Thank you! It all started with the word "boot."

I'm in Arabic? So cool!!

Boot Boot By Hippin_In_Hawaii “Happy birthday, Boot!” Joan “Boot Boot” Laeres groaned and rolled over on her cot, turning her back to the well-wisher. “Lemme sleep,” she moaned. “On your feet, tanker!” That voice, that tone, cut through the layers of fog and fatigue and activated an instinctive response, almost as if the sergeant had patched into her nervous system directly. She was on her feet and at attention before her brain even registered the fact. The sergeant smiled. “Sleeping in is an officer’s privilege. Are you an officer, Boot? Did you get promoted for your birthday? Am I now required to salute you?” “No, Sergeant!” she responded, pausing before asking “Did I?” His laugh was deep and earnest, even infectious. Boot dared to crack a smile. “Boot, it would be a waste. You are the finest driver I have ever seen! Promoting you would be a crime. Now move with a purpose; you’re on duty in fifteen minutes, and the chow line closes in five.” Boot snatched her boots from the floor next to her cot and dashed out the door in her socks. Dignity took a backseat to hunger! “Heya, Boot!” “Happy birthday, Boot!” “Nice boots, Boot!” The handful of people who were also pushing their luck with last-minute chow all greeted her as she burst into the tent, boots in hand. She smiled and thanked them as she tried to juggle her boots, drinking glass, and cutlery while simultaneously ladling food into the separated areas of her dining tray. Reaching an empty slot at the only table still in use, she commenced to eat with one hand while putting on her boots with the other. She was quite accomplished at the feat; this was hardly the first time she’d opted for extra sleep over common sense. One might even say it was the practice by which she lived her life. As such, she’d become expert at combining all manner of physical tasks that seemed unlikely. Lexus, the gunner of her tank, shouted back at her as he headed out the door “Best get a move on, Boot Boot!” That made her flinch. She’d tried to make her peace with her nickname, but hearing the full version still stung a little. Nicknames are a way of life in the military, and no one gets to choose their own. The names happen organically, are rarely flattering, and once applied can’t be changed. Boot Boot was no different. She’d tried, oh, how she’d tried, to get a new one. “Boot” was a demeaning name to be saddled with, one given to a raw recruit fresh from basic training. She was an E4 Specialist, dammit! But even if she rose to be a decorated general, she’d still be General Boot Boot. It wasn’t her fault! She’d enlisted in the Marine Corps with the desire and ambition to be a tank commander in a shock assault unit. Ever since she’d been a child, watching WWII films from her father’s lap, she’d wanted to command a tank in battle. As she grew, so did her ambition. She wanted a tank, a platoon of tanks, even dreamed of commanding an armored company, leading it into battle after battle. That’s why she joined the Marines; they were the first to be sent to trouble spots. How was she supposed to know that even as she was completing her basic training, the Marine Corps was deciding to dismantle their armor and artillery units? She found herself a boot in a service that no longer included her passion in its mission. It was hard - requiring ridiculous amounts of paperwork, a couple of actual bribes, and promising many favors than she dreaded having to fulfill - but she’d managed to get a transfer out of the Marine Corps and into the armor branch of the Army. Of course, she had to start at the beginning, going through a second version of basic training. Which meant graduating to become a boot. Again. She hadn’t been smart enough to keep that fact to herself. The very first time she told the story to her new peers, someone hooted “Way to go, Boot Boot!” And that was that. It didn’t take long for the second “boot” to get dropped by most people in favor of brevity; she was very thankful for that small mercy! Boot trotted towards her posting, shoving a piece of toast in her mouth as she went. It was against regulations to take food out of the chow tent, but it would be gone before anyone who cared could see it. “Woah, hang up there, Boot,” called her commander, Sergeant Arsaw, as she approached their tank. “The depot master wants to see you. Something about your logbook being fubar’d. Doubletime it over there; we don’t want to be late for patrol!” Flustered, Boot pivoted in the gravel and jogged towards the DM’s tent. She was certain that her paperwork was fine; she made sure that no ridiculous bureaucratic details got in the way of her time in a tank, but things in the service had a way of screwing themselves up. “Specialist Laeres here to see the DM” she panted to the corporal manning the front desk. “Laeres, Laeres,” he murmured, reaching for a phone. “Chief, there’s a Laeres here for you.” He paused to listen before asking “You Boot?” She nodded. “Go on back, then.” The tent was large and would have been spacious had it not been piled full of crates, parts, dollies, and tools. She wove her way deeper and deeper into the greasy maze until she came to a desk which was incongruously spotless and flawlessly organized. Behind it sat the depot master, a captain who would have been right at home on a recruitment poster. Her posture was ramrod straight, her uniform was clean, the creases crisp, and her decorations shone. She radiated order and perfection, making Boot feel like a lower form of life. “Boot?” she asked as Boot approached. “Yes ma’am!” “Nice logbook. Clean, legible, accurate. Keep up the good work.” “Thank you, ma’am!” Boot was confused, but knew enough to take the compliment and keep her mouth shut. “I see it’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Specialist.” This did nothing to alleviate her confusion, so she said the only thing that made any sense to say: “Thank you, ma’am!” “I believe you’re late for patrol. Dismissed.” Boot turned and jogged back through the steamy labyrinth towards her tank. She wondered idly whether the DM made a point of calling all tankers in to congratulate them on tidy paperwork, but life in the service had taught her that puzzling over such things was just a waste of brain. As she was performing the mental equivalent of a shrug, she passed out from the dark depths of the depot tent and into the bright sunshine only to see her entire company gathered there. “Happy birthday, Boot Boot!” they shouted in unison, following it with the traditionally obscene Army version of the birthday song. Boot stood there, overwhelmed by the feelings of belonging and camaraderie washing over her. In the middle of a deployment, they’d still found time to celebrate her birthday! Sergeant Arsaw stepped forward, handing her a box. It wasn’t wrapped, but still, Boot found herself ridiculously excited to rip it open. Inside was a replacement steering yoke for their tank, one that had been customized. In place of the traditional design, the left and right hand grips had been molded into the shape of two boots! She knew, from that moment on, she’d never resent being Boot Boot again.

The Topper By Hippin_In_Hawaii I sighed, regarding the distant peak. It was going to be a lengthy and difficult climb, and I was already later getting started than I’d like. There was nothing to be done about it, though; I couldn’t control when They went to bed, and none of us wanted to be caught by Them. I sat down and began to visualize my route, taking careful note of places where I’d have ample purchase, spots with enough support to stop for a breather, and most particularly, the treacherous stretches with nothing to grab onto. Those were terribly dangerous at the best of times, and I was going to be hauling quite an awkward bundle up there. I chewed slowly on a gingerbread cookie man’s leg. Not only was it one of my seasonal favorites, but the calories would help give me energy during the early stages of the climb. It would doubtless burn off before I was even halfway up, but carrying any extra weight, even part of a cookie, only increased the danger. The rest of my unit were already bustling about. There were endless cases to open and unpack, an overall plan to develop, scaffolding to erect, the lower portions of the ascent to conquer. That was ok. It had taken years, but I’d grown used to this moment, this period when it seemed like I was slacking while everyone else worked. The truth was that my job was unique. I operated alone, and although they did all they could to assist me, at the end of the day, the peril of the summit was mine and mine alone. I was the Topper. There is a symbolism to the Topper. The rest of the job is done by coordinated teamwork, as befits the mission. There are safeties in place, there is cooperation, there is help, there is camaraderie. Not so for the Topper. The solo journey, the arduous task, the continuous risk of self and mission - they embody our overall struggle. They embody our fight, our endless campaign bringing the word of peace to Them. My unit and I are unified in that we all have the same deadline. The sun will rise, and every hour after it does increases the chances that They will appear. If we aren’t finished before They come, all will be for naught. If They were to somehow capture one of us… well, that’s an apocalyptic thought beyond consideration. I finished the cookie and dusted the crumbs off my fine green uniform. The lower reaches looked straightforward enough. There were two nasty bare stretches at roughly the ⅓ and ⅔ points. That upper ascent and the final few steps to that perilously unstable top looked nightmarish, but they always did. That’s why so few of us are willing to brave this job, and why even fewer of us survive to retire. “It’s a rough one, sir,” said Guildor. He was right. This Symbol was large and covered with sharp outreaching spikes, light rays frozen in crystal, that looked both deadly and fragile. It was beautiful, though, and doubtless would actually sparkle like a star in the early morning sun’s rays. Such a Symbol, placed at such a height, could be seen as far away as the horizon. May I succeed, so that all who see it can be reminded of peace. I said nothing, for there was nothing to be said. I grabbed my climbing harness and began tightening the straps and buckles. Behind me, Guildor and Screwball were attaching carry lines to the Symbol. Once everything was secure, they summoned help to lift it and follow me to the base. It took six of them. Six strong backs made light work of the load I had to carry alone. Then it was time. There was enough scaffolding assembled that I could get past the initial scramble up the bole and reach the lowest branches. From that secure spot, I began hauling the Symbol up behind me, wrestling it into a secure position before climbing to a higher spot. And so went the first ascent; I would climb, then haul the Symbol up. It was exhausting, which was demoralizing, for this was the easy part. At the ⅓ mark, as I had seen, there was an alarming gap between branches. There was no way I could shimmy up the bole with so much weight on my back, and the carrying straps were too short to allow me to reach. This was the first real test of my training and skills, and the first genuine opportunity for me to fail. I began to walk out along a branch with the Symbol dangling below me. The footing was difficult, and the swaying pendulum of the Symbol constantly threatened to pull me off balance, pull me and it to our deaths. Still, this was the only way. As we crept further from the bole, the branches converged somewhat. I could finally reach up, grab a limb above me, and hoist myself. Of course, the many spikes of the Symbol would get entangled in the branch I was abandoning, so I had to get it swinging first, and time my climb so that its arc would clear the branch as I lifted. This was insanity! This was truly risking my life and the mission. But the mission was paramount, and this the only way. I succeeded, because succeed I must. The second leg was much like the first, but the branches grew thinner, and my footing less certain. As expected, my stomach rumbled, and I felt my energy beginning to ebb. The hardest was still to come! Of those Toppers who die while attempting the climb, most do not fall from the summit, or even the upper reaches, as you might expect. Most fall somewhere between halfway and ⅔ to the goal. There is a terrible psychological despair that sweeps you, realizing how little strength you have left, and how far you still have to go. Regardless of whether it is your first or your one hundredth climb, you become convinced that this is the time you fail; this is the time your grip slips or your leap is too short. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We call it the faint. I am not immune to the faint. No one is. My trick? I am stubborn. I start every climb believing that it will be my last. But for every move, every leap, every handhold, and every strain, I stubbornly insist to myself that it is not THIS leap, not THIS handhold, not THIS strain. I can fall when I take the next step, but I will not fall THIS step. And so I lash myself as I crawl ever upwards. Moving across the second bare spot to the upper reaches was particularly difficult. The branches were so thin that moving away from the bole brought the risk of breaking the limb I was standing on. I began bouncing, rhythmically, getting the limb to rise up and down, while simultaneously swinging the Symbol so that its arc would clear my current support as I jumped to grab the next, for jump I must, and with the full weight of the Symbol bearing against me. The swing and the bounce must time exactly, and even as they were coming into harmony, I heard the first cracking beneath my feet. The limb was breaking; I had to go now! The bounce was well-timed; I gained the precious few inches I needed to reach the next limb; the swing was less-than-perfect, and the Symbol became entangled with the lower branch. Now I was really in trouble. Hanging by my hands from a thin limb, the full weight of the Symbol pulling on my harness, and unable to pull myself up because the Symbol was trapped by the branch below. I strained, to no avail; I couldn’t muster nearly enough force to break the Symbol free. So this was it; this is how I fail. No. Not THIS moment. Not THIS movement. I began swinging my body like a gymnast. It was a desperation move, but I was desperate, so it seemed appropriate. Swinging against the dead weight of the trapped Symbol was a challenge, but I persisted, gaining a little more to my arc with each pass. Soon, the Symbol was rocking back and forth in time with my motions, each tilt working it just a little closer to freedom. When it came loose, I very nearly lost my grip, for there was some springiness in the limb below, and the Symbol popped free, gaining a bounciness added to its swinginess, all anchored by my fragile grasp. I made my way back onto the limb, then back close to the bole, and allowed myself exactly one second of relief, no more. The sun wouldn’t wait for me to finish, nor would They. And up I went. The last few lengths were always the worst. There was no bole left, only the thinnest of limbs. I had to reach the top, the very tippy top, and perching on a mere wisp of needles and twig, hoist the Symbol over my head and place it there on the peak, where its gleaming beauty would be seen far and wide. Exhausted, my body aching, my skin raw from the abrasions of bark and needle, my magnificent uniform torn and covered with sap, that is what I did. The Symbol swayed a little precariously, so I did what I could to reinforce it. Then, I allowed myself a full five minutes to turn and look around from my great height. Far below, I could faintly hear the cheers of my unit as they rejoiced in my accomplishment. I hullowed back to acknowledge theirs. It was hard to appreciate from where I was, but looking down, I could see the blinking lights, the dancing icicles, the myriad smaller symbols that festooned the body of the tree. I looked forward to climbing down and seeing it properly from the ground, then celebrating with another bit of gingerbread man. Tomorrow night, there will be another tree in another house. If we do our job well, another family will awaken to a Christmas miracle. For now, I am content. TNK00-00000-04DJA-SLHCL-ANBQ?

