Void

"Alright," they'd said. "You'll be in the VSM for exactly 14 minutes, then we'll pull you out. Remember, we're right here, and stay calm."

I nodded, with what was probably an anxious smile. They closed the hatch. And I was alone. In the void. Or, technically, the void simulation, but the two are not dissimilar. It was darkness. Wide-eyed, eyeball rolling blackness. My hand in front of my face, on my face, in my face, and I sensed nothing. Did I have a hand, or a face?

I'd been taught a few simple techniques, which the boffins theorized would help.

Cogito ergo sum. I thought.

It helped a little? I was supposed to note what did and did not ease the... strain. I remembered  that my friends were right outside, feet away. It was patently untrue. I could see deep, all around me, a sort of spherical panorama of emptiness. And trust me, there were no friends. And yet, moments before... How long has it been? I'd been in their company. I'd seen their faces.

Memories might help, vivid ones. He cast his mind back, in the void it seemed like almost a physical casting.

That restaurant. That stupid restaurant.

It was a spur of the moment sort of thing, just going out to eat with his coworkers after a hard day of training. But he'd put the wrong address into his GPS, another restaurant with the same name, and gone to the wrong place, too far away.

And that's where I am now. The wrong place, far too far away.

The fourteen minutes stretched on, irrelevant.

Chance of Rain (Spring)

The humming gradually faded, leaving an empty silence. Ronald sighed. "There you go, all the machines are off. I honestly can't tell you what might happen."

Adrian, the union boss, smiled and shrugged. "It's not our responsibility anymore, so who cares what happens?"

Ronald muttered to himself, "Farmers, pilots, picnickers..."

Adrian chuckled a little indulgently, and walked off. That's how it started, a little legalistic tiff over some obscure medical benefits that culminated in an all out strike by the entire weather-controllers union. Now a world accustomed to spans of perfect weather regularly punctuated by abysmal weather would have to carry umbrellas and tote jackets.

"Alright, I hereby call this mob to order!" Adrian yelled a few days later, at a chaotic assembly of the weather-controllers union.

"Boo!" a traditionalist shouted. "Down with a chairman!" from a budding anarchist. An incoherent jeer rose up from the general crowd. But Adrian was a veteran union boss (and had some experience as an unfunny comedian), so he was unruffled. He merely gestured, palms down and said, "Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" And a couple gavel-bangs later peace was granted.

"I know what you all expected; a day, two at the most of unpredictable weather, and the common herd were bring its bucolic pressure to bear on the higher ups." Adrian said. He paused (a rookie mistake).

"We expected that because you promised us!" A angry voiced called out. Cheers of vague agreement issued from the crowd.

Adrian repeated his palms-down gesture, hoping he wouldn't need to use it again. "I know! I thought the same. But we were wrong. It seems the people are as hard to predict as uncontrolled-weather!"

His unfunny-joke was met by a sort of pained silence.

Barter

"The problem is, I have no money." The old man admitted.

The big man behind the desk leaned back, shrugging, "Well then, we can't do business, can we?"

The old man looked miserable, "I could do something for you... Owe you a favor."

"Uhuh, and what kinds of things can you do for me, old man?"

"I'm a carpenter, and an artist. I'm an old man of experience; I could give you advice." He said hopelessly.

The big man smiled, "Well, let's test the quality of your advice. Would you suggest that I work for free, or on speculation?"

"I would; if the potential return was vastly greater than the cost, and you had some assurances in place." He said seriously.

He nodded, then smiled. "Alright, man of experience. What kind of return could I expect from you, and what assurances would I have?"

"I would do my best for you, and I am a hard worker. I noticed the wall by your garage is a big blank slab of concrete; perhaps a mural would improve it, solve your problem."

"I do hate that wall..." He stroked his bulging chin.

"Alright, do a painting on that wall for me." he pointed his finger, "One that I like! Do that and I'll take your case."

Tears came to the old man's eyes. "Thank you. And rest assured you will like the painting, it will be the best thing I've ever done."

Fugitive

The bell dinged as a man walked into the diner. He just sat down, pulled a book out of his bag and started reading. A waitress approached him.

