Tag: #ShortStory

Xea smells the wind. It’s saltier everyday, and with the salt comes the cold and the roar of the faraway sea. She stares at her two shadows to ascertain the time of the day. Her stomach rarely fails her, but she has to make sure. It’s the only way to survive.

She stops and sits by a large rock, and decides on a ration of dry meat for today, and just a sip of water from her canteen. So far, so good, she reckons, provided that she has made no mistakes. She’s the best scout in her group, but that means nothing here. The shaman has drilled that into them. Xea knows one or two of her group will be lost forever, because they don’t pay attention. She might still fail, but if she does, it won’t be because she’s daydreaming while having her lessons.

She looks up. A single cloud drifts lazily. Ah, a nap would be wonderful. But not yet. She can still squeeze in a couple of hours’ progress today.

Xea stands up and walks on, following her nose and her ears. She picks some tooth-herb from her satchel and munches it as she marches. The herb in her mouth makes her think. She has seen no life since yesterday. No plants, no animals. This is a barren desert. She shivers and tightens her coolsuit. She smiles, realizing the shiver isn’t from the cold but from trepidation.

No life. She’s close.

Her heart wants to go faster. Her brain tells her not to worry. She follows her brain, like she has always done. Her trip is timed: one day going in, one night stay, one day going out. It has always been like that, for generations.

Xea stops. She thinks she has seen something ahead, in the distance. The thump in her chest is stronger, faster. Is that it? She changes her breath, following her training. It may be. We’ll see it when we arrive there.

She moves on, purposefully looking down. It’s funny. This looks like a path and not like a path. Which is what the shaman said. Is she so good she has done everything correctly, found it on her first trip? Can she allow herself to feel pride?

Petty, petty. Not the true route to enlightenment that Xea seeks.

But she raises her eyes, and it is there. Unmistakable.

You will know the totem when you see it.

And she knows.

Even from here, the shape is alien. A sort of needle that is like the fang of some gigantic beast, all crooked and twisted. She forces herself not to run, but her sight is fixed on it. The strange shape seems to shift and move. As she approaches, she picks more details. Things that look like ribs of that impossible animal. Circles and squares that have been bent and distorted.

The light changes. Xea curses. The first sun is down and she has not noticed, so dazed she was with the totem. She lets her training come to her again. A refuge for the night.

Find an adequate dry spot. Rucksack down. Tent out. Plant tent.

The last beams of the second sun fade as she lights her torch. Xea munches her last meal of the day as she stares out from her tent.

Under the MyriadStars, the totem now seems to be a jaw full of jagged teeth.

All laughing at her.

***

“What did you see?” the shaman asks.

“The… the shapes are strange,” Xea says. “Like nothing I have ever seen. Like… like being on the inside of an animal, or… of a tree. But if they were broken open. All of it made of… this strange material.”

The shaman nods.

“Please continue.”

Xea nods. She knows the ritual, the shaman has to make sure. Everyone has heard the stories. Everyone could make something up. Someone could even make up a very good lie. But you have to have been to the totem to really know, because telling outside of the shaman abode is forbidden.

“I saw a large shape. Like the fin of a fish.”

“Did you see anything on it?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I’ll show you.”

Xea picks a twig, and draws on the soil. Three lines, a snake, and a pyramid.

The shaman smiles.

“Now I know you speak the truth. You have braved the wastes. You have spent the night under the MyriadStars by the totem. You are a woman.”

Xea smiles, but remembers her place. Full of pride that now she is allowed to feel, she nods and presents her brow, where the shaman traces a circle with traditional oil. Xea looks down and sees what she has drawn.

E S A

---

Well, last week I was on holidays and, instead of writing more, I just forgot about it. Completely. So, full holidays, we could say. The story from my last prompt is here, and I hope someone reads it and likes it.

And now, to make up for my lack of writing, this: I’ll have two new prompts up during the weekend, and that means that this next week I’ll write two new stories, one for each prompt.

See you soon.

“Children, I’ll tell you the story of your grand-grand-grand-uncle Caw,” Ms Blackbeak said.

“Again?” one small raven asked.

“Not that one, listen to me: Caw!”

“Oh, sorry. I misheard.”