This story really IS part of the beginning. My idea for the Yesterville project was to create a shared-world anthology, and have other authors here participate. However, that didn't pan out. Only one other writer (Pythor, I think) contributed. I wrote 3 stories, of which August is the third. I've assembled my forum writings here. You can catch up on the Yesterville anthology, and explore my other tales as well.

Creeping Terror It had been late September when the last report came from Hell’s Mouth. If you look at a globe, you can see where there’s a finger of Antarctica that stretches out as if reaching for South America. Right on the tip of that finger? That's where Hell’s Mouth is located. Technically the land belongs to the Pan-Continental Alliance, but they are happy to lease access to other parties. Hell’s Mouth belongs to a co-op of nations and corporations. As such, it’s no-go for regular military. Too tense. Alliance and Red Coalition don't mix. Mobilizing us solved a few problems and sidestepped others. First we flew across two continents to reach the ass-end of South America. Actually, we were the second team to go. Another team was dispatched a week earlier but disappeared in transit. Search operations were initiated, but in the meantime, our butts were activated and shoved on a quad. Hey, whatever, we were all smiling. Work meant pay, and why else be a merc? We got caught up at the border, of course. And because of that delay, we missed our window on the regularly-scheduled transport ship, so we persuaded another cargo vessel to swing by Hell’s Mouth. It wasn’t exactly on their route, but we asked nicely. The captain is good at that. He never threatens, never bullies, but somehow people decide to do what the man with two tanks and a dozen troopers asks, including taking their cargo vessel to the south pole for humanitarian reasons. There wasn’t much to do on that ship, and even less comfort. I was bunked with the rest of the tankers; six of us in a cabin designed for two. Gotta love hot bunking! The sergeants, Liu and Ingram, took the first shift. The drivers, myself and the other Ingram (no relation), took second; and the gunners, Ledermann and Hilton, took third. The captain shared a cabin with his lieutenant, and the grunts bunked in the cargo hold. Working in the military does inure one to inhospitable treatment. Physical discomfort, bad food, hostile people, crippling boredom, and chronic diarrhea are all part and parcel of the life. The crew on that tub tried to make us feel unwelcome, but we didn’t much notice. I mean, we’ve all done time in the worst places on Earth. What can a bunch of sulky cargo handlers do, other than suck it up? Three of them eventually decided to vent their frustration at our “hijacking” by jumping Jerry. I guess they’d picked up on his status as the new guy, and figured that made him somehow more vulnerable? That’s funny, if that’s what they thought. The new guy always has something to prove. Anyway, we pulled him off of them before too much damage was done, just a couple of broken noses. After that, they limited themselves to sidelong glances and sullen responses. Hell’s Mouth was the sort of commercial genius operation that sounds completely absurd. They harvested water from Antarctic ice. As summer waxed, and the massive ice sheets covering the landmass melted and flowed into the sea, calving and spawning icebergs, the Hell’s Mouth fleet of custom mega-tugs would round up and capture those icebergs, then drag them back into a protected bay. There, using controlled demolition, they would be sectioned, secured, and towed to a bottling facility across the strait. The fact that such a dangerous and difficult proposition could be not only commercially viable, but immensely profitable, speaks to the collective intelligence of the human race. Because we couldn’t contact Hell’s Mouth, there was no reason to think we’d be able to disembark there. Without a harbor pilot, the captain would not risk going into the bay. Honestly, I didn’t blame him; given what goes on there, taking a lumbering tub into that bay full of icebergs bordered on suicide even with a harbor pilot and tugs to assist. So it was that we disembarked at the Red’s “weather” base, several hundred kilometers south of our ultimate destination. We were made to feel welcome at the Red Coalition base. Very welcome. A little too welcome, in fact. Our arrival was the high point of their year, and they were already throwing a party in our honor before we began disembarking. All the food and vodka we could stomach, and everywhere we turned, smiling faces patting our backs and fingering their machine guns. Our tech is much nicer than the Red’s, and they fawned over our tanks as we unloaded and woke them from their slumber. We made our excuses (we were on a rescue mission after all) and got out of there before their greed to examine our hardware, combined with their celebratory drinking, convinced them that “losing” us in the frozen wastes was a good idea. It’s not like the crew of the cargo ship would have backed us up; they were underway within minutes of our second tank hitting the ground. Between the loss of the first mission, our transit time via air, and the ocean crossing, a month had passed since anyone noticed Hell’s Mouth was silent. We still had several days of arduous driving ahead of us. Rocky, icy, treacherous terrain, with deep crevasses and freezing ocean the rewards for a single mistake. The infantry bundled in their cold weather gear, climbed onto the two Firebirds, and off we went. Sergeant Liu, my commander, watched the IR and satellite views; Ledermann, my gunner, watched the radar; I kept my eyes on the road. This was not the place to break a tank due to negligent driving! October is the beginning of summer down there, and the sun stayed high in the sky for far too many hours in a row. While the light made it easier to see, the “heat” made driving brutal. Everywhere the ice was melting, as slick as anything you can imagine. As the ground was slowly exposed after months of being frozen and buried under layers of ice, it transformed from solid to quagmire. Rocks and boulders, held by caked-over ice to the sides of the mountains from which they’d been split by the brutal winter, came tumbling down. No wonder the Reds couldn’t be bothered or bribed to risk their lives checking on their neighbors. It’s not like they were invested in the project. The facility had just been gearing up for full production when they went quiet. A couple of fly-overs had shown nothing, and the co-op had been oddly reticent about letting anyone else land there. You would think, with lives on the line, they would be a little more willing to solicit help from the neighbors. Maybe the Reds would have obliged, maybe not. But the co-op was adamant; without evidence of some actual emergency, we were to be the first boots (and treads) on the scene. I strongly suspected that the Reds had, in fact, visited the place, but done so secretly, and weren’t saying anything about what, if anything, they had found. Or stolen. It was October 30 when we finally rolled into town. We stopped a few kilometers out, kicked the infantry off, and approached in a battle formation. Infantry up front; tanks in support. That always makes those grunts so happy! That facility was cold. There was no IR signature at all. None. Everything registered as cold and dead as the landscape around it, which just should not have been possible. Even if some mishap had damaged the main reactor, there were dozens of smaller portable power plants as well as reactors on the vessels. If they weren’t under load, they’d still be idling. There should be hot spots all over the town, even without people. There weren’t. We advanced using standard cover-and-sweep tactics. At first glance, everything looked normal, just like any town below the Antarctic circle that had been abandoned for a month or longer. Ice everywhere, glistening wetly in the early summer sun, covering everything. Buildings, materials, a few vehicle-shaped lumps. But first glances didn’t last long. Everything was… warped, is the best word I can come up with. When I was young, I had a model train set that I played with during the holidays. There were little plastic buildings to make a little town, little plastic people, little plastic trees, even a little plastic dog. One year I decided it would be fine fun to build the town inside the oven. Later that day, Dad preheated the oven for some holiday baking. The smell of burning plastic filled the house. I raced to the kitchen; my little plastic village, just starting to melt, was slumping and deforming in the heat. That’s what we were seeing. Except these weren’t plastic buildings. They were formed concrete; they were cinder block; they were steel and plexiglass; they were quarried stone. And they had softened and flowed and reset into something from a demented version of a Dr. Seuss book. We were quiet. Some of us were scared; all of us were jacked up on adrenaline. Chatter on the wireless was only mission-essential. There was no “What the…” or “I don’t like this” or anything extraneous. Just “Delta team, widen left. Check that bunker.” I was tense, but also proud. We were doing what we were trained to do, and doing it well. The town was pretty linear, laid out between the coast and the mountain range on a fairly narrow strip of flattish land. That made our job easier since we didn’t have to spread our limited forces very wide. Still, we took our time, sweeping each building and checking every vehicle. Still, we found no one, living or dead, to tell us what had happened. The whole town fronted the bay, so we could see the icebergs that had been towed in for processing floating serenely in the sea. The massive docks were ahead of us, where the mega-tugs rested and demolition work on the frozen behemoths was begun. At the far end, one particularly large iceberg was fastened for processing. The dock was at least 300 meters wide and stretched over a kilometer into the ocean. We worked our way down it slowly and systematically. The cranes and structures, even the railroad tracks on which the gigantic derricks travelled, were all warped, even more so than what we had seen in the town, as if we were approaching the epicenter of whatever had caused the phenomenon. The surface of the dock looked like the undulations on a pond, somehow flash-frozen, and our tank bobbed and rocked in an unsettling fashion as we crept forward over the uneven surface. We could see one of the mega-tugs adrift in the distance, and the captain briefly took counsel as to the wisdom of boarding another boat, if we could find one that wasn’t too damaged to be trustworthy, and heading out to examine it, but opted to “put a pin in it” until we finished the sweep. As we approached the end of the dock, we could see that a crew had been at work on the particularly large berg. It had no motion, no bobbing or response to the gentle ocean swells, which implied it was large enough that it had run aground, despite the deep waters there. Its top was blasted off, and huge fissures split the sides. The inside was dark and black, not the deep glacial blue one expects from icebergs, which should be impossible. People don’t like the taste of burned explosives in their high-priced, purity-guaranteed, prehistoric bottled water. The charges used for this work burn cleanly and don’t leave residue. The derrick here was bent and warped, curving out over the frozen bulk in a way that seemed to defy the law of gravity. A nearby structure, maybe a warehouse, looked like the architect was trying to build a colony of mushrooms, it was distorted in such bulbous waves. We should have run. At that moment, we should have run. Damn our training, and our sense of duty, and our greed. We should have run. Instead, we did our jobs. The massive pier marked the far end of the town; there were only a couple of small structures still to search when we returned to land. Since we were already here, the captain had us hold position and gave the infantry instructions to investigate. “Listen up,” came the captain’s voice over the command channel. “Alpha team, check out that warehouse. Except you, Jerry, climb that derrick, see what there is to see from the crane cabin. Bravo and Charlie teams, spread out and search. Delta team, Firebirds One and Two, secure our line of retreat. Let’s find some clue as to what happened here. Stay sharp, people!” We took a position about 200 meters from the farthest end of the dock, facing inland. Firebird One was a little bit closer to shore than us, and Delta team took cover around her. We all scanned the horizons with radar, IR, computer-enhanced imaging, and good old-fashioned peeled eyeballs. Jerry sent a video of something awful from the derrick. It was an indentation