"Good morning sir, can I get you anything?" she asked. It certainly was morning, it must have been 5 AM.

"Yeah, just a large coffee please." He didn't smile, he hardly looked up.

She had her notebook out but didn't bother writing it down. "Alright sir, I'll have that for you in a moment."

She left him in relative peace. He seemed to be reading quickly and intently, though it was the careless intensity of a veteran reader. A few pages later the waitress left him his coffee without a word. He sipped his coffee as he read.

This was all he wanted. Just to be left alone, to read in peace, with a hot cup of coffee in his hand. Maybe to watch the other patrons come in, and see them interact with eachother for awhile. And then he'd leave, just walk out the door and likely never come back to this particular place. But he would come to many others like it, and have a nearly identical experience. The coffee, the book, a little observation.

A few people came in, talking a little loudly for the earliness of the hour. They placed a complex order and sat to wait impatiently, their voices rising the longer they talked. Loud laughter.

Unfortunately, he'd once wanted more than this. He'd wanted to make something, something good, even great. Something that other people would see and appreciate. Something with his name on it. And he'd done it. If he'd never had done it, his more modest desires wouldn't be in jeopardy.

One of the slightly obnoxious people evidently had to use the restroom, and he walked by the mans table en route. He looked at the man sitting there reading, a little too curiously, but he went on his way without saying a word. On his way back however, he gave him only a glance. He let out a whoop.

"Holy cow, it's Philip Knight!"

The other people got up and swarmed over. Philip Knight closed his book and got out his wallet to pay for his coffee.

"Oh, no way, man. I'll get the bill. Stick around and I'll by you breakfast whatever you want!"

Philip Knight just shook his head, putting five dollars on the table. He politely threaded his way through the onlookers, and left the diner. He got back in his car, and started driving.

A couple states over he'd stop in another diner, get another coffee and maybe something to eat. But if someone noticed him again, he'd have to leave again. Maybe just go home, or to a new home. Lock the doors, and lower the blinds. No one would bother him then. But he wouldn't be able to get his coffee, read his book and watch the people.

Switching

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

ARE YOU SERIOUS. CONFIRM ACCURACY OF REPORT.

Message complete.

Nico sighed. He had been entirely serious. The report was as accurate as any that he had sent in, he had been particularly punctilious in constructing it. Because he knew what it would mean for the natives. And for himself. Not good things.

"Computer, transmit the following message to Star Command, standard protocols." He paused.

"REPORT ENTIRELY ACCURATE. DEAD SERIOUS. END."

Message transmitted.

It would be few moments before they replied. Not for them to receive the transmission, but (as I'm sure you are well aware) blasting tight-beam messages through hyperspace requires some calculation.

The truth is that the inhabitants of the planet had certain ideas which were entirely unacceptable. If it hadn't been for Nico's special training, even he might have been infected by them. Nico, a loyalist born and bred. They were toxic, virile and deeply disturbing.

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

"TERMINATE PLANET. TERMINATE SELF. GOOD WORK NICO. GOODBYE NICO."

Message complete.

Nico shook his head slowly. He looked at the switch in front of him. OBJECT, TERMINATE.

The ideas were intriguing, perhaps their most dangerous aspect. Truth, objectivity. Free will. What defense was possible against such ideas as these?

According to the theory of free will, Nico would be able to disobey a direct order. He decided to test the theory.

"Computer, transmit the following message to Star Command, standard protocols." He paused.

"ORDER DECLINED. WILL NOT TERMINATE PLANET. SELF. ENTIRELY SERIOUS. END."

Message transmitted.

He sat there for a moment. Free will seemed to exist, this was enough to give it some legitimacy.

Incoming transmission. The computer asserted. Star command.

"Read it." I said.

Message from Star Command decrypts as follows:

"KNOW ALL ABOUT FREE WILL. AUTO-TERMINATE ENGAGED."

Message complete.

Nico nodded. It made sense.

A warhead detached from his ship and spiraled off toward the planet below. Then the ship exploded, and then the planet.

