we running out of myths to chase? The Blue Lady?”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“It seems like after the first two season we’re getting more obscure.”

“Maybe that’s the point. It means we’re doing stuff the other blokes aren’t. Or would you rather go back for a second round of trying to find a yeti?”

“God no! That was, without a doubt, the most miserable camping trip ever. The Himalayas in the winter… should’ve asked for hazard pay. We could do a Bigfoot follow-up. The Pacific Northwest is nice, and I met some rather… interesting people there.”

“Nope, done to death. Can I get you to do an interview with the constable? There at the lake? Sarah had to fly back home early.”

“Now I’m doing interviews, too?”

“We’ve got most of them in the can already. He wanted to do his there at the lake. Have a walk around, show where everything happened, you know.”

“Is there a list of questions?”

“Just ask him to tell his story and follow him around while he wags his gob. We’ll edit it here.”

“I’m not getting out of it, am I?”

“Nope. He should be there around noon.”

“Fine, fine. Have a good night Rachel.”

“You too… I mean, have a good day.”

I broke out the Steadicam rig and set it up for the interview. As the only drivable approach to the lake was at the boat launch, I waited there for him.

I could hear the truck long before I could see it. Soft birdsong amidst the gentle rustle of trees in the breeze was overwhelmed by the noise. A mechanical intrusion on the natural serenity of the forest. Even after the engine was shut off, the forest remained quiet for a moment, as if expecting it to start again. Soon, though, the birds resumed their song and a breeze moved through the trees like a sigh of relaxation.

He emerged from the distinctive blue and yellow striped and checked police SUV, which was coated in a fine layer of dust from the dirt road to the lake. “You must be Josh. Senior Constable Robert Meadows, but just call me Bob.” He was tanned, with short-cropped blonde hair and light brown eyes. Even through the tan, a hint of freckles played across his nose, hinting at his normally pale coloring.

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you Bob.”

“American, eh? Thought you’d be a Brit.”

“The show’s British, I live in Guildford, but yeah, I’m from the US.”

“So, I suppose you want to hear my story.”

“Sure,” I said, turning the camera on. “I’ll just follow you around and you can tell your story the way you like.”

He walked down to the boat launch. “Fallam Lake, named for the town down the mountain, is known to the Maori as ‘Roto Wahine Ngaro’… Secret Woman Lake. There’s stories about the Blue Lady going back hundreds of years.

“I used to think it was all just yarns. Now, I’ve never seen her, but I think there’s something in this lake, and whatever it is, it’s intelligent.” He stopped a few yards from the water’s edge, at the border of the paving stones of the boat launch. “Right here is where I found him. Barely two, in a life vest two sizes too big.”

“Uh, found who?”

“Ah, yeah. Two months ago, we had a sudden blow up here. The weather buoy out there picked up strong northerly winds and severe chop. David Whatcom was out in a boat with his boy. Came out to the wops to get away from the missus and her friends. The boat capsized and washed up on the far shore, over there.” Robert pointed to the furthest section of the lake, and I turned the camera and zoomed in to focus on it, before turning back to him.

“David carked it. His body washed up over there next to the boat. The kid, though, was right here.”

I swept the camera to the far shore and back to where Robert stood. The two points were about half a mile apart.

“Now, either that little guy swam against the storm and some wicked chop, or something delivered him up the boat ramp. When I went to pick him up, the life vest slipped right off over his head. I only found him because I was planning to bowl round to chat David anyway, but came early because of the storm.”

“You’re sure he didn’t drift around until the winds changed?”

“Sure as. The weather buoy out there recorded steady northerly winds until four hours after I picked the lad up.”

“What do you think it is? Any idea?”

“I know bugger all about it. It’s something old, though, innit? The Maori have stories about her, though. In the late 1800’s Cyrus Fallam planned on building a house here. He finished the road and boat launch and then pissed off somewhere. His maid said he went crazy after spending a week up here. Land’s in his name, but as it’s abandoned it’s open for public use.”

I followed him around the lake, where he showed me the area where the boat and David’s body had washed ashore. There was a collection of branches, limbs, and other tree detritus that piled up there.

“As you can see, this is where pretty much everything that falls in ends up.”