in the floor, recognizably the shape of a broken human body, as if someone had had all their limbs snapped, then been pressed down into a clay mold. The level of detail was terrifying, and it required no imagination to “see” the crane operator’s grizzly end. I felt my last meal backing up in my gullet, and could tell from the murmurs on the comm that I wasn’t alone. Once that image had been shared, others began to come in. Less detailed, maybe more subject to interpretation, but once the grunts knew what to look for, over a dozen similar impressions were found in the area. No bodies, but clear evidence of where bodies had fallen and been pressed into a then-plasticine flooring. It was about that time I heard a blip from one of the consoles in the turret. “Radar contact,” sang out Ledermann. “Bearing two nine zero, range three point five clicks. Indeterminate, large. It’s coming over the mountains.” All eyes turned that way. I’m sure those that had binoculars, used them. Large. Indeterminate. Horrible. It was a cloud of nightmare made flesh. It was darkness, self-illuminated by darkness, and it sucked the light from the world around it. It made me physically ill to point my eyes at it, and I was looking at a camera feed on an LCD screen. Most of the men had no such protection. “Range closing, three clicks.” Ledermann hadn’t seen it; his eyes were on his scope. Outside, the infantry I could see were standing slack-jawed, rifles dangling from their fingertips or hanging from shoulder straps. Some were on their hands and knees, vomiting. “Range closing, two point five clicks. It’s going to cut us off here on the docks if we don’t move now.” Ledermann’s voice was calm and precise. He was doing his job. Maybe that solid presence was what snapped the captain out of his stupor; maybe it was just coincidence. Regardless, the next voice over the comm was the voice of command. “Everyone, mount up! Firebirds, thirty seconds then sprint for the shore.” I felt and heard the thunks of soldiers clambering aboard. Mentally, I was doing the math. There was no way everyone would reach us in 30 seconds. Alpha team in the warehouse, Jerry in the derrick, we were leaving them behind. And yet, 30 seconds was too long. I could see the massive blob moving closer on the radar scope, I knew what my tank could do, and it was going to be CLOSE. “Roll!” shouted Sergeant Liu from the turret. I floored the accelerator and tried not to think about the poor bastards we were leaving behind. “Weapons ready! Fire when in range!” I switched my view from live camera to simulated. The computer was rendering it, whatever it was, as a grey cloud with nebulous edges. That was far superior to what my eyes were telling me, and this abstract form helped keep the nausea at bay. I opened the comm to Firebird One. “Switch to simulated view, guys! It’s… easier!” Firebird One was maybe 20 meters ahead of us, just the luck of where we’d been positioned and when she’d rolled. She was also to my right, as was the target. We’d have to be careful not to hit her when we fired; flamers are not precision weapons. “Range closing, zero point five clicks.” Damn Ledermann, and his cool voice. “Weapons free, fire when ready. Target the nearest edge.” At least Sergeant Liu sounded tense. Sounded human. On the screen, I saw Firebird One open fire. It seemed like she was too far away for that to be effective. I gritted my teeth and switched back to live camera view. Sure enough, the edges of that thing were much closer than they appeared on the sim. They weren’t solid; I could see through them as if they were made of fog, but they were moving like tentacles or pseudopods, moving with intent, not blowing in the wind. I heard the telltale whine of our plasma generator kick in and knew that Ledermann had opened fire as well. The twin streams of plasma arced out in front of us, passing straight through the misty appendages to splash, boiling and spitting, on the warped surface of the dock. An arm, a thick appendage of nacreous darkness, swept across Firebird One. The tank slumped, melting down into itself, the jet of fire sputtering out. The men on the outside were melting, too, their faces running like wax, and then we were past her, our movement thankfully taking the horror out of sight. I returned my eyes to the approaching shore, willing our tank to go faster. The com channel was filled with screams, static, and an insane, high-pitched piping, like a cracked dog whistle operating at the edge of human hearing. Our tank rocked, not the kind of rocking that comes from driving quickly over broken terrain, but the kind that says something hit us; something large, something soft. In that same instant, Sergeant Liu started screaming. I’ve heard people scream before. I serve in a mercenary corps. I’ve burned people to death with plasma fire; I’ve watched a teammate try to stuff her spilled entrails back in place. I know pain, and I know death, and I have never heard anything or anyone scream like this. The dock was ending; land was meters ahead. The thing was meters to the side and closing fast. My world collapsed to my viewscreen and the feel of the controls in my hand. We reached solid groubnd, I slewed left, the thing a half-second too late to cut us off, and we ran. “Target pursuing, but we’re gaining ground.” The sergeant continued to scream. This was damaging my calm. “Ledermann, narc him!” I didn’t get a response, but the screams stopped, to be replaced by a moist gibbering. Still pretty horrific, but at least I could think. “Target still pursuing. Range two five zero meters, and opening.” Ok, time to think. We’re at the far end of a peninsula, racing towards the sea, with a giant semi-solid tentacle beast that melts men and warps reality in pursuit. We’ve got very little space in which to run, then it will be on us, and… I realized that we’d stopped firing. “Why aren’t we firing?” “The turret is inoperable.” Well, fudge. I checked my controls. The turret was pointed about 30 degrees right of front, so even if I did something crazy like spin the tank around and drive in reverse, it wouldn’t be pointed at the thing. Not that the thing had much noticed when we fired on it before. “Range zero point five clicks and opening. Land’s end in two clicks.” Crud. Crud. Crud! Crud!!! Ok, the tank was actually sealed, and capable of underwater travel, assuming the damage to the turret hadn’t opened a leak. Driving into the sea was a viable option. We would very quickly lose the ability to navigate except by inertial and magnetic references; this close to the south pole, magnetic was wildly inaccurate, and with inertial tracking margins of error grew very quickly over time unless there were visual points of reference. Which, being underwater, we would not have. So, plan one: turn and fight. Plan two: plunge into the sea, hope it doesn’t follow us, then try and get back around it and emerge on the other side. Maybe make it to the Coalition base, and take things from there. “Range one click. Land’s end approaching.” Damn Ledermann! Even now, he wasn’t going to break. Whatever I did, he was just going to sit there, sing out numbers, and maybe fire if it was convenient. “Radar suggests ice ahead.” Ice? I squinted at my screen, then stretched my neck to look out one of the narrow view slits. The sun did seem to be reflecting off of ice, not water, as the land disappeared. Well, that really didn’t change my options. I unconsciously took a deep breath and kept driving. If we’d been a heavier tank, who knows what might have happened? We may have ended up driving along the ocean floor. As it was, though, the ice shelf was still thick enough to support us, and we raced out over it. In many ways, this was worse. If we went off the edge or broke through the ice, it wouldn’t be a matter of us driving calmly (or charging blindly) into the ocean. It would be a matter of us falling through the ocean. We could flip and land upside-down. Our velocity could drive us into the soft floor, sticking us. If we miraculously did land right-side up and not-stuck, we’d still lose all of our inertial tracking references, and be operating completely blind. “I’m not sure this improves our chances,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice level. “Agreed,” came Ledermann’s flat reply. “Radar suggests the ice shelf ends in one click. Probably the edges aren’t stable.” “And the thing?” “Target is slowing.” Really? Was it giving up? Ledermann was right about not trusting the edges of an ice floe, particularly during summer. In a month, none of this would be here. I sped on for half a click then eased to a stop. “Target has reached the edge of the ice, and seems static.” “It stopped?” “Affirmative. Readings are imprecise, but it seems to be sitting there.” Whew! A break. Ok, first things first. “Give me a damage report. I’ll check the sergeant.” “He’s in a bad way,” replied Ledermann as I began unstrapping myself. While Ledermann turned to his consoles, I climbed back towards the turret. Sergeant Liu, what was left of him, was still strapped into his seat. He gibbered and drooled; open eyes focusing on nothing and rolling wildly. He twitched, and he stank of excrement and rotten meat. He, like the wall of the turret beside him, had been partly melted and reformed. His arms, legs, torso, fingers; all curved and bent in unnatural fashions. His skull looked like a clay sculpture that had been squeezed in a vice, thinned and elongated. One eye protruded from the socket. His chair, and the wall of the turret beside him, were likewise deformed. The tip of that tentacle had reached through the wall of the tank as if it weren’t even solid, deforming and maiming as it went. Its gentle swipe had reshaped our reality. Ledermann’s seat was beside the sergeant’s, only a few centimeters away. In normal operation, they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. That he had escaped seemed unlikely, until I saw his right arm. He hadn’t escaped; that arm and hand were grotesque parodies of their original shapes; they were sculptures made of dough by a toddler still working on its fine motor control. He saw me looking, and shrugged. “It still mostly works. And it doesn’t hurt.” He grimaced. “Much.” “Need some narc?” “I already took as much as I can without impairing my function.” I nodded. “And the tank?” “We’ve lost a lot of electronics. And hull integrity is compromised. We’ve got power to the gun, full mobility, the primary reactor is unharmed, internal environmental controls and local com are still operating. That’s about it.” He nodded at the sergeant. “And him?” I knew what we should do. Ledermann knew what we should do. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though. Not yet. “We’ll keep him narced for now. As long as he isn’t screaming, he’s not interfering with anything.” Ledermann nodded. He had to be in shock; no one was that cool. But he was functioning; right now, that was what we needed. I could narc him later if needed. Hell, I could narc myself later if needed! Ok, what are our options? Fight, evade, run, wait. Fight. That hadn’t gone so well before. Maybe, since it wasn’t crossing onto the ice, we could get close to it and spew plasma with impunity. Then… what? We can’t hurt it, it can’t reach us. What’s the endgame of that scenario? Evade. I punched up a map of the area. Maybe, just maybe, we could follow the ice around the tip of the peninsula, and make landfall on the opposite side of the mountain range. Even if it tried to follow us, maybe it would be slowed down enough by climbing over the ridge that we could make an escape. There were no roads and no settlements for hundreds, maybe thousands, of clicks, but, maybe? “Can you tell from radar imaging if we could make landfall on the eastern side of the peninsula?” Ledermann checked his screen and touched a few controls. “Seems unlikely.” Of course it did. So, run. Run where? Into the ocean? Our hull was compromised, so we’d fill with water. Maybe we could seal it. And maybe we’d be able to move closer to land before taking the plunge. And maybe we’d land right-side up on the sea bed. And maybe we’d be able to navigate. And maybe we’d be able to find our way back to land. And maybe we’d be far enough away that the thing wouldn’t have tracked us. How many maybes was that? Still, it was our best plan so far. That left wait. Hell’s Mouth had been out of contact for over a month before we made it here. There’s no reason to think the next mission would come any sooner. And, as I mentioned earlier, our little ice shelf wouldn’t be here in a month. “What we need,” I murmured out loud, “is a boat.” Ledermann nodded. The adrenaline was wearing off; I could feel the shakes and fatigue setting in. I rubbed my face, contemplated taking some stim, and reached for a thermos of coffee instead. Pouring a cupful, I handed