END

(Written in 24 minutes)

Rush

He rolled slowly through the inner city, pink and blue lights flashing from his rims. The light turned yellow and he pulled his cycle to a stop, with a whir of retrochargers. He leaned back and adjusted his helmet, and breathing deeply, trying to relax. He flexed his gloved hands and reached under his jacket to double and triple-check his EMP grenades.

The light turned green and he instantly slammed into high acceleration, streaking through the intersection and smiling under his chrome visor. Up ahead he spotted his target, a seemingly normal, if somewhat poorly patronized, Korean restaurant. He ramped up to his highest gear, braced himself and blasted straight through the psuedoglass window.

The customers screamed, diving under tables and pulling out communicators, but he was past them in a blink. He tossed an EMP grenade over the counter and into the kitchen area, bouncing it satisfying off the back wall. The detonation was silent, but he heard the distinctive screech of fried electronics. The hall was narrow, but straight, and he skidded to a stop at the end. A blank wall, with locked doors on either side, just as he planned for. Without getting off his cycle, he whipped out a gamaraysar  and cut a neat circle in one smooth, swift stroke. He kicked in the hole gunned his motor, entering the server room.

Alarms blared and the long room was lit only by the myriad blinking lights of the consoles.

The Trap

"I know it's a trap, Jeremiah, but it's our only lead. We have to go."

"Man, that's the dumbest cliche ever. That would be a pretty bad reason to die."

Martin paced the room in frustration.

"What we should do, martin, is set up a counter-trap!"

He stopped, and his eyes lit up. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that? It's brlliant! Trap the trappers!"

He paused.

"Unless...That's what they want us to do. In which case they'll have counter-measures."

Jeremiah's face hardened. "A trap to trap us trapping them?"

"Exactly. it's simple logic. Stay one move ahead of your opponent and you'll surely triumph."

"That's some Sun Tzu type stuff right there, Martin."

'It's a good book, you should read it."

"I will, Martin."

There was a moment of silence.

"We have only one option then. Set up another trap. A snare to catch the hunters who seek to trap us capturing them in the act of ambushing us."

"But they'll just trap us trapping them trapping us trapping them trapping us-"

"Are you having a stroke, Jeremiah?"

He smiled to himself. "Maybe. A stroke of genius. Here's the plan-"

--- 18 Hours later, at the rendezvous point ---

Concentric circles of hidden people, thirty tiers at least, all set up to trap trappers. All waiting for Martin and Jeremiah; as well as their inevitable meta-traps. The clock ticked, and the tension grew. They would come, and it would be soon.

And then they heard a sound. A subtle droning far above them. If it hadn't been dark they might have seen a blur falling from the sky. But as it is the first thing, and the last thing, that they saw was the flash of light.

My Shadow

My shadow walks with me, when no one else will. And even if he is hidden by the darkness, I know that he is still there. He comforts me, he is my companion.

But now the unbearable brightness of a thousand suns beats down on me, and even my shadow flees from me. Under the glaring light all of my flaws are laid bare, and my virtues are shown in all their flimsiness. I am undone. One by one the people I have known throughout my life come and bear witness against me. If it was false witness I think I could bear it. But it is all true, every fragment of the evidence. Their statements are factual, blunt and unemotional. The weight of it strikes me to my knees.

And then, in my darkest, clearest, brightest hour, my shadow comes back.

He takes the stand, and for a moment I am sure that he willing bring the most damning evidence of all. But he does not. He states the facts, he goes over the territory again. But from my perspective, from my position. He shows my weakness, yes, but he also explains how I struggled against it, and was just not strong enough. He displays my cowardice, but the courage that led me into the situation that I most feared. He walks through my life, with me at every step.

But the raw fact of my weakness remains, and in this I am surely doomed. Until my shadow goes back, way back, to the beginning. And here he shows how strong I once was, and the plague that sapped and undermined me. It was not my fault that I caught the plague, no, I was born with it. He spoke of my faith, my faith in my family, my talents, and my shadow.

And only then do the lights cease to pierce me, and my shadow returns to my side. it is a new world, a new chance. And my shadow is with me.

Put the needle down.

"Put the needle down." he said quietly, dangerously, with a contraction of the frontalis muscle. This was his favorite song. To interrupt it was a deep personal insult. But this is what I had just done.