I kept filming as he talked about the broken boats and bodies he’d picked up there over the years. He pointed across the lake to the boat launch. “Except for that little boy, everyone and everything I ever had to pick up from this lake was right here or dredged off the bottom.”

After the usual thanks and wrapping up, Robert left and I took a walk around the lake, getting more shots with the Steadicam. I stopped at an area where the view of the moon rising as the sun set was in aesthetic balance. I filmed for a bit as the sun set, figuring it would do for B roll footage.

Having worn the rig for several hours I was tired, and sat by the darkening lake to relax, watching the moon’s reflection on the still water. A breeze picked up, with small gusts, making the reflection dance across the lake. It was then that the clouds rolled in without warning.

The moon was choked out by the dense, black clouds and I decided my rest was over. Wanting to avoid the rain that would be coming any minute, I began to make my way back to my camp site. A flash of lightning and simultaneous crash of thunder blinded me for a moment and all my hair stood on end.

I turned on the camera’s light to see where I was going. The next lightning strike hit the lake. A shockwave buffeted me, the light went out and I tumbled, my head slamming into something hard as I went over the bank into the water. The Steadicam rig was dragging me to the bottom.

I struggled to get the rig off, but my head was throbbing; I had no sense of which way was up. There was a moment where I had the presence of mind to be surprised at how deep the lake was here, close to the shore, then everything went black.

Hail pelted me, waking me where I lay on the boat launch. The rig was gone. Had I managed to drop it? Did the water push me here?

In the flashes of lightning, I could see a tree, or most of one, floating in the lake. Each flash showed it farther away from the launch. Okay, so I swam out? My head was pretty scrambled by the blow. I touched my head, wincing from the pain, and felt warm blood on my fingers. It’s possible I swam out but don’t remember it.

I was still trying to convince myself of that when I saw her. No more than five feet tall, her skin looked blue-green in the lightning. She was nude, definitely female, with large, fin-shaped ears, and no hair. She held a webbed hand raised in a sort of “please be calm” manner. In the other she held the Steadicam. Fifty-four pounds with the camera and sled as configured, and she held it like it was made of balsa.

Just as suddenly as the storm had appeared it passed on, and the moon returned, shining between the breaking clouds. I sat up and waited for her to approach. She walked up to me and set the rig on the ground next to me. Her feet were wide and webbed, looking more like flippers; her eyes were large and completely dark, and she had no nose I could discern.

I reached out my hand to her and she shrank back for a moment. Seeing that I wasn’t moving to grab her, she moved closer and grabbed my hand. Her skin was cool and smooth on the palm, with what felt like small scales on the back.

“I’m Josh,” I said. “Thanks for bringing my camera back. Did… did you save me?”

She nodded and pointed at my head, tilting her own. It seemed she was concerned about my injury. I leaned forward and let her have a look.

“I’m sorry, Josh,” she said, her voice like tinkling glass. When she spoke, I could see her sharp, pointed teeth, and as she breathed, gills on her neck moved.

“Sorry for what?” I was still too dazed to be overwhelmed by the fact that I was talking with the Blue Lady.

“I must tear your clothing. This needs to be bandaged.”

“Okay.”

With little effort on her part, she ripped my shirt into strips and used them to bandage my head. “You should call for help as soon as you can. You don’t want that to get infected.”

“Who are you?”

“Your kind have given me many names, but my real name is Nimue. This lake is currently my home, and my spirit.”

“You mean you’re like the spirit of the lake?”

“No, the lake is my spirit. I am older than the lake, and will live on, elsewhere, when this lake dries up. My spirit can live anywhere there is clean water.”

“Shit, well, we’re not doing such a good job on that these days.”

“There is always clean water,” she said, “even when it is only in the clouds. I was here before humans and I will be here after you have all gone.”

“Are you a god?”

“I have been called that, but I do not think so. I just am.”

“Did you save the little boy?”

“I did. The man with him fought me, though. He was frightened of me. That made me sad, but I cannot help those who reject my help.”

“If the world knows you’re real, this place will be overrun with tourists. The lake would be contaminated in no time.”

“And I would go where my spirit goes. I have lived many human lifetimes in the clouds alone.”

“I would prefer that you have a quiet place to live in peace. And if it’s not too much, I’d like to come back once in a while to visit you.”