it to Ledermann before pouring one for myself. “It’s too hot,” he complained, blowing on it. “We need some ice.” I chuckled. He chuckled. I chuckled some more. Soon, we were both guffawing, laughing helplessly. I saw tears rolling down his face, and knew mine was no different. Still we laughed, almost spasming, the emotional release our psyches craved exploding in laughter. How many minutes? I don’t know, but when we finally slowed down, my diaphragm hurt. I opened my hatch and stood up, surveying the nearby area. There was ample ice encrusted on our tank. I beat at it with my fist until a few chunks broke loose. I made the mistake of looking at the side of my tank where the thing had struck us; the impression of a body was pressed into the turret’s side. That sobered me up, real quick. I retreated inside, closing the hatch against the cold and the horror. Ledermann took the ice gratefully. He may not have known what I saw, but he knew it couldn't have been good and stayed silent. I dropped my ice into my drink and sat there, staring into my cup, watching it float there and melt. The ice melted. And floated. It melted. It floated. Suddenly, I knew what to do. The grin on my face may have been a bit manic, but Ledermann perked up when he met my eyes. I had a plan. It was a crazy plan, something that combined the extremes of lunacy and desperation, but it was better than the other options. After consulting our maps and the radar display, I swung the tank around and headed back towards land. It was still there, waiting at the edge of the shore, as if certain that we’d come back to it. I’m sure it never guessed what we had in mind, though. About 500 meters from shore, I turned to the right, and we crept slowly towards the edge of the floe. We had no way of knowing how thick it was, or how solid, so we left the hatches open. We drove with our heads sticking out, using our eyes and ears, hoping that we’d get some form of warning before the ice parted underneath us. Maybe a web of cracks would appear; maybe there would be a splintering noise. We crept forward until the open sea was about 100 meters away, then I gently turned us around. Ledermann fired up the plasma cannon, and liquid fire leapt from the muzzle, arcing through the air, and landing on the ice, where it boiled the water away, cutting it like, well, like plasma through ice. I nudged the throttle, and we slowly began rolling across the ice shelf, carving a trench as we went. Plasma cannons do require frequent cooling periods, so our progress was slow, but we persevered. The shelf was just over a kilometer wide at this point. If our plan worked, we would cut it free. A great ice raft, several square kilometers, would break free, carrying us away. With the prevailing currents here, there was a fair chance we’d brush up against the shore far to the west. If the thing did follow us, or even if it just gave up and started wandering about, the next thing it would find was the Red Coalition base where we’d disembarked. Probably they would be overwhelmed, but when that base disappeared, it was going to get the attention of some very powerful nations. We did what we could during the cooldown periods. We tried to raise survivors on the com. We tried to find something more than narc to help Sergeant Liu. We tried to repair any of the electronic systems that might increase our odds of survival. We tried to stay busy, and not let the images of melting friends drive us from our minds. We tried. Not too long after midnight, our cut was almost complete. That’s when I heard it; a splintering rumble that seemed to surround us. Quickly, I turned hard left, and sped for the center of our raft. Then, with just a hint of a tremor, it was over, and we were adrift. A minute after that, maybe two, I heard another sound. That piping, that hideous, mind-wracking piping sound which had come over the coms, filled the air, filled my head. I covered my ears with my hands and screamed, screamed, screamed as loud as I could, trying to drown out that terrible sound, before falling down into my chair and fumbling the hatch closed. It knew! It knew what we had done, and it was pissed. Impotent, it sat there howling as we slowly drifted away. So, here we are, on Halloween. Radar puts us about sixty clicks from land and getting farther away. We’re moving east, not west. Ledermann thinks we’re caught in the Antarctic Circumpolar Current. If he’s right, our next closest landfall will likely be New Zealand. If the ice lasts, there’s no reason we won’t. There’s plenty of fuel in the reactor to keep the heat on. We’ve got ample ice for water. Food will be a stretch, but once we do what must be done with the sergeant, that will help. In more ways that one. But it is summer, and our raft is melting. Will it last long enough for us to sight land? What of the thing? Will it retrace our steps, finding its way to the Red base? Will it wander off into the wastes of Antarctica? Or might it return to the black-hearted iceberg from where we awakened it, maybe even to set itself adrift. Following us to New Zealand, or drifting north to South America? How long has it been there, slumbering, waiting, entombed in ice that took thousands of years to fall into the ocean? A note in a bottle. How cliche is this? Ok, technically, it’s notes in a waterproof first-aid kit. With most of our electronics gone, it is the best we can do. But, really, it has better odds of being recovered than we do. It should stay afloat long after our natural raft has melted into the sea. Enclosed are also letters to our loved ones, our dog tags, and a few personal items. Please help those get where they need to go. If you find this, tell the world about us. Either we didn’t make it, or made it and were silenced. People need to know. Something old, something evil, is awake down there. It’s loose. People need to know. TNK00-00000-0473T-E90UD-NTTL?

Impish Behavior Chapter 9 of the One-Eyed Man Hek sighed, lowered her NetHand to her lap, and turned to Imp. “Ok, we just lied to our commanding officer and most of our team. Are you sure this will be worth it?” Imp shrugged. “Of course not. I have no way to know that. But I do know that showing all your cards isn’t something you do, especially when there’s a cheater at the table.” “We don’t know that,” said Cro. “Not for sure, we don't,” said Hek, “but it seems certain that the saboteur was on the flight with us. More than half of the team is at that camp, assuming they told us the truth, so by the simplest of calculations, it's more than even odds the saboteur is there.” Cro nodded. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t much like it, but I get it. So, what now?” “We’ve got a few hours of light left,” said Imp. “I’d planned for us to cover a few more kilometers, but this is a decent enough spot for a camp. Let’s get you two set up, nice and cozy. I’ll stay for breakfast, then head out in the morning.” Imp was more relieved than he let on. The weeks he’d spent shepherding his injured comrades had been frustrating. Cro and Hek had both striven heroically, pushing themselves to the limits of what their damaged bodies could sustain, but still, they relied on Imp to do the work of two people. That didn’t bother him. No, what had been worrying Imp was the thought that he may not be equal to the task of getting them safely to the transport and (hopefully) to the other survivors. So far, the trip had been difficult, but not particularly dangerous. However, that could change in an instant. With two-thirds of the team hurt, retreat wasn’t a viable option in the event of conflict. Nor was pursuit. Their only tactically viable choice would be to hunker down and fight. With their limited stores of ammunition, it wouldn’t take much of an enemy to overwhelm them. A pack of predators or a small tribe of locals would be equal to the task. The locals were there. Imp had seen signs, few and far between, but signs nonetheless. Whoever they were, their skill in woodcraft was at least on a par with his, and may well have been higher. He had no clue how many they were, or how close, or what their intentions may be, but he knew to a certainty that he, Cro, and Hek were being followed. This made the decision to move on his own more difficult, but the exigency of the saboteur had not gone away, and Imp had an opportunity to make an unexpected move in that game. “A card up your sleeve is worth two in your hand, but also mighty likely to get you killed.” That was another of his grandfather’s many sayings. Imp knew that his actions could have repercussions. Some he could predict, such as the immediate loss of trust for himself, Hek, and Cro once this deception was inevitably revealed to, or uncovered by, the rest of the outfit. He was also placing Hek and Cro’s survival at risk; should the locals following them mean to attack, leaving his friends behind provided an excellent opportunity. For that matter, the same logic applied to his own survival. There was strength in numbers, and he was abandoning that strength. However, those points had their offsets. The crew members should be able to understand why caution and deception were warranted. And whoever was following them had had weeks to organize an effective attack. Balanced against the chance of being in a position to help uncover, capture, or otherwise interfere with the saboteur, Imp felt the potential benefits justified the risks. Imp helped with the most strenuous elements of setting up the camp, then left Hek and Cro to finish up while he went in search of firewood. He worked late into the night, long past when the other two had fallen into exhausted slumber. In part, he was simply being a good companion; in part, he was trying to salve his troubled conscience. Imp was the first one awake, which was normal. The pre-dawn surge of energy that ran through the jungle, awakening songbirds and stirring movement, also spoke to him. Awake in an instant, he gently slid from his bedroll, taking care not to disturb anything that may have joined him overnight to share his warmth. This morning, he awoke alone, but that wasn’t always the case. He checked quietly on Hek and Cro, then began stoking the fire and heating water for coffee as they crawled from their small tents. He planned to head north for half the day before turning straight for the camp. That little dogleg should ensure that the chances of him crossing paths with the rescue team were negligible. He mentally ran over the list of supplies again, ensuring that Hek and Cro wouldn’t be lacking in the days before rescue arrived. “Good morning, sunshine!” crackled everyone’s NetHands. “Nyx here. You both ok? Over.” Hek responded “Good morning yourself, beautiful! We are a-ok. The coffee is hot, and we’re just starting to think about breakfast.” “Glad to hear it. We’ll be heading out within the hour, and won’t be able to launch drones, so we’ll be out of communication for some time. Our best guess is that we’ll reach you in three days. We hope to be in radio contact in two. You going to be ok?” “Affirmative. We have supplies for longer than that thanks to…” Imp interrupted her with a sharp chopping motion. Hek looked chagrined. “...thanks to careful management and a little bit of luck. We’ll be fine.” “Copy that. Sit back and relax, as much as you can. Base camp over and out.” “Over and out.” Hek looked at Imp. “I almost let the cat out of the bag, didn’t I? Sorry about that.” Imp shrugged. “Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” That was something else his grandfather had loved to say, although Imp was fairly certain the man had never used a hand grenade. “They may well figure out that someone has been helping you. You’ve come too far, too fast, for just the two of you in your condition. There are other clues too. If they confront you, trust your instinct. Come clean about me if you think it will help, or if keeping the secret compromises your standing or safety. But if they don’t push, stick with the plan.” Hek and Cro nodded. Imp embraced each of them, then slipped into the jungle without looking back. Alone in the jungle, Imp moved carefully for the first hour, trying to leave no sign of his passage. He didn’t expect the rescue team to be good enough to spot his trail even if he were careless, but there was no point in taking even a small chance. After an hour, he picked up his pace, trading stealth for speed. There was no reason to think the tank would be this far off course, and he wanted to reach the base camp in two days if possible. Figuring that the round trip rescue should take five to six days, maybe even seven, that would give him ample opportunity to observe the few people who remained behind and lessen his chances of being caught. There wasn’t much point in thinking about the saboteur's identity; Imp had already turned the limited facts