Oh dear, Jet will be trouble, she thought. But we’ll tackle problems one at a time. And now it’s lesson time.

“So. A long time ago…”

*****

Caw perched on his favourite branch, utterly amused. The man below had everything he needed, apparently: long flowing robes (hood included), dark makeup under his eyes, and Caw could smell the poison in his daggers (the one on sight and the hidden one) even from up here. He held a black wand in his left hand. He even had a silver skull with ruby red eyes dangling from a necklace (oh how shiny).

What he was lacking was the attitude. And any talent, of course.

The man shouted some incoherent words and pointed the wand.

Nothing happened.

The man swore.

Caw laughed.

“Who’s there?” the man said.

“I did,” Caw said.

“You can speak?” the man said.

Ah, he’s not completely useless, Caw thought. He understands me.

Caw glided down to a lower branch, but stayed out of reach.

“Of course I can,” Caw said then. “All ravens can.”

“How come I’ve never noticed before?”

“You need to pay attention. Also, we seldom talk in the presence of humans.” And he cawed. “This is what you usually hear.”

“Ah.”

Caw tilted his head. The skull glinted.

“Trying your head at some magic, eh?” he said.

“How do you know?” the man asked.

“Oh, I know magic.”

“What?”

“Are you hard of hearing, perhaps? I know magic.”

“Ha!”

Oh dear, Caw thought. Well, this was expected.

“Your pronunciation is terrible,” he said. “And magic is all in the words. Basic magic, at least. Pay attention: before pointing your wand, you should say…”

And the magic words flowed. The man could feel them.

Hm. Not completely useless, indeed, if he can sense that.

“Try it yourself.”

He did.

It worked.

It was a simple alteration spell. The small plant the man had pointed his wand at grew larger for a moment, then it stopped.

“Will you teach me more?”

“For a price,” Caw said.

“What’s your price?”

Caw smiled. The man didn’t realize he was smiling, of course.

“I’ll name it when the time comes.”

“I accept,” the man said.

Ah, the bond. How easily created.

“Good. We have a deal.”

“Should I name you, or do you already have a name, raven? Quothe, Nevermore, Huginn, Muninn?”

“Where did you get those names from?”

“Visions.”

Ahhh. Visions! Not useless at all!

“Caw. My name is Caw. Yours?”

“Oqill.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Oqill. Now, lesson two…”

*****

“Everything’s ready.” Caw said.

“I still sense something’s wrong,” Oqill said.

Fantastic, Caw thought. I was never mistaken.

“What do you feel?”

“Something’s… amiss? You’ve always taught me to trust my instinct, Caw.”

“Yes.”

“Let me check the grimoires again.”

“All right, but the spell has a schedule.”

“I know, I know.” Oqill adjusted his goggles and scraped his beard as he bent over the tome. How time had passed. “Just let me check again…”

Caw said nothing. The necklace skull glinted, reflecting the light from the cauldron’s fire and the energetic vials.

“I cannot see anything,” Oqill said finally. “We go ahead.”

“Fine,” Caw said.

The cauldron bubbled. The liquid changed colour. Oqill opened a spigot on the side of the cauldron and poured a measure. He doubted for a second.

“Immortality…” he whispered.

Caw raised an eyebrow.

Oqill drank.

He changed.

He was small. Black. Feathered.

He was a raven.

“Wait, what…?”

A hand grabbed him. He looked around. His face? But… younger?

“Hello, Oqill the raven,” his mouth said. Only it wasn’t his mouth any longer.

“What…? How…?”

“This,” Caw the raven said, pointing at his rejuvenated human body, “is my price.”

And with a swift movement, he placed Oqill the now immortal raven in a cage.

*****

“That’s fun, Ms Blackbeak.”

“It is, children,” she said. “But remember, this was a long time ago. And nobody but Caw has done it again. You must never trust humans. And above all…”

“Never talk in their presence!” a chorus sang.

“Good. Now go have your lunch.”

“Sara.”

I turn around. Did I just hear my name?

But it cannot be. Not down here, it’s impossible. I know I’m alone. I made sure of that.