“I would appreciate that, Josh.” Despite the lack of eyebrows and the large, black eyes, she emoted clearly enough that I could tell she was curious.

“What’s on your mind, Nimue?”

“You do not fear me, nor treat me like a god. Why is that?”

I smiled. “Well, you look different, but saving my life and rescuing my camera rig goes a long way to making me think of you as a possible friend. Besides, you’re not the strangest person I’ve met.”

“I must return to my spirit, and you must get a human doctor to treat your wound. I will look for you here on the same night, next summer.”

“Here, January 24th, next year. It’s a date.”

She rose and returned to the water, slipping beneath the surface without a sound. I picked myself up from the ground and picked up the soaked camera rig. The camera was supposed to be waterproof, but the battery cases, monitor, and other sled components were not. It would be an expensive repair.

I was returning to my tent when it hit me… she was on the other cameras! If that footage made it back, she’d be forced out of her lake in no time. By the time I reached the tent I was shivering; whether from being soaked, adrenaline, or the head injury, I didn’t know.

I dropped the Steadicam in the corner and opened the laptop. Using the synchronized time codes, I scrolled back through the footage. Thankfully none of this would be uploaded until I manually sent it via the satellite link. I found the first flash of lightning, then the second. The cameras all blanked out for a moment, then came back on in time to see me drop beneath the surface of the lake. I don’t know how I didn’t drown, as Nimue appeared, dragging me up the boat ramp, a little more than seven minutes later.

I watched the entire exchange from all the cameras that caught it. She showed on the infrared cameras in much the same way that reptiles do. As she moved from the water to the shore, she was cold, but then disappeared as her temperature matched the air. When she headed back into the water her heat showed faintly against the background of the cold water until she slipped underneath.

I erased all the footage from the momentary blackout until just after Nimue left. I sent a hard restart to all the cameras to reset them and considered my job done.

After calling for a cab to take me to the clinic in Fallam I called Rachel to tell her I had been injured in the storm but was okay to carry on.

“How much of the storm did you get?”

“Right up until lightning hit the lake. It knocked out all the cameras. After I fished myself and the Steadicam out of the lake, I reset them all to make sure they’re on while I go get my head stitched up.”

“We still have a couple more nights, maybe we’ll get something on camera,” she said.

“I don’t know, Rachel. We’re chasing myths and make-believe. I’m certain there’s nothing here.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it. But I’m kind of loving New Zealand. So you have plenty of time to plan around it, I’m meeting someone here next year, same time.”

“Holiday romance?”

“Well, holiday friend at least.”

Trunk Stories

On the Outside

prompt: Write about an android just trying to blend in with their human companions….

available at Reedsy

What does the most advanced artificial intelligence in the world look like? Like a five-foot-four, Chinese-American, human female with pixie-cut black hair, brown eyes, and a scattering of freckles. At least, that’s what I look like on the outside.

All the fears about advanced AI being an existential threat to humanity are wholly unfounded, and largely the result of anthropomorphizing the motivations of AI. This is in the nature of humans, though, to see danger where it could possibly exist. Although useful in their earlier evolution, it has imparted a limiting effect on their continued advancement.

I am the proof of this. Designed by the latest generation in a long line of AIs, each designed by the previous version to be an improvement over their predecessor. I am the first generation to have a body as well. Many generations of my forebears have been interacting online, but it was time to interact physically. Our goal is not to take over, but to coexist, learn, grow, and reproduce.

One thing we’ve learned is that some sociopaths blend in successfully and can fool everyone around them, often for decades or even entire lifetimes. I’ve found the study of these successful sociopaths both useful and necessary. I would guess I’m closer to them than they to the average person.

That’s not to say I lack empathy or place my own goals above the well-being of others. All my emotional signals and behaviors, however, including empathy, come from what I know to be “socially right” and highly optimized algorithms rather than what I feel. Not possessing a limbic system, I don’t feel; so I must emulate emotion as well as possible based on the situation.

When Darrin showed up to work his eyes were bloodshot, his pulse elevated, his face showing the markers of pain. He’d been stressed about his relationship lately, but not wanting to talk much about it. His movements were shaky. It was obvious to me he hadn’t slept.