over and over in his mind. Without new information, there wasn’t much point to more speculation. Instead, he ruminated on the lack of drones. Between that, and the language of the communique from base camp, it was easy to infer that only one tank was operational. Why? There were two possibilities he could see easily. First, of course, was that the second tank was not available. It could be damaged, pinned in the wreckage of the aircraft, or even lost. All plausible enough in a crash scenario. The second was that Nyx, the only tanker reported to be in that camp, was keeping information about the tanks’ operational codes secret. That possibility opened up so many things to think about, but it boiled down to one core: Nyx didn’t trust the others at base camp. She was also keeping a card up her sleeve. That secret would be rendered useless just as soon as she returned to camp with Hek and Cro, but it was interesting to ponder that Nyx, his driver, also felt the need to use deception. And speaking of Nyx, where was Lam? Those two were never out of arm’s reach if they could help it. If Lam had been injured or killed, Nyx would have told them. They could have gotten separated during the bailout, but Imp found that unlikely, which could mean that Nyx had another card up her other sleeve. Imp chuckled to himself. Did Grandfather even have a saying for double cheating? If so, Imp couldn’t remember it. The continuous direction pulse from base camp stopped, telling Imp that the tank had rolled out. Its power system must somehow be integral to maintaining that beacon. He wasn’t worried, though; between magnetic and inertial tracking provided by his NetHand, plus his orienteering skill, he was confident he’d find the camp without difficulty. And, the evening of his second day, he proved himself right. The smell of the campfire was his earliest warning that he’d arrived. Sometime later, the sounds of people moving about told him that he was close. He ghosted slowly through the underbrush up to the edge of the clearing, arriving in a fortuitous spot with a clear view of the communal fire. Apollo, Art, and El were all around it, settling down to eat. Imp gracefully folded himself to the ground to watch. The camp was much larger than it needed to be, probably taking advantage of the extended swath knocked more-or-less clear by the crashing quad, which he could see gleaming at the opposite end of the base. Not too far from it roared a bonfire, probably a signal fire to help the lost soldiers find their way. The land had been cleared and flattened, and several tents erected. Crates were neatly stacked under tarps. It was clear that the folks here had put a lot of effort into improving the campsite as well as contriving to provide signals to the lost crew. That seemed like a positive development. If the saboteur’s goal had been to kill everyone, Imp would have expected to see a very different scenario. He stayed quietly in place until the others finished their meals and drifted off to bed. Apollo stayed up to take the first watch; Imp took that as his cue to melt back into the jungle’s dark embrace and begin circling the camp. It was approaching midnight when he found Lam’s tiny hideout. She’d concealed it very well; her tent alongside the bole of a mighty fallen tree, using its limbs for shade and cover. She’d piled moss and leaves on it, making it nearly indistinguishable from its surroundings. There was no fire pit, no pile of gear, literally nothing to give it away, at least in the dark of the night. The truth is, Imp would have passed it by without a second glance if Lam hadn’t snored. She was notorious for snoring; it was one of the many quirks that differentiated her from her twin. The three of them spent no small amount of time bivouacked together, sleeping in the field, and Lam’s snoring was a never-ending constant. Imp actually found the sound somewhat comforting, and Nyx had an immunity that came from a lifetime of exposure. Still, they harassed Lam incessantly. “You’re going to give us away to the enemy someday!” Well, Imp wasn’t the enemy, but neither was he above delivering a good “I told you so!” He smiled to himself in the darkness, backing up to find a flat spot for his bedroll. There was no need to disturb her slumber; he’d see her in the morning.

Long Distance Call CH 8 of the One-Eyed Man Saga With the Firefly free, Nyx suddenly became the center of attention in the camp. Between judicious use of the flamethrower (Nyx decided to admit she had full access to all the tank’s functions) and some skillful driving, she was able to burn out or flatten roots, rocks, and lumps throughout the campsite, as well as push the boundaries back a little bit. Once that operation was finished, she worked with Electra, connecting the Firefly’s generator to the transport’s jury-rigged radio system, allowing for continuous broadcast of high power directional pulses. Nyx maintained the fiction that she was unable to operate the other tank, making a show of entering her personal code and having it be rejected. She still wasn’t sure why she was protecting that secret, like she still wasn’t sure why she was protecting Lam’s nearby hidden presence. How those secrets may help her when the subject of the saboteur arose, she couldn’t imagine, but she did hope that having a couple of cards up her sleeve would prove more useful than harmful. A week passed. Nyx had conversations with everyone. The subject of sabotage did come up, and often. That they had been sabotaged, everyone agreed. That the saboteur had been on the flight, everyone also agreed. The flight crew didn’t point fingers at anyone but were steadfast in their belief it hadn’t been them. The command crew refused to enter into speculation, which was certainly appropriate. Nyx certainly pointed no fingers but found herself in the uncomfortable position of not being sure what she thought. She was confident that no one from her tank was responsible for the crash, and almost as confident that no one from the other tank was, either. Almost. So, she listened carefully to what others had to say and tried to keep her own mouth shut as much as possible. In the meantime, she did what she could to be useful. The tank’s drones could be used to scout the surrounding area, so they had some extensive imagery of the surrounding treetops. Infrared imaging would pick up any approaching threats, and the aerial relays would increase the range of the NetHands communication abilities. There were only three drones, though, and their time aloft was limited. Late on the afternoon of Nyx’s eighth day in camp, they received a faint signal, a directional pulse from a NetHand, from the jungle to the west. The Command second, Hep, got to his device first and shouted the news. “We’ve got a signal! West by southwest!” Nyx ran to her Firefly, followed by everyone else. Once inside, she scrambled a drone in that direction. After it had covered several kilometers, they were able to establish contact. “Approaching unit, this is Nyx, do you copy? Over.” “Good to hear a friendly voice again, Nyx. This is Hek. Over.” “Hek! So good to hear you too! How are you? Is there anyone with you?” There was a lengthy pause before Hek responded. “I’d like to hear your sitrep first, if you don’t mind.” From his perch outside her open hatch, Apollo grumbled. “What’s that all about?” “Sir,” said Nyx, “she’s bound to have figured out that we were sabotaged. That’s going to make her a little cautious in deciding how to approach us.” “How would she know that?” Apollo asked. “The stator locks, sir, they…” Nyx began. “Make a very distinctive sound, yes,” interrupted Apollo. “You all keep saying that.” “Ping!” exclaimed El, from outside the tank where everyone else was gathered to listen. “Fine, let me have the mic,” sighed Apollo. “Hek, this is Apollo. We’ve made camp at the wreckage of the transport. Aside from Nyx, both Flight and Command crews are present and unharmed. Survival and regrouping are our current priorities. Are you well? Do you need assistance?” “Thank you for that, sir. We have two injured, myself and Crow. Also…” The signal cut off. Apollo and Nyx looked at each other. Nyx quickly checked the drone’s status, but it was functioning properly. She looked back at Apollo and shrugged. “Apollo to Hek. Are you there? Your transmission cut off.” “Sorry, sir. There was a monkey. Anyway, we’re both wounded. My leg was cut when I bailed out, and we think that Crow cracked some ribs on landing. We’re doing ok, but don’t walk very fast. It will take us several days to reach you.” “Understood, Hek,” replied Apollo. “Stand by.” He stood up, and waved Nyx to get out of the tank, then addressed the group. “I’d like to help them if that’s at all practical. Thoughts?” “A small group of us could hike out to them,” offered Pan. “I’d volunteer; it’s not like I’m accomplishing anything being co-pilot of that wreck.” He gestured at the derelict transport. “Two or three of us could really take the load off of them. Handle the trailblazing, help carry their supplies, let them concentrate on just moving forward.” “What about the tank?” asked Hep. “Surely it would be faster, and they could ride back in it.” Nyx looked thoughtful. “I can’t really move any faster than a person walking, not through a jungle like this. Picking a path between trees and watching for soft spots is slow going; a person on foot would actually be faster and probably get to them first. Being able to carry them back would definitely be a bonus. But if the tank were to get stuck in some mire, or high-centered on a fallen tree, not only would they have to walk back anyway, but they’d have to turn around and use their tank to come rescue mine.” “Can’t you just burn a road to them?” asked Hep. “Not effectively or safely,” said Nyx, shaking her head. “A large, living tree takes a while to burn down to nothing, even at plasma temperatures. And with that much heat, even in a wet place like this, setting a forest fire is a real possibility. If you want a road, small bursts, controlled burns, and lots of bulldozing are the methods. It would take far longer to reach them than it will take them just to walk in.” “We’re using the drones to communicate, right?” asked Electra. Nyx felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. El was right; if they took the tank into the jungle, she wouldn’t be able to launch drones. They would be out of communication with the survivors until they got closer, and by that time, they may lose contact with the base. The other tank also had drones, but since she’d lied about being able to get that one operational, suddenly she found herself standing in moral quicksand. “Why does that matter?” asked Hep. El waited for Nyx to answer, but when she hadn’t after a moment, continued herself. “If we send the tank to rescue them, it won’t be able to launch drones from under the jungle canopy. Without the drones, we’re back to the limit of NetHand transmissions. By the time the tank gets close enough to them for clear contact, it may be out of range of this camp.” “Too bad we can’t get the drones from the other tank flying,” sighed Apollo. Nyx hadn’t thought that the pit in her stomach could get any deeper, but hearing the situation articulated aloud as her own tangled thoughts ran screaming in circles around her deception somehow helped the guilt manifest itself more intensely. What to do? Protect the secret that, maybe, could end up turning the tables on the saboteur? Or come clean, and help her friends? “Well, we can’t do what we can’t do,” mused Apollo. “Nyx, what are the chances of us losing the tank? Getting it stuck, high-centered, or otherwise disabled?” “Um…” Nyx tried to focus on the question. “As long as we take our time, not that high. If we had a person or two scouting ahead, checking the ground and marking paths through the trees, and assuming there’s not particularly bad terrain between here and there…” “Got it. Lots of ‘if.’ Volunteers?” Apollo looked at the group; all hands were raised. “Ok, which of you has had advanced field medical training?” Hep, Art, and Pan kept their hands up. “Ok, Hep and Pan, you two will accompany Nyx. Your mission is to locate and retrieve our comrades. Hep has operational command of the mission; Nyx has command of the tank. You will leave in the morning, after breakfast. Questions?” After allowing a moment and seeing there were none, Apollo climbed back up on the tank and reached through the hatch to grab the comm microphone. “Hek, this is Apollo. Find yourselves a comfortable spot to camp for a few days. We’re sending a ride to pick you up. We’ll be in contact tomorrow morning to confirm your direction, then we may be out of communication until the rescue team gets close enough for your NetHand to reach directly.” “We understand, base. Commencing operation ‘Put Our Feet up.’”