People expect nuclear waste storage sites to be so full of radiation that we have to dress in hazmat gear all the time, but that’s not true. The waste arrives here from the nuclear power plants in sealed canisters that are checked for irregular radiation levels in origin and en route. I’ve never seen anything beyond normal when I’ve checked them. Hell, the counters get higher counts from the walls of the tunnels than they do from the canisters.

Fact is, we just dress for the cold down here. We have colour coded coats, and that’s basically all. Outside emergencies, that’s it. I’ve only worn emergency gear during compulsory drills.

“Sara.”

There it is again. Or is it?

The tunnels are empty. I made sure.

Engineering. Solid, bullet-proof engineering. Years of experience, the best brains thinking of the problem of radioactive storage. It’s really amazing, when you think of it. Only a few elements can be used as fuel for nuclear power plants, and they produce radioactive waste. What to do with it?

Send it back to the Earth where it belongs, that’s what. It makes sense: the radiation was down there, in the first place. But we put it in sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes, so it cannot escape when we handle them, move them and store them.

“Sara.”

Damn. Am I going mad? Has all the tension finally caught up with me? That was always a risk. Adn this goddamn breathing mask doesn’t let me see.

Another thing people ignore is that there are several types of nuclear reactors. And some of the newest ones can actually use waste from previous generations to produce even more energy. It’s almost like a miracle. But you know, scientists knew that could be possible years ago, so they didn’t want to simply, say, throw that waste down a deep chasm or anything. Hence storage facilities.

Oh yes, not all waste can be used, but it’s still sort of wondrous when you think of it.

What didn’t they take into account?

People.

“Sara.”

“STOP!”

My voice carries, and the echo answers. The corridor, excavated into the mountain, just stays there as I stare back. Nothing happens, nothing moves.

Nothing speaks.

It’s the tension. It’s my imagination.

Screening. Of course, they apply screening. But, and here is where this may look like a lie, they cannot really screen out sleeping beauties.

The term is mine. I like it. I am the Sleeping Beauty. I don’t know if there are any others, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. Not any longer. Not now.

I am a sleeper agent. But not any sleeper agent: I’m a third-generation sleeper agent. How could anyone possibly screen that?

Grandad never got the call. Dad didn’t, either. I did. The fact I am a certified nuclear engineer was the icing on the cake.

“Sara.”

Now it’s real. It has to be.

No-one. There is no-one. And the control room is so close.

I check my watch. I can take the mask off, the gas effects must be over now. I am cautious, anyway. One breath, two breaths. I wait. No sign of nausea, I’m safe to ditch the mask. I run now.

What will they say? That I had some kind of crisis? That I went mad? No, it will be years before they can even enter the place, there’s no way they can know it’s me. It doesn’t matter. This is my duty.

The control room is ahead. Everyone in there, the skeleton crew of the graveyard shift, must be asleep on their boards now. All of it timed so I can approach and do what I have to do before any alarm goes off. Not that it would make any difference.

“Sara.”

“Get off my head!”

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t.

“Sara.”

Not when I use the stolen ID card to enter the control room when it’s not my shift.

“Sara.”

Not when I push the guy -Martin, he’s nice- off the central chair.

“Sara.”

Not when I disable all the alarms. Something that, I know, sends alarms off. Outside.

“Sara.”

Not when I stop and just sink on the chair.

“Sara.”

Not when the explosions start ringing off.

“Sara.”

Closer.

“Sara.”

Closer.

“Sara.”

“Oh, fu…!”

Elliot performed all the tasks with the kind of precision gained with the years. Check course, check sails, check radar beacon, check emergency gas levels. Hands on the helm, he finally allowed himself to stare out into the distance.

It was one of those beautiful sunsets where reds and oranges and yellows bled into the blue above and below, and moisture in the air made it difficult to tell the sea from the sky. Elliot imagined Poe writing some terrible tale about a sailor getting caught in between both realms.

He sighed.

Damn, it had been hard. Surprisingly hard.

The plan was easy. Being a forensic expert, coming up with ideas that would work and keep him out of trouble, finding out what he really needed, was not that much of a trouble. Actually obtaining some of the components, so that he could deny knowing anything, had been complicated.

Still he had managed to.