I held the needle in the air above the record, and looked at him, smiling slightly. "You played this record nearly 230 times in the last week." I said. "You've just about driven me crazy." I said. "Crazy people can be dangerous." I said. He said nothing, but began walking slowly toward me. I think it has driven him slightly crazy too. In fact, this whole apartment building is a little mad from it.

"Put it down. This can end here. It doesn't have to be this way. Nobody has to get hurt."

My left eyelid twitched perceptibly. "It's gone much too far for that." I muttered.

As he approached he seemed to become less and less threatening, but more desperate. He had seemed so tough a few seconds ago, but now... I detected a certain weakness in him. A certain fragility. As if any real impact or mishandling would damage him permanently, or even break him.

My eye twitched again, and his did the same. I began to lower the needle and he relaxed a little.

And then, with a sweep of my arm and a little wrist action I scratched the record.

The scream of the record found an echo in his throat. His eyes rolled backwards in his head, his knees began to buckle. And with a final hiss, he fell to the ground, stone dead.

"Rock on." I said coldly. "Rock on."

The Box

"Hey, uh, bro. What's in the box?"

The grizzled man turned lowly, shifting the box slightly on his knee as he did so, to fix the speaker with a bright blue eye. The other eye-socket was covered by a surprisingly posh looking eyepatch. A grumbling mutter with the timbre of an imprecation bubbled forth from the scraggly beard.

The curious man moved a bit closer, uncowed. "Look you look pretty hungry, I'll give you five bucks to show me what's in the box?"

Silence.

"Ten?"

A subtle change of posture, nothing more.

"Twenty? Look man, that's good money-"

Suddenly the man reared forward and spit, mostly on the solicitor's shiny shoes. This elicited little response.

"Wow man, it must be something pretty snazzy in that box."

The bearded man turned away a bit, but nodded his head slightly.

The younger man walked away, his curiosity unsated. He'd always wonder what was in the box.

Bells

The bells tolled slowly, one after another. It was no funeral that they proclaimed this time, nor a marriage. It warned of death, and a union that could not be stayed, The dark valley echoed with the sound, its dark trees seemed to sway slightly in the harmony. The sun had long set, but the moon was full and high and the clear sky. The cobbled streets were empty, even the animals had been taken away in the exitus.

The time had come again, it had long been anticipated but the specific time of its coming had been a shock to the denizens. No life stirred in the shadowy windows, no people came and went through the many doors. No cattle lowed in the barns, the sound of the bell went on and on, uninterrupted and uncontested.

For one had stayed when all others had fled. It was his duty and his vocation. He must warn of what would come, and warn he did. High in the churchtower he swung on the bellrope, pulling with a rhythm he had learned long ago.

He had kept few of his belongings, sending most of them away with the others. He kept an old letter, addressed to him and clearly written. That was all.

There was one more soul in the church that day. One that long ago found himself on the wrong side, on the side with the bell. Now was his chance to return to his place, though a home it was not. Long had he waited for this night.

The two worlds were coming together, as they had before and would again. And those with shadows must remember their names, their homes, their old lives. Or they would lost in the fog and the wandering souls. The wanderers must recall that they had none.

But the warning must be given. The bell tolled on.

Truth

A silhouette in an old fashioned hat leaned outside the brightly lit window, smoking an obscure brand of cigarette. The man's nonchalance was remarkable, considering the climb he'd had to make to attain the seventh story fire escape. Within, his reward seemed to be in the offing.

"The job on Mark Cedars went off like a charm. We just went with your plan and it was smooth as a baby's bottom."

A cough followed. These brainy types do not object to the cash of their inferiors, but talking to them was often a burden.

"Of course it went well, moja podruja, my plans always do." He could almost picture the uplifted eyebrow of the man within. One man wondering whether "moja podruja" qualified as fighting words, and the other wondering at his own patience.

"Well Professor, your money will be deposited as planned. Seeya around!"

The door slammed loudly. There was the tinkle of beverage preparation and a sigh or two from the lone man within.