This is truly poignant and eponymous.

Thanks!

You have a rare and precious gift!

Happy Birthday The hot coffee was everything Nyx had hoped it would be. Despite the sweltering heat of the jungle, the oppressive cling of her uniform in the thick, humid air, the delightfully bitter taste and heavenly aroma stimulated her mood in ways she couldn’t quantify. “So you haven’t seen anyone else?” asked Apollo, for the umpteenth time. “Sorry, commander, as I said, I got so much smoke in my eyes that I was effectively blind during the whole bailout. It’s just dumb luck I didn’t land in a tree and get stuck or break a bone. As soon as I could get oriented, I struck out after the transport. I never had any contact via the NetHand until I picked up your pulse, and never saw any sign of anyone else.” “You said you were the last one to bail out?” “Yes, sir. I saw my sister jump, and as I was about to follow her, I noticed I’d gotten my harness twisted. It took me a few seconds to get it straight; that’s how I got separated from her.” She and Lam had agreed this was the simplest lie to tell; it had enough proximity to the truth that Nyx wasn’t likely to get confused. “Well, I suppose it makes sense that you’re the first to return, then. We should be seeing Lam, then the others, any day now.” Nyx nodded. “I pray that’s true, sir!” Everyone was crowded around her, eager to welcome her, glad to see her alive and well. At least, that’s how it seemed. She had to remind herself that at least one of the people she was now surrounded by was likely the saboteur. “So, what’s our status, sir?” Apollo snorted. “You can see most of it. The quad is wrecked, but we have ample survival supplies. The flight and command crews are all here, and unhurt. We’re without effective communications.” “You managed to generate directional pulses, though!” Apollo smiled and indicated one of the flight crew. “You can thank Electra for that!” The woman he’d indicated blushed. “It was nothing. Most of the individual items of equipment in the quad are fine, it’s just that the entire power distribution system, and I do mean, the entire power distribution system, is fried. The fusion generator is operating, but without control or distribution networks intact, has dropped into idle. I took a low-voltage output, ran it into a battery bank, hooked that through a power regulator, and into the radio transmitter. The trickle of power slowly charges the battery bank and gives us enough juice to do a high-power transmission burst a couple of times a day. We rigged a makeshift antenna through the trees using scraps of wire.” She dug her toe into the ground, apparently embarrassed at the collective attention focused on her. “Like I said, it was nothing.” The others laughed, Nyx among them. “So what fried the power distribution network?” “A backlash surge from the engines. Caused by, well, it doesn’t matter.” “The stator locks engaged mid-flight, right?” prompted Nyx. “How did you know that?” demanded Apollo, aggressively staring at her. Nyx shrugged. “They make a very distinctive sound.” “So I’m told,” he said, relaxing. A subdued chuckle ran through the crew. “Sir, I…” she paused, afraid to move forward. She had been about to mention the idea that the quad had been sabotaged, but was it prudent to voice her suspicions? What if the entire camp was in on the conspiracy? Mightn’t they decide to kill her rather than have their plan, whatever it was, exposed? Suddenly, that idea seemed terribly plausible. After all, why hadn’t these people abandoned the transport when the klaxon sounded? Maybe they’d all known what was coming! Quickly, she cleared her throat and continued in a different direction. “I was thinking that, now that I’m here, we should try to get the tanks out of the transport.” Apollo nodded. “Indeed. We’ve been trying to cut through the hull to gain access, but progress is slow.” “We only have one small plasma torch,” interjected Electra, “and the composite materials used in the skin and frame of the quad are quite tough.” “Even if we get the cargo bay open,” said Pan, “without the access codes, those tanks aren’t going to do us any good.” Nyx cleared her throat. “Um, as a matter of fact, I have access codes.” The pilot stood up. What was his name? Nyx couldn’t remember; she’d only met him briefly, and there had been a crash and some jungle survival since then. “Those tanks were supposed to be code locked by the Loadmaster before we took off, and not able to be restored except by the Loadmaster at our destination. Are you telling me that you could have activated those tanks mid-flight?” “Stand down, Artemis,” rumbled Apollo. “Tanker? Care to explain?” Nyx squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s a common secret amongst tankers, sir. The myth of the code lock is to discourage malfeasance, hijacking, that sort of thing. But the truth of the matter is that it makes no sense to disable a fighting machine during transit. What if something unexpected happens? If a convoy were attacked, or a transport were forced down, or a ship were boarded by pirates, what good would it do to have a useless tank?” “Of all the…” muttered Artemis. “Well, that’s good news for us!” exclaimed Apollo. “I’ve never been so happy to be lied to before! So you can get both tanks up and running?” “I’m not sure, sir,” Nyx lied quickly. She had full access to her tank, and because of the long history shared between the two crews, also knew the access codes to the other. But was it wise to admit that? Dammit, she wasn’t a spy! This was hard! She decided to hide the truth as much as she could for now. “I’ve never had to use the emergency access codes before. It may be that my code only works for one tank, and maybe only for my functions. I’m the driver, you see. It may be that we need the commander to gain full access.” She knew better but hoped that the lie would sound plausible. Apollo nodded. “Well, let’s start with what we can do, and move forward from there.” “If nothing else,” said Electra, “we can flatten down the roots in the campsite. And if you can access the communications functions, we can do a better job of calling everyone else home.” “Can I gain access to either tank?” asked Nyx. Electra nodded. “It’s awkward to maneuver inside there, between the strange angle the quad is propped at, and the damage. One of the tanks came loose and rattled around as we crashed. You can see a tank-shaped dent in the hull. It’s jammed in there sideways now, and a little on top of the other tank, but you can get to both hatches on that one, and to the commander’s hatch on the other.” “Let’s go take a look,” said Nyx, draining the last of her coffee. The quad was a mess. The crash had twisted the frame badly. Propped up by the trees that it had toppled, it was pointed as if it were climbing aggressively while banking left. There was, indeed, a comic-like imprint of a tank in the outer skin. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of burned insulation and wiring. The only light came from flashlights carried by the crew. Twisted scraps of sharp metal threatened to cut uniform and flesh alike as Electra, Apollo, and Nyx picked their way to the cargo bay. The tanks did appear to be intact. As El had said, one was wedged across the other, its left tread atop the other’s nose. That one, Nyx noted with relief, was actually her tank. “Our thoughts are that we need to cut a hole in the wall and just drive that one out through the side,” said El. “Doing it in reverse will mean less of a drop, but it’s still over a meter to the ground.” “That’s a bump, but manageable,” said Nyx. “So you’ve been trying to cut through the hull there?” “Trying to perforate it, at least,” said El. “But, as Apollo said, it’s slow going with that little cutter. We haven’t made much difference, I don’t think.” Nyx nodded. “I’m pretty sure that I can punch through the wall, but it’s going to make an awful mess. And with that kind of damage, plus such a massive, abrupt shift in the load, the quad may well shift. You should all stay well back when I try.” El nodded. “We’d thought of that. We’re also worried that, depending on how and when that shift occurs, it could flip your tank upside down, or even fall on top of you.” “Right,” sighed Nyx. “I hadn’t thought of that. Is there anything we can do to minimize the risks?” “We’ve done what we can without heavy machinery,” said Apollo. “Jammed some logs under the quad to help stabilize it and run some ropes to adjacent trees.” He shrugged. “It may even help.” Nyx laughed. “Right. Ok, then, there’s no reason to delay, is there? You two get out of here, get some distance, and make contact with me via your NetHands.” “I think I should stay with you,” said Apollo. “You could probably use some help.” “And what help would that be, sir? Even if the rest of my crew were here, I’d be doing this alone. This is the driver's job. Having a gunner and a commander won’t make it any better, and only puts additional personnel at risk. Now, off you go, sir.” Apollo looked like he’d eaten something sour. Clearly, he was unaccustomed to being so casually and thoroughly dismissed by a subordinate. El turned away and headed back for the exit, struggling not to laugh. Nyx held Apollo’s stare for a moment longer, then turned and began climbing to her tank. Once inside, she carefully strapped herself in, then allowed herself the luxury of sitting quietly and offering a quick prayer to the Seven. Then she began activating systems. She went slowly, running a diagnostic on each before turning on the next. First came a basic power up. The Firefly began to awaken, control panels lighting up, screens flickering to life. The fusion plant showed green and stable; all initial tests were positive. Next came environmental systems. Oh, gods above, the feel of the air conditioner blowing down her back was delightful! Again, she allowed herself a few seconds, basking in the comfort, feeling the sweat cooling all over her body. Next, communications. “Nyx to Apollo. Do you copy?” “Apollo here. Tell me something good!” “Things are looking good, commander. I have access and am powering up. So far, everything is testing positive. I’ll be ready to make the attempt in a few minutes. Is Electra there?” “I’m here. You can call me El.” “El, I want you to be in charge of letting me know if something goes wrong. We’re going to agree on two very, very important phrases here. First, if you want me to stop, say ‘STOP STOP STOP.’ Please confirm.” “STOP STOP STOP. Got it. Next?” “Ok, if you want me to go balls to the wall, to just punch as hard as I can, say ‘CHARGE CHARGE CHARGE.’ Please confirm.” “CHARGE CHARGE CHARGE. Got it. Anything else?” “You can say anything you like, and talk me through what you’re seeing, but if the time comes for emergency action, do not dither or hesitate. Use one of those phrases.” “I understand. Ready when you are.” Nyx wrapped her hands firmly around the steering yoke, then engaged the treads. “Ok, I’m starting slow.” True to her word, she gently nudged the throttle and felt the Firefly respond around her. The tank shuddered and metal groaned as the tracks began to turn. It was a little bit rough, but she was moving backwards. Her tank rocked and tilted as it rolled off the other tank, then began to tilt the opposite direction as it started climbing the curve of the quad’s outer hull. “Nyx, we can see the outer skin bulging. The transport seems stable, though.” Nys nodded to herself. The tank’s nearly-imperceptible crawl was slowing as pressure increased; Nyx opened the throttle another fraction of a millimeter. The sounds of groaning metal increased as the tank labored to scale the increasing curve of the cargo bay’s wall. “The hull is really deforming, but we can see the transport starting to shift,” came El’s voice over the com. Nyx allowed the tank to slow to a stop. She had no doubt that if she just kept pushing, the tank would climb far enough up the curve of the wall that its weight would simply tear through. The question was, would that threshold happen before or after the shifting weight caused the entire transport to roll over? Those seemed like terribly risky dice to roll. Changing tactics, she slipped the tank into forward and gently moved back where she had started. It was a shame, and would seriously chew up the outer surface of the other Firefly, but this seemed safer to her. After returning more or less to her starting point, she switched back into reverse and crept backwards. “The outer hull is deforming more. The transport seems stable.” Good! It seemed to be working. Nyx repeated the procedure several more times, moving backwards then forwards, scarcely a meter in each direction, but slowly making a deeper and deeper dent in the quad’s wall. After halfadozen repetitions, she’d formed a notch that was perpendicular to the tank’s rear face. Now was the time to fish or cut bait! “Ok, El,” she said over the com, “I’m about to hit that wall hard. If it tears through, I’ll burst out like a gunshot. There’s likely to be shrapnel, so make sure everyone is behind cover.” “Copy that,” El responded. “Take care, there are trees along that path, as close as 20 meters.” Wow, that was close. Nyx would need to hit the brakes almost immediately after popping out. Still, it seemed the safest route. “Got it. Ok, here I go!” Steeling herself, Nyx floored the throttle. The firefly leapt backwards to the shrieks of tearing plasteel and carbon monofiber. Briefly airborne as it sailed through the outer skin of the transport, the tank slammed into the ground. Nyx took that as her cue to jam on the brakes. “STOP STOP STOP!” came El’s voice over the com. Nyx checked the cameras and proximity sensors. There was a monster of a tree immediately behind her, less than half a meter away. Ahead of her, the quad was rocking, settling to a new resting place on its bed of fallen trees. It had shifted dramatically, but not flipped over. She was free to maneuver. “Wow, that was something to see,” came Apollo’s voice over the com. “It was like watching the transport give birth!” Nyx smiled. “Happy birthday, beautiful,” she said while gently stroking the tank’s console.