But the most irritating part had been money. Damn but money is easy traceable these days, and he knew it really well. The actual lengths he had gone to so that he could obtain enough money for his plan almost drove him mad. Of course, it was not the money itself but making it not point back at Elliot what was almost unachievable.

Almost. But Elliot wasn’t a certified genius for nothing.

Compared to that, finding and hiring the guy who would actually do the job and rid him of Mei had been a piece of cake, all the while maintaining anonymity. The deep web was your friend if you had the know how, and Elliot did have it. In fact, he was so good nobody else knew about it.

And now. Now he was finally free, the wind in his sails, the horizon his limit.

It made him laugh out loud, here where nobody could hear.

He heard a noise coming from the cabin. Something had toppled? In this weather? Impossible.

Another noise.

And then…

“Elliot? Darling? You there? Are we at sea?”

“Mei?”

As he stares at the horizon, waiting, he remembers the way things used to be. The ashen desert where he is standing now was sand back then. Yes, there was a temple here, with tall columns as wide as five men side-to-side, and at least ten times as tall. He searches his memory and brings it back from its heyday, the priests scurrying to their duties, some civilians visiting and paying their respects. He nods. Time moves forward, and other people move in. They look widely different, their clothes and technology a stark contrast from the temple builders. Time shifts yet again, and the desert comes and claims its tithe.

He sighs.

It is always the same. It has always been, and it will always be. And not for long now. He, of all people, should know.

When she comes, she does so with a casual stroll. She has worn the same form for a long time: a young brunette woman dressed in black. He finds it funny that she wears his sigil. Who would have thought?

“Hello,” she says.

“My lady,” he answers, and nods.

“You were always so formal,” she smiles.

“One is as one is, my Lady. One cannot change.”

“Oh, anyone can change,” she says, and starts circling him, examining him.

“Anyone, perhaps, but not me.”

“Really?” She points at him. “You are wearing a full human form now.”

“Indeed. Humans earned my respect… at the end.”

“Ah. A pity. I liked the jackal. In fact, if I just squint, I think I still can see…”

“I am always here, my Lady. If you prefer…”

“Ah, no, just whatever you like. I was… teasing you. For a bit.”

“Before the real end?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Do we have time for a walk?” he asks.

“Time. It was always an interesting concept, wasn’t it? Even more so, right now.” But she starts strolling again. “This is a nice temple you got here.”

He doesn’t look surprised. She knows what he has lived, what he has just seen.

“It was magnificent, my Lady.”

“The only one ever fully, solely dedicated to you.”

“Certainly.”

“That’s why you chose this place for this. Even if nothing’s left.”

“Well, one has to make use of what one has.”

“Do you plan to fight me?”

He stops and stares at her, puzzled. And then, he laughs.

She smirks.

“Are… are you serious, my Lady?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Wait. Do you mean… someone has fought you? Actually fought you?”

“Oh yes. You see, it was expected from some, of course. After all, it was part of their… nature, shall we say? But there have been a couple of instances… Well, they actually made me angry.”

“I would never fight you. Not ever. Not before, and certainly not now. Why would I? That would be pointless.”

“Why the walk, then?”

“I always enjoyed your company, my Lady. I wish we had more time.”

He smiles as he says it. She smiles back.

“You could have said it before, you know. We could have… explored that.”

“Yes, my Lady, I know. But how could I? No matter my position, I am but your humble servant, as we all are… were. My feelings are mine, and mine they have remained. But now… I can speak my heart.”

She actually looks down, at the ashes, and picks at a lump in the dirt.

“I think… Deep inside, I’ve always known it. The way you always gazed at me, no matter what I wore.”

“Well, it is too late now, my Lady.”

“It certainly is. Come here for your hug.”

He turns, and she is no longer a small, fragile human, but a force that embraces him, a strength that encompasses universes and blows up galaxies.

And at the same time, a mouth whose lips kiss his for a moment that lasts for all eternity, just before everything blinks out.

****

Regarding today’s story, I’ll just utter one name: Neil Gaiman.

Today’s been one year and one day since the lockdown started here. Just you know.

“Today,” and she pauses for a second, “we’re going to wrap up your class on flash fiction with an exercise. After all, you’re here for that, aren’t you? Practise!” She says it with a smile, and with a click, the slide changes.