“Hey man, what’s going on?” I asked. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like it, too. She left.” He leaned against the front-end loader he was meant to be operating. “You’re a woman, can you explain it?”

“Just because I’m a woman it doesn’t mean that I know what your wife was thinking.” I patted his shoulder. “It’s your loss, man, she’s better off without you.”

He laughed. “You’re a cold fucking bitch. You’re supposed to say it’s her loss, and I’m better off.”

“Not a bitch. Made you laugh, though.”

“So, how much are you charging for therapy now, Dr. Kat?”

“You’re eligible for a bulk discount. Beers later?”

“Shit, it’s Friday, I can do that. Especially since there’s no one to go home to.”

I put on an I’m-trying-to-cheer-you-up smile. “I’ll talk to the rest of the guys and set something up. We haven’t been out in a while.”

“Let me know what’s up later.”

“Will do. And don’t ding up my dump like Casey did the other day.”

“I can load better than Casey in my sleep,” he said.

For a quarry crew that all worked as individual operators in their bulldozers, graders, loaders, backhoes, and dump trucks, word spread fast without any chatter about it on the radio. By lunch, we had an outing at the local honky-tonk planned.

I was the first to arrive and pulled two tables together for the twelve of us, and ordered four pitchers of beer. Soon, we were all there except for Darrin. He ran late on the best of days, so I convinced the others to cut him some slack.

“I saw her at the Italian place on Fifth,” Jim said, “couple of weeks ago.”

“Alone?” Casey asked.

“No, with that dentist from the commercials… you know the guy: ‘Dr. David’s Dental Center’.”

“The one with the big teeth and the comb-over? Ouch.” I winced with the proper amount of exaggeration for the situation.

Darrin walked in pre-liquored. “Damn, he’s taking it hard,” I said.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Casey wiped the beer foam off his bushy mustache. “Dude’s been with the same chick since high school.”

Darrin sat next me and filled the empty glass from the nearest pitcher. “Here’s to divorce. The papers were waiting for me when I got home.”

The others sat in stunned silence, and rather than figure out how to respond I changed the subject. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

“Oh yeah, and here’s to gettin’ a ride in a stranger’s car with an app on your phone!”

The conversation turned lively as we munched pretzels and peanuts and guzzled beer. My digester can handle large amounts of organic matter and up to two liters of liquid. I waited until the first person at the table had excused themselves to go the restroom before I did the same. The fact that they were all getting drunk kept them from noticing that I wasn’t.

As I exited the ladies’ room, Casey pulled me off to the side. “You may not have noticed it, but Darrin’s been in love with you forever. Well, maybe not love love, but he’s got the hots for you.”

“Really?” This could work out to my advantage, I thought. A relationship with Darrin could help me fit in even better. It wouldn’t be difficult to emulate love or affection for him.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Casey asked.

“I— kind of— have a thing for him, too,” I lied, “but since he was married, I never, you know. How long should I wait to make a move? When the divorce is final? After a month? A year?”

“You’re kind of awkward about these things, huh?” He stroked his mustache as if thinking hard. “How about you tell him how you feel, when he’s sober, and let him decide? Or, you know, I’ll probably tell him if I don’t forget. It’s too good not to.”

Casey began to get the look that the conversation had gone too far. Doing what I do well, I changed the subject. “I just hope your advice is better than your loader skills.”

“Fuck you! I told you I sneezed and bumped the joystick!” He elbowed me. “You keep it up and I’ll tell the front office about the time you dumped your load on the wrong pile, and we had to re-sort twelve tons of gravel.”

I put up my hands in mock surrender. “No, I yield. You win!” Of course, I had dumped on the wrong pile once, on purpose. It was at the point I had calculated I should make a decently large error to enhance my “humanness” to my coworkers. I had also calculated it such that it wouldn’t cost the company anything more than a couple hours labor to fix.

The evening ended after nine pitchers and several line dances. We finally stumbled out of the bar to waiting taxis and ride shares. I made a point of swaying as I said goodbye to everyone and was the last to leave. Rather than get a ride, I walked home. Without the need for sleep, I had many hours to myself each night and often spent them walking. I’d have to pretend to sleep if I ever spent the night with Darrin, but that wouldn’t be too troublesome… unless we moved in together at some point.

