Previous Chapters: Hek Cro Imp Imp stood watch. He had shimmied up into a tree and wedged himself into a crotch where a great limb protruded. with his back to the mire, and his legs straddling the limb, Imp had an excellent view of anything approaching their camp. Below, and a little to the left, the tiny campfire flickered. Both Cro and Hek were deep asleep, wrapped in mylar, like breakfast burritos, heads pillowed on their packs. Numerous small critters had come to explore the area and take advantage of the fire’s warmth. Imp found that worrisome. It wasn’t that the furry visitors presented any danger, but wild animals tend to be afraid of threats, and both humans and fire usually fell into that category. The fact that so many would venture into a campsite spoke volumes. Imp allowed himself to doze lightly. He was no stranger to sleeping in trees. As a child, his grandfather would often park him in a tree hours before dawn, rifle in hand, so as to have a shot at various wild animals out for their morning forage. Imp hadn’t fallen out of a tree since he was seven. The night passed uneventfully. As the surrounding jungle changed its music and the sky began to lighten, Imp slid down the trunk and walked quietly over to his sleeping comrades. He gently lifted the mylar sheets to peer beneath. Sure enough, coiled up next to Hek was a small python, savoring the warmth. It looked at him as the blanket lifted, opening its mouth in a hostile display. “Go on, now,” Imp said quietly, moving to his left so as to give the snake a clear escape route. “Go freeload somewhere else.” The snake fled into the woods. Imp moved on to check Cro for uninvited guests, but Cro was alone under his sheet. Imp tossed a few more limbs on the dying embers of the campfire, not being particularly quiet about it. Both Hek and Cro began to stir. “Oooooowwwwww,” moaned Cro. “You said it,” grunted Hek. “Gods above, that hurts!” She sat up and reached for her leg. “You two get oriented, then I’ll head out,” Imp said, slipping a protein bar from his pack. “Head out? Where are you going?” asked Cro. “He’s going to look for Mac, silly,” said Hek. “Try not to talk anymore until your brain wakes up. Not that there’s likely to be much difference.” Imp smiled. If they were fighting, they’d be fine. He shouldered his pack and headed west, setting his NetHand to issue emergency pulses every 15 minutes. Once he reached the watercourse, Imp turned north, following it upstream this time. There was no shortage of animal life, most of it working on finding breakfast for the day. Imp ghosted through the brush, trying not to disturb anything’s morning routine. He made sure to scavenge as he went, plucking ripe fruits and pulling edible bulbs as he came across them. There was ample food here, if you knew what you were looking for. An outside observer would see a man moving deliberately through the foliage: his steps carefully chosen so as not to make noise; his body sliding effortlessly between outreaching branches or fronds; his face a study in serenity. It would seem almost a choreographed dance, a ballet, a display of grace completely at odds with the formidable character performing it. And it would be completely deceptive. Although his face was placid and his movements refined, Imp’s mind was racing. One part was simply absorbing and processing. This was a largely unconscious effort, a skill that he had learned (like so many things) from his grandfather. The jungle was speaking, and Imp was listening. The scratch marks on that tree likely came from a cat. Not large enough to be a threat, maybe worth stalking to make a meal. The gnawed-off fern stalks spoke of a small herbivore, maybe a rodent. Rooting in the soil came from pigs; a small sounder had grazed here yesterday. Those bent fronds meant something large had pushed through the thicket; the small tuft of fur suggested another cat, this one much larger. His grandfather had called this the Tao of Hunting. Imp doubted that the old man had ever studied Tao, but what was in a name? That which we call a rose, etc, etc. A second part of his mind was pulling and chewing at the small handful of facts Imp had, and the long list of questions he needed answered. Why would someone choose to crash the transport here? Was Mac part of it? If not, why wasn’t he responding to the NetHand signals? How was he going to keep Cro and Hek safe, given their injuries, as they searched for the transport’s crash site? What had become of the others? Even if they found the quad, what next? This is where most of Imp’s conscious thought was focused. A third part was remembering his grandfather. Imp’s grandfather had been the positive guiding force of Imp’s childhood. Imp’s father...well, even villains have lessons to teach. But Imp found that, when he wasn’t sure of things, thinking about his