“We will use an image prompt. This image, to be precise. And, in case anyone’s worrying,” she smiles again at the bearded guy in the corner, who promptly blushes,”the image is not mine, but it’s free to use. I’ll give you all the links at the end of the session.”

She expertly hits the image with her laser pointer over her shoulder, then stares at them and asks, “What have we got here?”

“A building,” the really young girl in the first row ventures.

“Anything else?”

“A photograph of a building!” someone in the crowd shouts. There’s laughter.

She laughs, then raises her hand. “That was a joke, I suppose, but… a valid one. Why?”

“It looks like a polaroid,” the girl says again.

“Yes?”

“Polaroids… are not normal photographs. I mean, nowadays everyone carries a smartphone around and can snap a photo, but back then, these were… special. A polaroid, of all photos, said ‘I was here’. Like one graffiti, only in images.”

Silence.

“Very, very good. And so true. I do remember that about polaroids, you know? I do have an age.”

More laughter.

“What else, may I ask? Something like… where is this?”

“New York?” another girl, raising her hand in the middle rows.

“Why New York?”

“It sort of looks like that building there? The Flatiron? Only, this is not so flat. The other buildings surrounding it are also really tall. So, skyscrapers… New York.”

“Could be somewhere else?”

“Vancouver!” says a young man from the back, who apparently has just been named speaker of his group of friends.

“Why Vancouver?”

“Because it is not New York. Everything happens in New York!”

“Interesting. Could it be somewhere else, not in America?”

“Shanghai,” the girl from the first row utters. “During World War II, right before the Japanese invaded. Shanghai looked truly Western. It was a land of opportunities, then the war came. The other buildings are perhaps a bit too tall, but…”

“What made you think of Shanghai?”

“It’s black and white. and the architectural style reminds me of the… thirties perhaps? It made me think of classical movies, the golden age. And I remembered a couple of movies with the action being located there, in that era. It seems more intriguing to me.”

“Hm. What if we try to make it more intriguing?”

There were some murmurs.

“Look at the photograph. Look at it. What do you see? What do you not see?”

“People! There are no people!” says Flatiron Girl.

“Why?”

“The angle, obviously. They’ve left street level out.”

“How can we work that to our advantage?”

“We already have,” Front Row says, “in a sense? We can place it anywhere, because we see no people, no signs. Nothing can point clearly to one place or another. Unless one knows a lot about architecture, I guess.”

“Indeed. Anything else?”

“Is that a flag?” Speaker Guy from the back says. “Down there, close to the building on the right?”

“Could be.”

“We could enhance the image, see what it is. I know a guy who does that kind of thing with old images like this one.”

“Yes you could. But let’s use our eyes, and our imagination. What did you just say?”

“That I know a guy…”

“That it was an old image,” Front Row interrupted. “And yet…”

“Yes?” she smiles, her eyebrow raised.

“Well, I guess this is just manipulated or something, okay, but let’s say for a moment that this… this is really an old image. An old photograph. From the thirties. But it’s a polaroid, which was invented… I don’t know, but I guess later? So, the whole image means…”

“Time travel!” Speaker Guy exclaims.

Front Row looks mortified, but she smiles again and points at her.

“Time travel, indeed, as our friend here would undoubtedly have concluded. From here, you can go anywhere. Where was this photo found? Who found it? A descendant of the time travellers? Or… and ascendant? Time travellers from a different team?”

She paces up and down.

“Obviously, and I hope you’ve noticed, we have just had a brainstorming session. One directed by me, yes, but after all, I only have myself to poke when I sit down to write.”

She stops and stares at her audience.

“I’m going to give you homework. Did you expect otherwise?” Laughter. “You’re going to write a story using this picture as a prompt. Say… about 750 words, and that’s not a hard limit, but don’t go much beyond that. You can use the ideas we just brainstormed, or you can come up with new ones. And remember: have fun!”

****

And that is how you cheat at your self-imposed writing exercises!

Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk. Drink water and remember: practise your writing and have fun!