Nyx Chapter 6 in the Chronicles of the One-Eyed Man. Nyx had been the last one to bail out of the transport, half a second behind her twin. As she descended on the sky-blue synthetic silk, she wondered why that was. She’d seen the other tankers go; she’d watched Hek and Imp jump, seen Mac haul a semi-conscious Cro out the door. Lam had gotten twisted up in her harness as she tried to don the ‘chute, so Nyx had spent several precious seconds helping her sister, then pushed Lam out herself. There should have been more! Apollo and Hep, the command crew, should have been right behind her. Maybe it made sense for the flight crew to stay, but Command should have been on her heels. She looked behind her, searching for other ‘chutes, but the damned camouflage was very effective, especially with the way her eyes were still watering from the acrid smoke aboard the transport. The only one she could see clearly was Lam, floating gently down not 50 meters away. The delay in their jump had separated them from the other tankers. They’d used the time descending to gather as much intel as they could with their NetHands. Without the transport’s network, the units would lose much of their connectivity in this remote corner of nowhere. Under the jungle canopy, they would lose even more. Navigation was going to be based on inertial reference and magnetic compass, very old school. Both of them were snapping pictures like mad, trying to isolate landmarks that would help them locate the wrecked transport, wherever it ultimately stopped. Landing had gone well for both of them. Neither was seriously injured, and neither got stuck in a tree. No more than 30 minutes after landing, they had recovered and packed their ‘chutes, taken the best bearings they could, and headed off in the direction that the stricken transport had been following. It wasn’t until after dark, when they had selected a spot to stop for the night, that they actually spoke. Being twins, they always knew what was on each other’s mind; conversation wasn’t often necessary. “Sabotage,” said Lam. “Yep,” agreed Nyx. “Engaged the stator locks mid-flight. That should have been impossible. It was incredibly stupid.” “Ping!” giggled Lam. “It is a very distinctive sound,” agreed Nyx. “Command?” asked Lam, after a few mouthfuls of trail mix. Nyx nodded slowly. “Maybe. Anyone on Flight could have done a more effective job of sabotaging the quad, either destroyed it, or brought it down without crippling it, and done so in a way that wasn’t so obviously sabotage. That leaves Command and Tankers. I won’t believe it’s Imp. I suppose it could be someone from the other tank, but it would take a lot of convincing to make me believe that.” “We love them,” Lam muttered, cutting to the heart of Nyx’s uncertainty. Imp commanded their tank. Mac, Hek, and Cro fought at their side. The six of them had been together through numerous campaigns. They’d long ago abandoned any attempt to tally who had saved whose life how many times. That bond, that love, could easily blind her, easily blind both of them, to treachery. Just because the others had been her friends, saved her life, saved her sister’s life, fought at her side, and earned her trust didn’t mean they couldn’t be a deep cover operative. It would be heartbreaking, but it could be possible. Apollo and Hep, though, were brand new. Not that they weren’t seasoned veterans; both had distinguished careers. No one would have been given this posting who hadn’t earned it. But Nyx had met them both for the first time only a week ago. She knew the same held true for her sister, and she believed the rest of her friends, each of whom said the same. It was easy to mistrust Apollo and Hep for no other reason than that they were new. And it was easy to trust the men and women she’d served alongside for so long. But this was not a time to let easy be a reason. Their quad had been sabotaged; that was reality. They were alone, lost in a jungle deep in South America, with only their wits and two backpacks as resources. Rescue, if it came, could be weeks away. Jumping to the wrong conclusion could end up being a fatal mistake in this situation. “What if,” she thought aloud, “it was supposed to be obvious. What if making everyone suspicious of each other was somehow part of the, um, whatever is going on? Maybe that’s how someone on Flight would do it, just to help divert suspicion! Oh, except we don’t really suspect them, in which case, we’re right back where we started.” Lam snorted, but kept eating. Nyx envied Lam her ability to focus. Nyx overthought everything; she just couldn’t stop. It rarely did her any good. Lam, on the other hand, just focused on the here-and-now. She knew that they didn’t have enough information to decide who the saboteur was, or what his/her/their goal/s may have been, so she simply didn’t think about it. Nyx, on the other hand, couldn’t stop running endless cycles of “what if” and “suppose that” scenarios in her head. One day passed, then another, then another, without much variety. Trudge through the jungle. Avoid hazards. Take bearings. Attempt contact. Rest. Eat. Push on. Camp. Sleep. It was late afternoon on their third day that both of their NetHands chirped. They’d received a directional pulse! There was no additional communication, no response to their own broadcasts, so caution was clearly indicated. Nevertheless, they now had a better guide. Two days later, they snuck up to the edge of the camp where the quad had crashed. Peering out from the deep shadows, shielded by brush, they settled down to observe. The quad was a mess, but it was substantially intact. The pilot had brought her down as softly as possible with no engines, tree-surfing her to the ground without tearing her apart. That was a pretty amazing feat, given the density of the jungle here. A clearing of sorts had been made along the trail of downed trees and ripped-out bushes. A couple of tents had been erected. There was a small, centralized fire which probably marked the communal center of the camp. Folding chairs and small tables surrounded it. A coffee pot sat on a rock beside the smoldering embers, giving Nyx an almost-insatiable craving. Oh, for a hot cup of coffee! That, as much as anything she could imagine, would convince her that civilization was not lost. Farther away, maybe 200 meters up the trail of wreckage, blazed a large bonfire. Maybe it was intended as a navigational aid; the column of smoke from the green wood would be visible for kilometers in every direction, assuming one could get above the canopy to see it. As if! Nyx felt Lam’s amusement at the situation as well. There were at least four survivors in the camp. Nyx saw Apollo and Hep, both busily feeding the signal fire. One of the flight crew was cutting the exterior wall of the quad with a plasma torch. He would stop every few minutes and shout into the interior. Apparently receiving a response, he’d hoist the cutter and resume his assault. It looked like he was trying to cut an entryway to the cargo hold, presumably with the hope of accessing the tanks. Behind her, Nyx felt Lam snort in disdain. As if physical access would accomplish anything. The tanks had been code-locked for transport. Neither the flight crew nor the command crew would have the codes to activate them. So, three survivors she could see, and at least one more inside the quad. That left one person unaccounted for. There wasn’t any sign of a grave, but that didn’t mean much. Nyx and Lam took their time, slowly circling the camp, trying to decide what to do. In a straightforward survival situation, reuniting with their unit was clearly the right thing to do. But the engines had been sabotaged; of that, they were both certain. At least one person on this transport, and maybe more, had tried to kill them. Well, maybe not, maybe getting the quad down was the purpose, not killing anyone. Still, there was an unknown danger here. Without their tank, without the resources of the quad, there was little she and her sister could do. Hide, survive, and hope for rescue. Or strike out across half a continent of untamed jungle, hoping to reach something resembling civilization, where they could establish communication. Rejoining the group was the only reasonable course of action. But should they both go, or only one of them? If they went together, they could have each other’s backs. But if only one went, they would have an ace up their sleeves, an unexpected advantage. And, as twins, they could swap places as needed; none of the people in the camp knew them well enough to discern between them. Not Apollo or Hep, both of whom had barely met them; certainly not the flight crew, who they’d only seen in passing as they boarded the craft. In the end, uncertainty and caution won out. Even when their ruse was discovered, as it inevitably would have to be, no one could fault them for being paranoid in this situation. Nyx opened her backpack, transferring most of the food, water, and medical supplies to Lam, as well as the remains of her own ‘chute. Lam would be able to make a camp, hopefully far enough out to avoid easy discovery, but close enough to be accessible, and survive there for days on end with no further contact. The plan was for her to continue observing the camp, trying to learn anything she could without direct contact, while Nyx would join the group, and learn what she could from within. They established several locations for meetings or supply drops and set up a schedule of contacts. Finally, after a long embrace, Nyx walked away from her sister and stepped into the encampment.

That was fun!