grandfather helped. Sometimes Imp could unearth a memory of some life lesson or homily that was relevant, but even if that wasn’t the case, just thinking about his grandfather, and the lessons he’d tried to teach Imp, and the times they had shared, and remembering the details of the old man’s smile, and his large, gentle hands, and his quick smile and disapproving scowl, and the laugh lines around his eyes, and a thousand other things, helped bring order to Imp’s soul. Imp had been following the river for almost an hour when he found the bridge. He froze where he was and turned all of his brain to the zen state of the hunter. “Patience of a tree, eyes of a hawk, ears of rabbit, body made of stone.” Grandfather’s mantra, the last conscious thought Imp allowed himself for now. Slowly, slowly, making not a sound, Imp lowered himself into a crouch, and waited. Nothing sounded out of place. The jungle continued its normal, indifferent song. Imp mentally began to sing “The Waiting Song,” a ditty of his grandfather’s they would use to mark time. A hundred men went to battle Ninety-nine men came home Ninety-eight men hugged their families One man dined alone Ninety-six men polished their armor Ninety-five men stabled their steeds Ninety-four men thanked their creator For sparing their lives from fell deeds The full chant took about ten minutes if you kept the proper rhythm. Imp kept the proper rhythm. After the last stanza, nothing had changed, and Imp began to creep forward, as slowly as the lengthening shadows of sunrise. He’d barely been able to see the bridge when he froze; now, creeping forward, he made out details. It was made from hewn trees, their trunks stripped free of branches, lashed together with handmade rope. As he crept closer, he could see a small clearing at either end. On the far side of the river, there were three clearly-discernible trails exiting that clearing. On this side, there were myriad trails, all much smaller and less well-defined. Imp stayed in the underbrush surrounding the clearing, careful not to break cover. Once he was confident he understood the likely traffic patterns, he melted farther back into a thicket of ferns, and relaxed into a crouch, doing what his grandfather called “hunkerin’ down fer a spell.” Slipping out his NetHand, Imp began composing a message in the Morse app. Since he had been pushing emergency pulses all morning, there didn’t seem to be anything to be gained from observing radio silence now. If the builders of that bridge were technologically advanced, they’d had ample warning of Imp’s approach, and surely expected him to encounter this bridge. Imp took his time, striving for a balance between economy of language and sufficient detail: “found a bridge stop we are not alone stop surveilling stop twostep forward stop over”. Twostep forward was an indication that authentication would be expected on all future communication. If his friends were following protocol (and Hek always followed protocol), all he would get back at the moment was a confirmation. “x” came the reply. Imp settled in for a long wait, letting the Tao of Hunting wash over him. No conscious thought, just an awareness, an acceptance, an integration with the flow of the world around him. Midday came and went, the heat of the jungle rising from uncomfortable to stifling. The song of the jungle gently waned from active to torpid. Imp continued simply to be. The afternoon passed, and the worst of the heat broke. As the sky began to color, Imp allowed some conscious thought. While he really wanted to stay and see who used that bridge, trying to find his way back to camp after sunset was not his most intelligent play. He would have to make a call on that soon. Gently, he slipped out his NetHand. “polka stop no activity stop return q stop over”. “exotic stop return stop over out” was the reply. While the twostep authentication protocol was far from foolproof, Imp was pretty certain that the message was from his friends. Even a clever codebreaker would need more than one iteration to understand how it operated, and then, they would still lack the list of codewords. “Twostep” identified the proper referents as the names of dances. “Forward” meant that the names had to come in reverse order. Each of the names would have to begin with the letters which made up the name of the initial dance, but used in reverse order. Someone who had 4 or 5 transmissions to look at would get the pattern quickly enough, but still be unsure which dance to use when “w” came up. A wrong answer would let everyone know that something was amiss, and communications were not to be trusted. Unless Hek and/or Cro were in on it. But that was a tangle Imp had no way to resolve, if it were true. His choice at the moment was simple; return to them, or not. Imp melted into the jungle, heading back to camp.