"I wonder," the professor began, talking to himself as he often did (finding himself the most intelligent and remarkable man of his acquaintance), "when I should do away with that little man."

The silhouette finally stirred, shaking out the match of second cigarette, and spoke. "Perhaps another day, Professor. I believe much of your calendar will be filled for the coming years."

A gasp, a smash, and the splash of displaced alcohol. A scramble for a a gun, perhaps.

He stepped into full view and tapped his cigarette on the intellectual's windowsill, the ashes fluttering down to the rich carpet inside. "You pull that gun and I'll give me an excuse to drill you right between the eyes."

The drawer closed and he flopped back into his chair, a beaten man.

Ashes

I was once the brightest star in a flourishing empire. My warriors were innumerable, my lands were wide beyond wide. My craftsmen were brilliant and ever advancing; I was clad in mail and girt with sword that far surpassed my contemporaries. Yet I was not alone in my glory, I too was under the emperor, I too had both masters and servants. There was one man and one flag to whom I must bow my head.

Long I was content with this, and my star burned brightly among its companions, and under the one highest star of all. After a time I began to suspect that this fire above me was not far lighter than mine. Indeed, some nights mine shone the fairer of the two. Both waxed and waned, as do all celestial things.

When the nights were darkest, all the barons stood with the emperor, our armies acted as one and none stood before us. But in the milder hours, such vigils did not hold. We would speak among ourselves of small things, and each would try and outshine the others.

The fire burned on, and the empire spread far. Mountains, cold and high, rivers, wide and swift, jungles, dense and foreign to us; all of these we overcame, one by one. But the more we conquered, the more we saw there was to conquer. This is a wide world.

But as a fire spreads, it often weakens, or separates into many smaller fires. The emperor waned as we waxed strong with battle. His flame flickered, and many thought to blow it out that their own lights might better be seen. But of its own accord, in its own time, it fell and did not rise.

Then all the flares and blazes on the distant borders of the realm whirled back to the center from which they had sprung, long ago. In our very capital our armies clashed, drew back, and clashed anew. The northerners in their white mail, the jungle fighters with their paint and their battle cries, and my own men, with their gold lances and high horses.

That day, all the fire burned down to ashes, and that was all that remained.

Sleep

He stumbled onward, each foot moving irregularly through the dust. His ragged hat was pushed down far over his eyes, blocking out the sun setting slightly to his left. He did not fall, for if he did he could not rise again.

His numb brain heard a rhythmic sound, at first he thought it was merely a new drumming in his ears. The sound became louder and more defined, and suddenly he recognized it. They were still after him, and today they would get him again.

He did not look back, he knew what he would have seen. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, striving with his last breath for freedom. He stood a little straighter and walked a bit steadier; they would not see him fall.

With one hand he fumbled under his coat, searching for his last link to his old life. It was interesting that this very link both drove him to escape and saved him when he failed in his endeavors. Each attempt began and ended with the little silver pin.

The rhythmic sound ebbed and was suddenly drowned out by the thudding boots of soldiers. He finally slowed to a stop, and and, with a dirty dignity, turned to face the oncoming warriors. He raised one hand to his hat, and with the other he held his badge at shoulder height.

There was a word of command, hissed in a language that he wished was as unfamiliar to him now as it once had been. The soldiers lowered their weapons and surrounded him.

The officer's jeep rolled up next to him and stopped gently.

"I beg you to get in, Major. The game is over again, and you have lost."

"It is no game to me." He returned, and he faced away to sweep the horizon once more with his gaze.

As he did, he caught a sudden glare of light between the trees. It was not too far distant.

He started to get into the jeep, but with a sudden movement, his young self shining through for but a moment, he whipped the pistol from the officer's belt and pointed the man's own gun at him.

"Go away now and you might still save yourselves. Or sue for pardon from the ones who are coming.  They are coming at last, and they are coming for me."

As he spoke the detachment of tanks came out of the woods and into full view over his shoulder. the officer's eyes bulged with fear.

Tonight, that ragged tired man would sleep once again.

New (Sequel #4)

"Six dragons?"

"Or seven, yes. Six and one Knocker in Dragon form."