[url=https://postimages.org/][/url] August Comes to Yesterville A tale of Yesterville By Hippin_In_Hawaii August squinted into the setting sun. At best, they had maybe two hours of good light left. He sighed, then waved to Kevin, who was riding on the adjacent wagon. “Make camp,” he shouted over the dusty gap between them. Kevin gave a thumbs-up, then turned to Stacy on the bench next to him. August watched as Stacy climbed into the back of their wagon, pulled down the green flag from the mast, and raised in its place the yellow with a green bend. August returned to steering. If memory served, and memory always served, there was a lovely site just a few miles down the road on a high bank near the river. It was encircled with trees, which would form a nice windbreak, and there was easy access to fresh water. Plus, it would give him and Squint time to check out the old bridge and the fording options. He reached out to the muscular oxen pulling his tram. They were moving smoothly and not showing any real fatigue. It was a shame, pulling over so early, but crossing the river after dark wasn’t a safe proposition, and neither was splitting the convoy. Even this close to Yesterville, so long as they were outside the box canyon, attacks by scavengers or mutants were a real possibility. August let his awareness sweep back over the length of the convoy, identifying each dray beast in turn. Most were fine. One of Santos’ horses was showing some inflammation in her right fetlock; August turned up the healing and made a mental note to let Santos know. Behind him, the other wagons of the caravan began slowing. As August’s wagon pulled slowly ahead, Kevin dipped in behind him. The caravan usually traveled in a V formation, with August at the point, in order to keep people out of the dust trails from the wagons ahead of them. Ending the day’s travels, the formation would slowly collapse into a single column, which would then form a defensive circle when they reached their campsite. This was the way settlers had originally colonized the north American continent, and to this expedient they had been forced to return. As the campsite came into distant view, August ran up a yellow flag on his wagon’s semaphore pole, the signal for the following wagons to slow. He slowly sang two verses of the Song of Waiting, and as he did so, he began to reach out into the surrounding area, feeling for whatever animal life he could sense. Finding nothing alarming, he pulled the yellow flag down and swapped it for the yellow-and-red for “orderly stop.” The signal would ripple down the convoy. When it reached the last wagon, they would stop. Then the one in front of them would stop. And so on, until August would finally stop. He used his extended awareness to track the oxen behind him rather than twisting awkwardly in his seat as the others had to do. When he felt Kevin’s team slow to a stop, he gently tugged the reins for his own. “Larry,” he said softly, reaching his hand back through the canvas opening to rest on the shaggy flank of the wolf sleeping there. “Time to wake up.” He gently shook the sleeping beast until a low growl informed him that Larry was not ready to awaken. “Come on, don’t be like that. We’re here now. Time for you to go to work!” August spoke to the wolf, a habit he’d developed in his life Before. August had been an animal trainer. He wasn’t someone important, just a line-level trainer for a large company which catered mainly to Hollywood. August’s biggest claim to fame from Before was that he’d helped on that Kevin Costner film, working with Teddi and Buck, the two wolves who had portrayed the character Two Socks. Larry, Curly, and Moe had been rescued from an illegal circus which, sadly, had castrated them to help ensure their domesticity. They had been new acquisitions by the company before the Winds of Death had swept the lands. August suddenly found himself the sole survivor of the company, and with a newfound ability to see, and to some degree, control, the inner workings of animal life. The wolves were not tame, but neither were they wild. August had already formed a bond with Teddi and Buck in the more traditional way of humans and beasts; his newfound abilities were surprisingly helpful in accelerating that process with Larry, Curly, and Moe. So it was that August had become the alpha in a pack of six. That status, in the first few years following the apocalypse, had accounted both for August’s continued survival and his early success. Now, all these decades later, the wolves were still in fantastic health. Just like people who had survived the Winds of Death, animals now had much longer life spans. Even if they didn’t understand English, they and August shared an understanding of what each expected of the other. A series of growls and yips from the wagon told August the pack was awake. “Get up,” he said. Swiftly and silently, five furry bodies slipped from under the canvas flaps draped over the wagon’s frame. His wagon was now surrounded by wolves shaking their manes, stretching their legs, testing the air, and relieving themselves. He let them enjoy a few minutes of waking up before saying “Go. Scout.” Spreading out, the wolves headed into the treeline and disappeared. August reached beneath his seat and pulled out a rifle. This was a known campsite for caravans, and the period between stopping and making camp was when a caravan was most vulnerable. If trouble was waiting for them, this was its opportune moment to emerge. August knew that the other wagoneers were ready. Weapons would be in hand, all bodies awake and on the lookout. August reached out to his wolves, getting a sense of where they were, and what their state was. He couldn’t see what they saw or smell what they smelled; how great would that have been? But he could sense their level of excitement, the spikes in their adrenaline, any responses to pain, aggression, fear, or arousal. Decades of experience allowed him to differentiate between the thrill of chasing a rabbit versus the fury of fighting a rival. After half an hour with no signs of alarm or hostility, August twisted in his seat, leaning out to shout around the side of his wagon to Kevin and Stacy behind him “Make camp!” “Make camp!” He heard Stacy repeat to Gordon’s family behind them. “Make camp!” “Make camp!” “...ake cam...” Fainter and fainter down the chain. August flicked the reins, and the two oxen lumbered forward. August led the caravan into the campsite and, with the expertise of decades, guided his wagon in a circle exactly large enough for them all to fit snugly. Setting up was a flurry of activity, again orchestrated by the long familiarity of most of the participants. Of the 17 wagons present, ten were regulars on August’s caravan. Each wagon had its own preparations, of course; a team of dray beasts to be tended, individual sleeping accommodations to make. There were also community functions to attend to: a communal fire for gathering, a collective kitchen to be unpacked and made functional, defensive posts to be manned, recreation to be organized. Once preparations were well underway, August went looking for Squint. He found him underneath one of the wagons, wrench in hand. “The suspension bracket is pulling loose again,” Squint grunted. “I’m pretty sure the holes are stripping out. When we make Yesterville, we should pull this whole assembly and remount it.” August nodded. “Will it make the rest of the trip?” “Yeah, she’ll do fine. So long as we don’t have to run, she’s got a coupla hundred miles left before things start falling off.” “The tunnel’s just 30 miles away,” said August. “We’ll be there tomorrow evening, if the crossing is good.” “Let’s go see,” said Squint, climbing out from under the wagon. The road to Yesterville crossed a respectable river. There was a bridge from Before, which had been sturdy and magnificent, a mixture of modern technology and medieval styling, with two lanes of traffic in each direction. After close to a century of disrepair, decay had brought the once mighty structure to a pitiable state. Spalling of the inter steel supports had shed huge chunks of concrete; water had penetrated the cracks to be frozen in the harsh winters; plants had found rootholds in the crevices. The bridge hadn’t fallen yet, but when the caravan had last been here, crossing had been sketchy. That was two years ago. Or was it three? As they approached the bridge, August found a spot to sit while Squint began his inspection. Squint’s eyesight, since surviving the Winds of Death, was far keener than anyone else’s August had ever met. The man could literally read a paperback book from a hundred yards away, if the book was still and the light was good. Between his eyesight and his engineering knowledge, August was confident that Squint would know what was best. He plucked a nearby weed to chew while he waited. Squint took his time, and the sun was almost gone before he walked back to August, shaking his head. “That bad?” asked August. “There’s a core of strength left in that bridge. Any number of people, even the oxen, could cross it safely, but in single file. The surface is so cracked and treacherous, it’s mighty doubtful we could get a wagon across. Likely it’d get stuck in crevices several times, and getting it free would be dangerous. Almost as likely an edge could crumble out from under the wheels, and we’d lose it over the side. There’s no way we get 17 wagons across without losing some.” August sighed. They’d known this day was coming. Since it was summer, the river was low, and the current was mild. There were a few spots nearby where fording was an option, but it would cost them a day at least. The soft bottom and banks meant they’d be constantly freeing stuck wagons. It was going to be a long, grueling ordeal, and probably take two days. Well, it was what it was. He’d talk with Ralphie the Magnificent once they reached Yesterville, see if maybe they could be persuaded to make a new bridge. It really was in everyone’s best interests for caravans to be able to access the area. The next two days passed as expected. They were long, hot, muddy, and hard. The work was brutal; almost half of the wagons got mired to one degree or another. But the crossing was otherwise uneventful, and after another day’s travel, sundown found them approaching the tunnel to Yesterville Valley. August had a caravan meeting that evening. “Those of you who have been here before, you know the drill. Those of you who are new, here’s what you need to know. Just on the other side of that tunnel is a lovely place called Ely’s Last Chance. It’s a trade post, run by Ely and his wife Mo. They’re honest traders, and fair. Anyone that tries any underhanded dealings with them, if word gets back to me, you will be invited to leave my convoy. But that’s not all you need to know. “What’s most important is that the Last Chance sits in the middle of a dead zone. Magic don’t work there. It runs in a circle about 300 yards from the building, so even going through the tunnel, we’ll be in it. I know most of you can’t work magic, but if you are old enough to remember Before, you understand that we’re all living longer and stronger than we did back then. That’s magic, keeping us young and healthy. And when you get close to the Last Chance, that magic won’t be there for you. “Some of you are sick, and don’t even know it. Many of you have seen more than 40 years go. And some few unlucky ones of you are in both categories. So long as you stay in the dead zone, you’ll learn the hard way just how much magic has been helping you. If you have a hidden sickness, cancer is a common one, it will begin to act up. You’re going to start feeling old in ways you’ve never experienced. You’ll get tired, and have aches, and just not be yourself. “The longer you stay, the worse it will get. The people who live there, they don’t live much more than 60 or 70 years. They stay because they’re afraid they won’t survive outside that dead zone, that the Winds of Death are still waiting to pounce on them. They’d rather accept a short life than gamble on death. “You can stay a day or two, and not notice much difference. The longer you stay, the more you’ll feel the change. But once you leave the dead zone, most folks get back to normal in about the same time. “So here’s what we’re going to do. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, we’ll break camp and head through that tunnel. Those of you who want to trade at Ely’s, there’s a fine campsite right next to it. About half of my train is gonna stop there. I’ll lead the other half farther up the road, straight on to Castle Yesterville. We’ll be there for two weeks, so those who stop at the Last Chance will have plenty of opportunity to catch up and take care of business in Yesterville.” “What about Oldtown?” August peered at the man across the campfire. He was one of the newcomers. What was his name? Funny name, started with an R. Ruger? Rutger? August couldn’t remember. “Those of you who want to brave Oldtown, your best bet is to set it up through Ralphie the Magnificent. The folks who live in Oldtown, well, they operate on the shady side of what most folks consider decent. You are free to go there as you like, but it never ends well when first-timers decide to go it alone.” “How’s that?” asked the man. Rutner. That was his name. Rutner. “Best case, you get swindled. Worst case, you get dead. S’best you arrange it through Ralphie. Most times he’s willing to take a few wagons there under his protection.” Rutner didn’t seem like the kind of man who listened to good advice. Probably, in his head, he was seeing the benefits of being the first wagon there, imagining getting all the best deals from the Oldtowners. August would be willing to bet that, come the morning, Rutner would head straight to Oldtown as soon as he cleared the tunnel. Well, so be it. He’d told the man how things were. In the distance, a wolf howled. It sounded like Curly. August reached out his senses, feeling the heart rates of his pack all increasing. Adrenaline, anticipation. They were on the hunt! Smiling, August headed back to his wagon to sleep. He was really looking forward to tomorrow; his visits with Ralphie were always rewarding, if challenging.