It is intended to be a chapter in a larger story, yes. Last Chance is just a name. It's a common name for things located on the outskirts of a town when a long journey is required to reach the next such place. Last Chance Casino, Last Chance Cafe, Last Chance Gas-n-Go... in this case, it once was the last chance for people to buy souvenirs of their vacation in Yesterville. Now, it's the last chance for people leaving the safety of the valley. Other stories in the series include: Ralphie the Magnificent The Beginning I started this because I wanted to participate in a shared world anthology. I may just have to take it and run with it, though.

Well done, one and all!

Not to worry, the next rash of characters will feature noteworthies such as Al, Bo, Sy, Ti, Ed, Jo, and, of course Emilio.

The naming convention will become pretty clear in another chapter or two. The fact that all of the names so far lend themselves to three letter nicknames isn't significant, unless you're trying to figure out what the theme is. Imp, Hek, Mac, Cro... all nicknames. The real names are more of a mouthful.

Previous Chapters: Hek Cro Imp He hated to leave Hek and Cro behind, but the Mac situation had to be investigated, and Imp was the only one able to travel effectively. He took a compass bearing on the farthest tree he could see that was due west, and headed out. Imp had been raised as an outdoorsman. Moving silently through the undergrowth came naturally to him, as did the unconscious observation that so puzzled his teammates. Imp’s brain excelled at piecing things together, and he did not like the shape that this puzzle was beginning to form. That they had been sabotaged, Imp had no doubt. The ping of the stator locks engaging was a distinctive, unique sound; he wasn’t mistaken about that. Getting those locks to engage would require some fairly advanced hacking. He didn’t know this for a fact, and he certainly didn’t have the skills to do it, but it stood to reason. Multi-million credit aircraft simply don’t have a “ruin the engines” switch. So, someone on the plane wanted it disabled; wanted it to crash out here in the middle of the jungle. Why? Then there was Mac. Mac had failed to respond to any communications traffic, despite being well within range. Had his ‘chute actually failed to deploy, or had Mac staged that, counting on the emergency ‘chute to get him down first so he could disappear? Imp didn’t have enough information to know, but the possibility was worrisome. If Mac were the saboteur, and Imp were to find him alone out here in the jungle, how might that encounter play out? After a bit over an hour, Imp heard the sound of running water. Soon he was standing on the bank of a small river. The bank was steep, slick-looking, and riddled with tree roots; more of a giant erosion gully than a proper riverbank. The other side was only about five meters away. The water was smooth, but the bits of jungle flotsam on the surface were moving quickly from right to left. So, the current was fast, and the water was deep. The banks would be difficult to climb. Trying to cross this was clearly a Bad Idea. Imp pulled out his NetHand. “Imp to Hek. Imp to Hek. Respond, please. Over.” “Hek here,” came her feminine voice from the tiny speaker. “Go ahead. Over.” “I’ve come to a waterway, flowing roughly from north to south. Not easily fordable. I’m going to send a few emergency pulses and see if I get a response from Mac. If not, I’ll scout around for a crossing. Over.” “Acknowledged. Over.” “How are things there? Over.” “Cro is about halfway free. I’m setting up a camp. So far, we haven’t heard anything more. Over.” “Copy that. Over and out.” Imp swiped over to the emergency beacon and triggered a pulse. He then backtrack a little to where he’d passed a Maracuya vine. Most of the fruits had gotten overripe and fallen to the ground; their pulpy masses covered in flies and ants, but a couple were still intact on the vine. He plucked one, sliced the top off, and squeezed the contents into his mouth. They’d never been his favorites: too many seeds. Still, free food was free food. After 10 minutes had passed, Imp sent another emergency pulse. Seconds ticked by, turning into a minute. There was no reply. Imp picked the other fruit and walked back to the river. Stream? It was narrow enough that the trees on either side still merged their branches in an unbroken canopy, so it couldn’t be seen from above. It was wide and deep enough that crossing it wasn’t practical. Imp looked thoughtfully up the waterway to the north, spending several minutes peering at the banks and the surface of the water. Then he did the same thing looking to the south. Neither direction looked particularly promising. “When in doubt, go with the flow,” he said to himself, repeating folk wisdom shared by his grandfather. He headed south, sucking the contents from the fruit in his hand. He heard the monkeys long before he saw them. They were chattering and having a fine time, close to the ground, not far ahead. Imp guessed they were playing in the river. Did that mean a calm place? Maybe a safe place to cross? The breeze, what little there was of it, was