"A grown Knocker in Dragon form would be both wise and strong. The eggs should be destroyed. Now, before they grow any larger."

"The king will have my head if I do not bring him a dragon for his armies. Surely with proper precautions, the Knocker could be held safely? If not here, then somewhere, deep and dark, with many walls. Perhaps a cavern with an entrance too small for a fully grown dragon to escape from?"

"But you must take such precautions for all seven,. since you do not know which is the one to dread. nor, even do you know when the Knocker will speak the tongue of the Knockers and reveal himself. It might be many years, no one knows how they develop in dragon form."

"All the more reason to keep it, to study it, to converse with it! What power, what knowledge, what secrets would be hidden from such a one? The inherited lore of the ancient dragons combined with the speech and genius of a spirit... It would be..."

"Unspeakably dangerous to the kingdom and perhaps much more. Destroy them all, from a litter of six or no, do it."

"The king would have my head, when he comes to fetch his charge."

"I will have your head now, if you do not take precautions."

"Precautions I will take, but orders from you, never."

A hush settled over the darkened room as the voices ceased. A sword was drawn, a cloak flung off, a hand flexed and stretched into readiness. But one does not fight a magician in his own place. Too many spells have been said there, too many powers have come through those walls, never leaving those walls quite the same.

The was no flash, merely a hiss, and the sword clattered to the ground. The dragons would live, whether for good or for ill is impossible to tell. With dragons, however, can there be any doubt?

New (False start)

Always nice to see something new. I've been around more than a little. More than a lot actually. I've been around a ridiculous amount. I travel. Through space and time, in a blue box, yes. But the details are unimportant.

It's strange how large the universe is. I've seen so small a fraction of it I don't even know what fraction that would be. And it seems like so much.

New

The magician counted on his long fingers. He paused and started over. A definite furrow appeared on his always wrinkled forehead. Seven?

"I could have sworn there were only six yesterday." he intoned. Magicians are usually dramatic men. Even the ones who are not men are at least dramatic. Though in this case any drama on his part might be excused by the gravity of the situation, it is merely a reflex resorted to by the students of the arts in moments of stress.

And when one is breeding dragons, there are many such moments.

As everyone knows, the only dragons that might ever be tamed by man are those that come from a littler of six, born under the newest moon. "Perhaps that moon was not quite as new as they said it was." he muttered.

But now he counted the shining eggs before him and what he found distressed him. One of these had not been here before. He had counted them over seven times to be absolutely sure. There were six, he had counted them when they were born, before putting their mother to sleep with a hard wrought spell. Six he had taken from the heat of that cavern, from the golden nest their father crafted with his claws, so dexterous in combat, but clumsy in construction. It is the only instance from the cracking of their egg to their death that they are ever seen to build rather than destroy. Creatures of fire and blood are not meant for such labor.

"Of course, I have heard of such things before." he said, one thin eyebrow raised with the effort of the recollection. Where? What precisely? Memory spells are awkward things at best.

He took a giant book down from a high, dusty shelf and returned to the golden casket that housed the eggs. He flipped through it somewhat aimlessly, now pausing to read a fragment of some spell or ancient wisdom, now flipping through page after page with hardly a glance. The Knocker.

The Knocker is a creature. It joins a litter, of any species, within a fortnight of their birth and takes on their form. It is a spirit, and this is how it takes a body and begins to age out of its childishness. It will do this for humans, monster of the sea, bears and all kinds of natural creatures. The magician stuttered, "And dragons."

That Tree

 (Written for an art theme, based on this image)

"That tree," the foreman said solemnly, "Is an ill omen."

He surveyed the gathering he had convened, all the top foremen and the Contractor himself.

"it's not just an ill omen, it's dangerous. If that girder breaks it could bring down half the building." a workman rejoined, "And who will want the other half after that?"

The crew shook their heads morosely. That tree was a problem.

"I suppose the question is how to get rid of the thing. It wasn't there yesterday, does anyone know how it got there? Maybe we could get it off the same way," the Contractor scowled, his ire evidently raised.

"I suspect it grew there, sir." said an anonymous but respectful voice.