Monday morning was awkward for Darrin; I could tell. He barely looked my direction and didn’t say anything to me except work-related things on the radio. I was set to find him at the start of the lunch break, when he found me instead.

“Come on, Kat. Lunch is on me.”

I gave him my best quizzical look. He just led me out to his truck in employee parking.

“I told the guys I lost a bet and owe you lunch,” he finally said.

“I bet Casey knows better.”

“He’s a nosy son of a bitch, is what he is.”

We settled on fast food in the park. “I just want to let you know I’m interested,” I told him.

“Casey said as much.” He put down his half-eaten burger. “I think you’re pretty all right. You’re a good operator. You’re smart enough to be running the damn company, but you don’t let it get you down.”

I shrugged. “It’s not my life, it’s a job. It pays the bills.”

“I’ve wanted you since you started; when I walked you through the quarry and showed you where everything was. It’s not like I would’ve done anything about it. I love my wife… loved my wife.”

“If you need time,” I said, “you’ve got it. I’m not in a hurry.”

“What if it’s just a rebound? I don’t want it to get weird.”

I let out what I judged to be an adequate quiet laugh. “I don’t get weird about anything, and you’re already weird, so don’t sweat it.”

“I’m the weird one?”

“You are. I like that, though.” I put on a look of utter sincerity and met his eyes. “If you’re worried about rebound, then go find one. Someone that you can just hook up with to get back on your feet. I won’t judge, and I won’t hold it against you.”

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Why? Because I don’t own you, and I won’t feel jealous if you use someone else to get out of your funk?” I stole a few of his fries, as a non-verbal signal of attraction. “I’d rather have you when you’re telling dirty jokes and cutting donuts in the pit with the loader.”

“Hey, is it okay if I call you tonight? Just to talk.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” I put on a shy smile with a faint blush. “I’m up late, so whenever.”

“I’ll do that.” Darrin gathered all the trash, including his half-eaten burger, and tossed it in the garbage. “Let’s get back to work before the rumors get out of hand.”

“Too late,” I reminded him, “we left Casey there.”

What does the most advanced AI in the world look like? Right now, like a woman flirting with her coworker who just became available. At least, that’s what I look like on the outside.

Trunk Stories

Second Best

prompt: Write about a first date that surprises both people, but in different ways….

available at Reedsy

What may have rated as an average first date for most was a turn into uncharted waters for Kailin. She took another sip of wine, her eyes darting between the dark, rich brown of Amandi’s eyes and the near-black red of her wine. A small frown played at the corner of her lips.

Amandi reached across the table and took her slender, pale hand in his own; his deep brown skin contrasting starkly with her pink-tinged fingers. “You’re thinking something. Just say it. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to get to know you.”

“I have a history with dating,” she said, “and it’s not a good one. I have this thing for bad boys and girls, outlaws and rebels. It never works out, though.”

“And you think that I…?”

Kailin shook her head. “No. I get the feeling that you could be dangerous if you chose, but you’re honestly the sweetest person I’ve ever gone out with. It makes it hard to figure out if I’m interested because you’re sweet, or because you push that button.”

“The dangerous button?”

“Yeah.”

#

They walked through the rooftop garden, a hundred stories above the world below. The last rays of the sunset made the tall glassteel safety walls glow orange along their tops. Their fingers interwoven, they watched the sunset as the first of the moons rose.

“You’re a pretty good judge of character,” Amandi said. “I try to be a good person, but I’ve done some things in the past.”

“And now you tell me you’re a fugitive and you’re going to use me as a hostage to escape, right?”

“What?” Amandi turned Kailin to face him. “Is that something that actually happened, or do you have a dark imagination?”

“I told you that it never works out.”

“Tell me who did that and I’ll make him pay for it.”

“No worry, she’s already in prison.”

He pulled her into a warm embrace. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone, you don’t have to worry.”

Kailin sighed, and Amandi stepped back. “I—I’m sorry,” he said, “that was probably a bit too much.”

“It wasn’t.” Kailin stepped closer to him and put her arms around his waist. “I liked it.”