Nobody in Spangenburg had been specially worried when the previous week’s weather report had come in. This was Switzerland, after all, and having the roads blocked for a few days was no big deal. If worse came to worst, they knew federal authorities would have supplies flown in by helicopter. Spangenburgers simply topped their stocks of food and made plans for the week.

And so, after they were snowed in on Friday night, they settled into a special routine. Some things were common: every morning a member of each household would walk out and make sure the new snow, if there had been any, would represent no problem on roofs or paths. Dogs were let out, water pipes checked.

Aside from that, Spangenburgers took those days off very differently.

One family, the Grütters, had recently discovered role-playing games. It was Grandma Hilda, surprisingly, who volunteered to run a campaign for those days. Each day the five of them woke up, had breakfast, and donned their dice, paper, pencils and imagination, and faced fantastic perils.

Bernhardin Schmid, 31, single, cat mum of three, had come home last Friday with the trunk of her car full of books. If anyone walked by her house, they’d have heard some mellow smooth jazz, and they might even catch a glimpse of her on her couch, surrounded by her cats, a fire crackling in her chimney, her attention on one of her books. Still, she wished for a story where a woman like her found a portal to a parallel universe, but her books rarely gave her that.

She might have liked what Thomas Würsten was doing a few houses beyond. Thomas had chosen to stop procrastinating and finally give his novel a push. To his surprise, he was managing to. He wrote page after page on his computer, a classical radio station in the background. Draft after draft, he somehow kept coming back to stories about mysterious cat-loving women who could leap through different universes.

Andrea Schlumpf and Hiltwin Thalmann had planned everything carefully. Food was ready, drinks were ready, and their satellite dish was ready. They finally had found time to binge some of the TV series everyone talked about. They had made a list, and they had searched the internet, carefully trying to avoid spoilers and almost managing to, so they could put them all in watching order. And they had ended up throwing in a couple more new shows that knew nothing about.

Jost Häberli didn’t feel well. Why he was still here, he wasn’t sure. The job. It paid the bills. But what use, paying the bills, if he didn’t enjoy life? His therapist had warned him beforehand, but he had decided what to do while the town was blocked: nothing. He just stayed in bed, listening to the wind and the snow and the occasional bird. A neighbour might yell and a dog might bark back. Why was he here? Why was he alive still?

Alexis Schadegg and Max Rösli barely left their bed as well. But they were having fun. And sex. Lots of it. Whenever they left their bedroom, they did so wrapped in a blanket only, and went for sandwiches and pre-cooked food, so they could go back to the bed as soon as possible. And the shower. They liked the shower.

What would they think about their neighbours, Martina Hagenbuch and Francesco Kobel? In a sense, they had chosen the same path. But Martina and Francesco barely left their sex dungeon. They stopped regularly for food and rest. And they reminisced about the Känzigs, who had come to visit last Christmas, and what a wonderful time all four had had. And how exciting and rewarding. They definitely had to do it again.

Alessandro Soldermann, however, was worried. He felt like starting smoking again, but fortunately, he had no cigarettes in the house, and of course, he couldn’t buy any now. So he turned to alcohol. It was his damned boss’ fault. He had planned to leave a bit early on Friday, using the snowstorm as an excuse, but of course, she had come up with some stupid last-minute job. As a result, Alessandro had been late. Late. How long had it been since he had last been late? When he was a newbie. But now, now, he was trapped in his house, and he couldn’t get rid of what he had in his basement.

Spangenburg’s busybody was Amélie von Bergen. All towns have one, or at least one neighbour who rises to the post. Or that’s how Amélie had always seen her place in life, in any case. She had been oh so happy on Friday evening when she had seen Soldermann arrive so late. The guy had always acted suspiciously: she knew he hid something. Snow had already been falling heavily when he had parked his Volvo, and under her intent gaze, had unloaded the trunk. Her heart had jumped when she saw what it was he has carried into his house. So much so, that she had tripped and fell backwards. She had heard a crack. It was Sunday now, and all Amélie knew was that she couldn’t feel anything from her neck downwards. No pain, no hunger. Just the cold wooden floor, and her tears down her cheeks. Perhaps when the police found her, they might investigate Soldermann?