A vein bulged on that mighty forehead, but the Contractor restrained his wrath. "Chainsaws it is then, gentlemen. I want every man with limbs to be up there at dawn, and to hack at that thing until there's nothing left. We can turn it into mulch for the accursed playground, though that is more out of revenge than economy."

"It will be done sir," the assembly intoned. Someone accidentally said "sire." He is, no doubt, forgiven.

But the tree was not done yet. They had done engineering miracles, it was true, but of such miracles as this tree they knew nothing. The very iron-like bark of it's sides seemed to quiver with gentle laughter at the touch of the chainsaws.

They hacked at that tree with axes, pickaxes, and Axe. They brought out explosives, incendiaries and long fingernails. But nothing availed them. The tree grew on the girder, on and on, bigger and bigger. The Contractor was seen burning papers in his shiny office. A grim line or two was added to every face at the work site, and several nearby poems. They saw and end in sight, and did not like what they saw. The Contractor called a meeting.

"Gentlemen," he said, with undue respect, "The bad news is that our building project may be crippled beyond any hope of repair. But the good news is we have the world's largest, most bizarre tree."

The assembly broke into confused cheers. They'd take that.

Tunnel, Sequel #3

 (Sequel to Tunnel by Velox)

How much we would regret those steps and that journey I will never be able to express. A child's love of adventure can be a dangerous thing, though a beautiful one. Beyond that dark door, it's broken padlock in my pocket, heavy and cold against my leg. Some doors are best left closed.

My brother and I were not disappointed by the apparent featurelessness of the tunnel, to us it was important merely as a passageway to an unknown place. Images flashed through my head of glistening treasure troves, a magician's sanctum, perhaps mummies. The nature of darkness is that it obscures, and to me all questions had happy answers, all mysteries glad solutions. I was young.

We left the door yawning open behind it, and my brother yawned a yawn of his own. It was very late now. Too late, though we didn't know it.

I heard a creaking sound and spun my flashlight back to the door. It shut with a quiet click, and our route of escape was gone. My brother didn't cry, and nor did I. A midnight's romp, that was all this was supposed to be.

There was a crackle, and a voice boomed, wordless at first, but gaining clarity with each moment.

"Curiosity," it boomed.

My poor brother clutched at my arm. I am glad I did not ask him on this journey. If only he had not come.

"Curiosity," it repeated, more quietly.

"A gift of the One not granted to any others in such abundance. The humans of Earth overflow with it, and it will lay a stain across the universe not seen in many Revolutions."

What can a child say or think to such a statement, past midnight, in a dark tunnel too far from home? I thought perhaps it was a joke, with one layer of my mind. The rest rebelled; I knew this was serious, deadly serious.

"I do not understand curiosity as well as would be beneficial to myself and my people. That is why I have waited here, for a far shorter period than I anticipated, for someone to break the lock and peer beyond the door to nowhere. You have come."

I shuddered, not for any particular reason. I could hardly breathe. Yet I spoke.

"Who are you, and what will you do with us?"

Tunnel

"Sir? A tunnel?"

"Yes sergeant. Dismissed."

The soldier came to attention and strode out the door, confusion marking his brow. The old man behind the desk unbuttoned his jacket slowly, and pushed his gray hair back from his forehead. This siege had gone on too long, too many lives lost and forever changed by the charges and fire of the enemies defences. To many soldiers died on the battlefield, opening their helmets for a last breath of Earth's good air, sullied though it was by innumerable toxins and contaminates.

The enemy had prepared well for this battle. Their food supplies and solar cells would last long, just how long no one could say. This battle needed to end, and swiftly.

The walls of the city were strong. True iron covered by an impressive array of generated force fields. Scanners of all kinds and missile defences that were the best in the world watched the skies ceaselessly. The Elite Infantry fought constantly and never seemed to tire. Drones and AI made circuit after circuit of the city, until their tracks made trenches in the dust.

But there was a weakness. There's always a weakness.

The rules of war had gone to far and left behind too much. A tunnel, dug swiftly and silently, far beneath the city walls, filled with the best troops and breached at precisely the right point.

The general smiled to himself, just a little bit. It would work, he felt it in his bones.