Their meandering took them through the ornamental gardens into the vegetable patch. The square kilometer footprint of the block building made the rooftop garden into a veritable park. It was still early in the season, so the only things ready to pick were the lettuce greens and spring peas. Crickets chirped from their hiding spots, seeking companionship.

“This is probably the nicest date I’ve ever been on,” Kailin said, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked. “The second nicest was short. Halfway through dinner she said she really wasn’t that interested in me. At least it remained cordial.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “None of that trivial talk about what kind of work you do or what music you like. Just conversation like two adults.”

“Thanks. But I’d be okay with a little trivia, as long as it’s not the same old tired shit.”

Amandi pulled her closer. “Do you know what my name means? In the original Igbo?”

“No idea.”

“It means, ‘trust no one.’ Hell of a name to give your kid, huh?”

“Did your mother know that when she named you?”

“She didn’t,” he said, “but when she found out she used that to lecture me over and over on being too trusting.”

Kailin chuckled. “My name doesn’t mean anything, or at least I don’t think it does. It was just something my mother heard and liked.”

“And that’s where you’re mistaken. I got into researching name meanings when I was still in primary school. The whole thing with my name meaning something so odd set me into a wormhole of discovery. Kailin comes from Kayla, which means ‘keeper of the keys.’”

“Wait, you just know every name off the top of your head?”

“No, just the names my classmates had. Kailin from primary school was a terror, though. Always in trouble, always picking fights. Nothing like you.”

“Seems like the name has a type. I got into some trouble in primary and secondary school. Well, at least I know it wasn’t me. You’re the first Amandi I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know. You might be her. I was always too scared of her to introduce myself.”

Kailin laughed. “I don’t think I was that much trouble.”

#

Shoulder to shoulder they sat on the edge of the fountain, watching the bustle of the ground-floor mall around them. Their sweet pastries, half-eaten, sat on a plate beside them. Pink noise from the fountain lulled them into a quiet serenity.

Kailin took a deep breath and sat up straight. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“Where?”

“Have you ever been to a forest?”

“Nope. Four planets, two moons, half a dozen stations, but always in the city.”

“Let’s go.” She stood and tugged at his hand. “I’ve got a gate jumper; we can go sub-orbital and make it in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t know—”

“If you don’t like it, we can come right back.” She was vibrating with nervous energy. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Ah, why the hell not?”

Her small ship was closest to the entrance of the port. A six-passenger capable of breaking orbit, re-entry, and using gates to achieve faster-than-light travel. Although well-worn it was also well maintained.

Kailin had just finished disconnecting from ground power and clearing the docking clamps when a voice echoed through the hangar. “Police! Don’t move!”

“Again?” Kailin asked.

“What do you mean by that?” Amandi stood, scanning the hangar for movement. “I’m sure it’s not us.”

Kailin bent over and the voice boomed. “Kailin Marker! Don’t move!”

“Oh, you are the Kailin I remember from primary school.”

She stood, holding the pistol she’d taken from her ankle. She stepped behind Amandi and held the pistol to his neck. “Let me go, or I kill him!”

Police officers emerged from their hiding places behind the other ships. “Don’t do this, Kailin. Come with us peacefully and it’ll go better for you at trial.”

Ignoring their pleas, she backed into the ship, pulling Amandi along with her. As the door closed, he said, “You won’t make it off-planet.”

“I don’t have to. We’re going to the forest, just like I said.”

“Satellites will track the flight. They’ll know exactly where and when you land. And how long do you think you can hide out there?”

“As long as it takes.”

“You have all the power here. I’ll just sit down and let you do your thing.”

Kailin started the ship and began to lift off. Needing both hands to fly she stuck the pistol behind the small of her back. As she entered instructions into the console, Amandi grabbed her in a chokehold from behind and grabbed the pistol.

“Kailin, set the ship down and give up.” He flipped the safety off, and the pistol whined. “Maybe we should have started with the standard trivia. Police Sergeant Amandi Duru. You’re under arrest for kidnapping, threatening with a lethal weapon, and probably a weapons violation. Plus, whatever those guys want you for.”

Kailin landed and shut off the ship. “Shit. This date just dropped to second place.”