in his face; Imp slid forward with the stealth of cat. A smallish tree had toppled into the river, its roots undercut by erosion. The monkeys were all on that trunk, using it as a ramp to get down to the water. The upper branches reached up through the water’s surface from the submerged bole; some of the monkeys were enjoying a bath, holding onto those limbs to avoid being swept away. A tree like that would make it easier to escape the river on this side, but it didn’t do much in terms of facilitating a crossing. Still, if Mac had tried to swim across from the far side, the current may have carried him here. There would be signs of his exit. There were a lot of monkeys. More than 30. There were babies and children. Imp mentally sighed. He didn’t want to end up engaged in monkey combat. The large ones were big enough to pose a serious threat; their fangs were several centimeters long. Even if they weren’t in the mood for a fight, monkeys were notoriously resentful of intruders; the best he could hope for was to have them in the trees above him, flinging sticks and excrement, and urinating on his head. He squatted and pondered his options. Avoiding them was certainly possible. He could either circle around and continue scouting farther downstream, or backtrack and check out the upstream bank. But an easy access point like this deserved a proper look-see. If Mac had found this tree, there’s a fair chance he would have tried to cross here. Imp eyed the sky, the tiny flashes he could see through the green canopy overhead. He had maybe two hours before he’d have to choose between rejoining Hek and Cro or overnighting alone in the jungle. What to do? Suddenly the timbre of the monkeys’ noise changed radically. Where it had been raucous before, the sound of a large family gathering, it now sounded frantic. Imp slid forward to peer between some fronds. The monkeys had abandoned the fallen trunk. Most of them were up in the limbs of adjacent trees; a few were perched on the edge of the riverbank, screeching down at the water. Imp couldn’t see what they were yelling at, but an easy guess was that some water-dwelling predator had made, or tried to make, a quick snack of a monkey. He settled further back into concealment. The monkeys would likely move on now that they no longer felt safe; he need only be patient. It was a shame he hadn’t seen the actual incident. Was the predator large enough to threaten a person? Had it been a black caiman? An anaconda? Maybe even a giant river otter? He would dearly love to see one of those! Regardless, the presence of a river predator only served to confirm Imp’s assessment that crossing to look for Mac was a Bad Idea. After maybe 20 minutes, he no longer heard any trace of the monkeys. Carefully moving forward, peering out through gaps in the foliage, Imp spent an honest five minutes surveilling the area before gently breaking cover and stepping out. There were no monkeys to be seen. He cautiously approached the fallen tree, looking for signs that someone may have climbed out of the river here. The monkeys had done a bang-up job of complicating that task. Any subtle traces like a boot print or a drip trail would have been obliterated by monkey shenanigans. Imp instead focused on the outskirts of the clearing where a person would have to force their way into the undergrowth. He was careful and methodical, still mindful of the possibility that Mac may be trying to avoid detection. After nearly half an hour, Imp was sure that if anyone had been here, it was someone whose skills at woodcraft exceeded his own. More likely, though, no one had been here. He toggled another emergency pulse then continued south. Over the next hour, he did encounter a couple of other places were escaping the river on this side would be marginally easier than trying to climb the steep bank. Neither of them showed any sign of use. “So much for downstream,” he thought to himself as he pulled out his NetHand. “Imp to Hek. Imp to Hek. Over.” “Cro … ...al weak… ver.” Huh. The range on these little units was really pitiful. Imp swiped to the Morse app and began typing. It was a much simpler signal than voice or data, just a radio pulse, so should carry better. He carefully typed in “no sign stop return q stop over”. He set the transmit option to slow and the repeat for three times, then pressed the initiate button. Imp was perfectly capable of tapping out his own message, but why not let the device handle the tedium? A few moments passed before a return message came in. Imp deciphered it in his head even as the NetHand provided a letter-by-letter readout. Dot-dot-dash: U. Dash-dot: N. Dash-dot-dot: D. “understood stop confirm return stop enabling beacon stop over out”. Imp nodded and swiped over to directional tracking. The NetHand would lead him straight back to his teammates, taking the uncertainty of compass-based orienteering out of the equation. Actually, Imp reflected, since he had no map, it wasn’t even orienteering, it was dead reckoning. “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!” He quoted his grandfather to himself as he headed back.

It has certainly been quiet for a while!