****

Wow. I only came up with the idea for this story on Friday (believe me, you don’t want to know the other options), and life is just so busy these weeks for me I’ve had to wait until today, Sunday, to write it. Hope everyone likes it!

(Everyone? Is anyone out there?)

So, I’m late, and the new prompt is going to be late, too. Who’s checking anyway?

“Another firewall? Ah, lady, I thought I’d find something more difficult…”

Eyes move. Implants send signals through the grid. Ports open. Others close.

“Hm, this is actually pretty clever. Maybe I’ll end up having some fun out of this?”

The wall crumbles. Literally. It disappears. He moves on. He almost sings.

“What now, what now?”

His connection is severed.

“What the…? Bring backup link online ASAP. Reassessing target.”

To his credit, he’s fast. He’s good, too, of course: nobody gets to his position otherwise.

“Who do you think I am, eh? Someone you could dupe? Whatever you’ve thought of, I’ve met and beat before, bitch.”

A gate rises. Heavy, reinforced. Pulsating power lines converge on it. He curses.

“Damn. You shouldn’t be able to do this. But since you have…”

There’s a flash and a crack. A network of crisscrossing filaments expands and reaches the gate.

“Now I just have to wait…”

The gate rumbles. It doesn’t unlock or open; it just allows passage.

“And that was quick. I must be close now…”

Enough.

Space moves. Spinning. Dazzling.

“No! I say… no!”

Stop.

“What the…?”

Recognition.

“This… This is private! My own gridspace! No! It cannot be! It’s a sim! You’ve stolen my own data and created a sim!”

Data analysis. This is no sim. Of course it’s not.

“No! No!”

It’s time. Let’s finish this.

“My gridspace… You’ve thrown me back to…”

“Yes.”

“You bitch. How have you entered here?”

“Through your door. You’re good. Really, really good. But not the best.”

A head-on attack. There will be consequences for his real body, but he doesn’t matter. He’s furious. A shield will suffice. He’s pushed back.

“Is that a tear? On your face? The big boy is weeping?”

The tease is not necessary, but it’s fun.

“You… What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing. Do you think you’d have something left to offer, once you’ve been broken in?”

“What do you mean…?”

He’s checking. Good. He’ll find what’s missing. Or rather, what little is left.

“A trap, little boy. A dedicated, elaborated, long-winding trap. Created expressly for you, as soon as you started flaunting your expertise.”

“No, it cannot be…”

“Oh yes. As it’s been before. Many times. You thought you were the first one to defy us?”

“What? Us?”

He sees us two now.

“Twins?”

He checks. With what he has left: we have made sure he can see enough.

“Identical DNA? Clones? But even so, links are individually attuned to…”

We speak together. It’s fun.

“Now you know. Like those before you. The ones you never knew about. Because we erase them.”

“What do you mean? From the grid? But the real counterpart…”

“Bye, little boy.”

“Master?”

“Yes, my Apprentice?”

“I’ve been thinking, Master.”

“That’s good.”

“When I first came here, I did it searching for God.”

“Yes.”

“I was told that this place, these mountains, and you, Master, were sacred. That I would be closer to God.”

“That they say, yes.”

“All of this… This landscape that surrounds us, is indeed beautiful.”

“I agree.”

“But I don’t know if I feel closer to God, Master.”

“Why, my Apprentice?”

“Well, these mountains belong to the world. Some people immediately imply that the world was made by God.”

“But we know that’s not true, my Apprentice. Science says so.”

“Yes, ours is but one planet around our Sun. Also, now we know that there are many more planets out there.”

“That was easy to surmise.”

“Yes, Master. But let’s remember that it’s not been that long since galaxies were recognized as such, and the true scale of the Universe started to reveal itself to us.”

“Indeed. The Milky Ways holds thousands of millions of stars, and the universe has thousands of millions of galaxies.”

“I’ve always found it staggering, Master. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“Science claims no God created the Universe. That it comes from the Big Bang.”

“A misnomer.”

“Yes, Master. I’ve learned that there was, or so science believes, a convoluted process of creation. What we usually call The Big Bang was just a part of it. And it still holds mysteries.”

“Yes.”

“The unbalance between matter and antimatter. What’s dark matter made of. What is the dark energy that makes the universe expand.”