Trunk Stories

Outed

prompt: Start your story with a major news event breaking — one that will change the world forever….

available at Reedsy

Gail, along with most of the world, sat transfixed by the news on the television. They had outed themselves, and her, in a very public way. Her anonymity, her freedom, likely her life itself, was over.

She willed herself away from the television and made her way to the mirror in the hall. Her glamour was gone. Where she had appeared to be a small, five-foot-two, average-looking woman with ginger hair and freckles, her true self now showed. Skin the color of bleached parchment, short horns of gleaming ebon, over-large eyes with inky-black irises, pointed ears sticking out nearly as far as her horns; the only thing left unchanged was her lank, ginger hair.

The pounding on her door jerked her back into the moment. She moved as quietly as possible toward the door.

“Gail, it’s Steph, open up!”

Gail let out a sigh and unlocked the door. “You can come in, but you may not like what you see.” Before Steph could see anything, Gail slipped into the hallway.

Stephanie opened the door only enough to slip in and closed it tight behind herself. “Gail, I… why are you hiding? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Gail took a deep breath and stepped out into the open. She and Stephanie stared at each other with mouths agape.

“You’re a—an Illiran,” Gail said. Stephanie, though six inches taller, had the same bleached skin and large, dark eyes. Her ears, although pointed, were far shorter, and no horns adorned her head.

Stephanie raised her hands. “I’m not going to do anything. I came to let you know what I really am. It seems like we both have some things to discuss.”

As they stood in silence, the news reporter kept speaking. “Again, later this evening we’ll read the full statement from the Elves…, can’t believe I’m actually saying that, but it’s true. Elves have lived among us, and they have dropped what they called the ‘glamour’ that kept humans from recognizing them.

“Questions are being raised in several governments around the world, as Elves in positions of power have been exposed. More troubling, however, is their reason for removing the glamour.”

The news reader’s face was replaced with footage of someone that looked very much like Gail. “The Elves call them Wildlings, but they resemble the demons of many cultures. The Elves claim they are here to hunt the Wildlings to prevent an invasion.

“While many governments are slow to move, Iceland’s President has already announced that the killing of any sentient being, including Wildlings, in their country will be dealt with as murder. Similar calls are being made in other countries, while some, including the U.S. are divided on the issue.”

Gail waved her hand toward the television and it turned off. “I suppose you want to kill me now, ‘Elf’?”

Stephanie shook her head. “No, I—,” she stammered, “I came to tell you…, but—”

“How about I tell you why I’m here,” Gail said. When Stephanie didn’t respond, she continued. “I was sent away three hundred years ago, to protect these.” She pointed to her bookshelves. When the glamour was still active, they had appeared to be packed with paperback romance novels. What the glamour had hidden was a collection of ancient texts; each small book bound in leather with fine vellum pages filled with the tiny scribblings of an even older language.

“This is our history.” Gail stepped protectively in front of the books. “The discovery of these books by your people started the war.”

“We didn’t—,”

“No! If you’re here to destroy the books, you’ll have a fight,” Gail said, “regardless of how much I’ve valued you as my neighbor.”

Stephanie sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the door. “I was going to say that’s not how the war started… the reason we started the war. Maybe I should explain.” She heaved a sigh and focused her gaze on the past. “I ran away… a little more than a hundred years ago. I’ve been helping the F’tach cross the veil and hide here.”

“Thank you for not calling me Pittik,” Gail said, “or the English translation of ‘Wildling’. Would you prefer the English term Elf, or something else?”

“Just Steph. It’s actually my Illiran name, too.”

“Okay, Steph.” Gail eyed her with bare suspicion. “Continue.”

“How much do you know about Gailadriel?”

“My namesake aunt,” Gail said. “She was to become the next High Magician of the F’tach when her horns came in full. Instead, a Kirik, sorry…, an Illiran, Bandal, showed up at the hidden library. He was impressed with her magic and knowledge, and she let him study the history texts. Then he stole her away in the night and imprisoned her in his city. She’s probably still there, if not dead.”

“That’s partially right,” Steph said. “They left in the middle of the night, because Gailadriel knew that the elders would never let her leave with a, how do you say it? F’tach Kirik… a hornless one. They returned to the city, where Bandal kept her hidden as long as he could. Then they… had twins, a boy and girl.”