“Those are some of the most common problems, yes.”

“And I wonder, Master.”

“Yes?”

“Are we bound to know? What if humankind can never discover the true nature of the universe? What if there are closed doors behind closed doors? New mysteries after we break the existing ones?”

“Interesting, my Apprentice.”

“Scientists tell us that it makes no sense to ask what happened before the Big Bang, because time was created right then. But still one has to wonder: whence it came from? Perhaps that was God?”

“What do you think, Apprentice?”

“I don’t know! Some religions claim the universe is cyclic. That it dies and renews. The Big Bang could have been the start of one of those cycles. But in order to do that, our universe should stop expanding and start contracting at some point in the future. And it doesn’t seem that will happen.”

“Currently scientists don’t see how it could happen, no.”

“But even so, if it was true… The universe has always existed? Always expanding, then contracting, and repeating the cycle all over again, forever?”

“What is really in your mind, Apprentice?”

“I… I’m frightened.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what makes me more uncomfortable: the idea that the universe has existed forever and always will, with no beginning and no end, or the idea that it did have a beginning, and it will have an end.”

“Well put, Apprentice, well put.”

“And if there’s a God, or Goddess, or a Pantheon… What kind of beings could, or would, create such a universe? One that starts and ends, or one that always existed?”

“Have you considered, my Apprentice, that if there’s such a God, shouldn’t there be a God that has created God as well?”

“What?”

“Think about it as well. I’m happy, My Apprentice, for you are well into the path of enlightenment. But be aware that the path is a long one.”

The Red Light District. Flesh, pleasures, drugs, weapons. Danger, in a quarter that is all shadows and strident lights. Fantastic.

Maren, of all the places, you had to get in here. Why?

“Hello, sailor lady. See something you like?”

“I’m looking for a woman,” I say. For an occult detective, I’m not specially brilliant today.  I’m going to blame it on how worried I am. Maren has not been using her body for that long.

“Oh, we can arrange that,” he drones on. “Or you could have us both perhaps? We’ll offer you a special price for it…”

Contact.

We’re both in a blank space. He looks surprised, at least for a moment. Funny, his avatar looks exactly the way he looked outside. His AI looks like a plain sphere floating beside him.

“Whoa, lady! You have a private neuralink?” he says. His AI is spinning madly.

“I have more than that. I’m not just looking for a woman, I’m looking for this woman,” I say. I let him see Maren. “I’ve been told you’re the most knowledgeable person around.”

He stares at Maren. There’s something in his eye, in the way he looks. Does he recognize her?

I decide to be cautious. Something tells me that’s the best avenue.

“I need to find her. She fled from home last night.” I send him my ID. “I think she’s unwell.”

“Rebecca September?” My name rings a bell, I can see. Or two.

“Yes.”

“Hm. You see, I think I might have something for you, but it’s a pity… You’re not the kind of person I can be traced to having had business with, you know? Or at least, business that is not… of the flesh.”

“I can make it untraceable,” I lie. Not without Maren, no I cannot. “Or… I could owe you a favour?”

The guy’s clever. I can see it. I hope I didn’t sound as desperate as I thought.

“Now that is indeed interesting. I’ve dealt in money, flesh and info. You’re asking me to deal in favours?”

Damn, I’ve busted it.

“I’ll tell you what. I want my own private neuralink. Can you get me that?”

“Yes,” I say. I try not to sound too anxious. Mignon will kill me for promising it, but she’ll make it. After all, it’s for Maren, and Maren is her daughter. So to speak.

“And you will still owe me one,” he adds.

I have a brief flash forward, and I don’t like it. This damned oracle training of mine. How can they live with this lack of control is something I’ll never understand. Trouble ahead if I cut this deal. Big trouble. Futures whirling in my mind.

“Agreed,” I say. The futures coalesce. I see pain and spilled blood and darkness, and then it’s gone.

Nothing new.

He grabs my arm, my real one. How can he be so warm? I detect no magic in him. Is it cyber enhanced then?

“Come with me, sailor lady,” he says in a sultry and wet tone that anyone can hear. “I think we can find what you want… inside. You have Tristan’s word on that.”

And thus he sealed the deal.