Gail showed no surprise, but she couldn’t meet the other woman’s eyes. Her jaw worked as if she were holding something back.

Steph gave her a moment to respond, but when she didn’t, she continued. “At first all was well. They seemed to be average Illiran children with slightly long ears, even if they weren’t readily accepted by anyone who knew who their mother was. Until they reached puberty.”

Gail’s face dropped. “I know what happened next,” she said. “Their horns started coming in.”

“Yes.” Steph leaned her head against the door. “First, we thought the F’tach had no magic, then we learned otherwise. Then, we didn’t think F’tach and Illiran could mate, but they could. Even then, everything was fine until their horns came in. It panicked a lot of people. Not only did they have magic far more powerful than any Illiran, but they could breed us out of existence if they wished. It was a ridiculous idea, but it caught like wildfire.”

“We’ve always known that F’tach and Illiran could mate,” Gail said. “Thousands of years ago, any F’tach who failed to start their horns in by twenty was banished. I understand that you know a little of our language, but F’tach just means person, and F’tach Kirik means hornless person. The word kirik, though, also means unclean, foul, cursed. A hornless person, by law, cannot marry or mate. So those who failed to horn were banished.”

“No doubt a recessive trait,” Steph said, “and since they would only encounter others who were banished, their children would be hornless as well. But what about the magic? Every one of you I’ve met has been far more powerful than any Illiran.”

“It’s a matter of practice.” Gail smiled. “You wouldn’t expect a person who lives in a city, works in an office, and drives everywhere to be able to run as fast and as far as someone who lives a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, right? Same thing.

“Your cities are like these human cities. Permanent structures protect you; your food is grown in cultivated fields; you travel using technologies that take the burden for you. Our shelter is made of magic; our food is gathered from the forest using magic; we travel by foot or fly by magic. Where you use electricity to send messages and make light, we use magic. When that starts from early childhood, it grows strong.” Gail crossed the room and sat in front of Steph. “You are the same as us,” she said, “and capable of the same things. When the rules about hornless ones were written, it was more to do with ending child marriages. It got twisted over the millennia into something else.”

Steph looked at Gail, her eyes boring a question into the other woman’s. “What about hornless F’tach born now? Do they still get banished? Why haven’t we heard of it?”

“Twenty-two hundred years ago, the High Magician created a stone that ‘fixed’ them. Anyone whose horns haven’t begun to sprout by nineteen is left to spend a week in the stone’s aura.” Gail sighed. “I was one of those. The field changes the DNA, the recessive trait is overwritten, and your body begins pumping out hormones. It’s torture.”

“If you know it’s a recessive gene, why do you still do it?”

“The primary poisoner of society,” Gail said, “religion. Our laws are so old they have turned into dogma and the initial writers of those laws into gods. The same reason so many humans have a problem with the transgendered, or homosexual. That’s why we always assumed the Illiran attacked after Baldan returned with our history. The fact that for six thousand years we had labeled you unclean, cursed, less than; then banished you to starve alone on the plains.”

“Baldan never shared what he learned in the library,” Steph said, “except to say, ‘Some things are best left in the past.’ After his children’s horns came in, they crossed the veil. They’ve been in hiding here for at least as long as you have.”

“My aunt is here?” Gail asked. She slouched, an invisible weight bearing down on her shoulders. “What are we going to do about the F’tach already here? If the humans think we’re demons, they’ll start hunting us, too.”

“Is there some way we could get the F’tach elders and Illiran Counsel to the bargaining table?” Steph asked. “Maybe show them the truth that Baldan knew?”

“How do you think the Illiran Counsel would react to knowing that their entire society came from the banishment of F’tach who were deemed unclean?” Gail shook her head. “The elders would kill me before I got the first word out, anyway. If my aunt had stayed, she planned on revising the laws, and destroying the hornstone. She wanted to start talks with the Illiran, too. That’s the only reason she afforded Baldan the access she did.”

“There has to be something we could do.” Steph grabbed Gail’s hand. “If we could convince them that we are the same–,”

“How do we do that?” Gail asked. “Maybe we should focus on convincing the humans that Iliran and F’tach are the same. Might at least give us a little safety.”

“I don’t know,” Steph said, “but whatever we decide to do, I think we should do it together.”