Yep! I'm a Reporter. The hat comes with that job. I'm not a Helper, though.

To the best of my knowledge, I'm not!

Ely’s Last Chance “Eeeeeeeeee-lyyyYYYYY!” The shrill note wound its way up the stairs, down the corridor, around the corner, and through the door into Ely’s room. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEE-LYYyyyyyyyy!” followed on its heels. Ely sighed. Setting down the carving he’d been working on, taking advantage of the afternoon light passing through the window, he turned and headed to the source of the disruption. He worried that if he delayed too long, the shrill noise may well cause the building to collapse. Trotting down the stairs, he saw his mother at work behind the counter, sorting items just taken in as part of a trade. “Ely, did you get those new crates moved up here like your momma asked?” “No, Mo,” responded Ely. “Hai, an’ why not?” “Mo, ain’t noone gonna trade for some sixty year old cans of pork and beans,” responded Ely. “Like as not, they’re just cans of painful death. Best case is they’re cans of unpleasant diarrhea. We oughta just chuck ‘em.” “Listen at who’s an expert on running the Last Chance, now. You go an’ do what your momma told ya! An what was you doin’ up there anyways, in the middle o’ the day?” “I was working on a carving, Mo.” Ely became more animated. “I found this amazing branch in the stream last fall. It’s got this giant knot, and the grain is so lovely! I been hanging it in the cellar to dry, and it’s ready to work. There’s a beautiful woman hiding inside!” Ely’s mother nodded. Her son’s carvings always fetched a good trade, from those with the abundance to spend on luxuries. “Alright, you get back to your carving. That’ll fetch more than some mouldy old beans. I’ll getcher pa to work on them.” As Ely trotted back up the stairs, he heard his mother summoning his dad: “EEEEeeeee-lyyyYYYY!!” It was amazing to Ely that he, his father, and his grandfather, all of whom were named Ely, could always tell for whom the yell was intended. It seemed to Ely (Ely IV, for reference) that this time, the yell didn’t even follow him up the stairs. South of Yesterville and Oldtown, at the foot of the mountains, just before the tunnel that leads to the rest of the world, stands Ely’s Last Chance. Years ago, in the Before, Ely’s had been a tourist trap. It was a snare designed to pry a few dollars more from the depleted wallets of weary travellers heading home from their vacations, but perhaps short of trinkets to share with their friends. Specializing in kitsch, knicknacks, and a wide variety of snacks and sugary caffeinated beverages, it wasn’t the sort of place one would expect to survive an apocalypse. It was, however, a fairly imposing edifice, made of quarried stone, a scale model of what Castle Yesterday was intended to become. As such, it was also a popular photo-op. Well, it had been, Before. Ely III had been enjoying a good sit out on the covered porch with his dad, Ely Jr. They both had their pipes going and were pretending they could blow smoke rings. “How’d that one look, son?” asked the eldest Ely. “Damned near perfect, Pa,” lied Ely. “And it’s still going strong! Lookit, practically out to the fence!” The elder Ely’s eyes weren’t terribly useful anymore, so like any loving son, Ely felt free to lie to his father in ways to keep his spirits high. “EEEEeeeee-lyyyYYYY!!” “She’s callin you, son,” said the older Ely. “Mind, when she’s done with you, maybe fetch your old man back a pint?” “Soon’s I can, Pa,” chuckled Ely, setting his pipe on table beside the rocker. Ely’s wife had a name, but no one had used it since she was a wee thing. She’d had a speech impediment, and the closest to pronouncing her own name she could ever manage was “Mo.” Not wanting her to be self-conscious about her speech, her grandfather also called her “Mo.” Ely (the original) took it up, as did her parents and the other denizens of the Last Chance. Years later, after she’d learned to speak correctly, it never occurred to her that there was anything wrong with “Mo.” “Whatcha need, my flower?” Mo blushed. “Hai, an you’re a sweet-tongued devil, you are!” Ely chuckled. “Hai, an that’s why ya love me!” “Oh, don’t be workin’ your charms now, dearest. I need you to get below and start pulling up them cases of pork and beans.” Ely thought for a second. “Expectin’ a caravan?” Mo nodded. “Hestor was just through, said he passed one on the road a few days’ ride to the south. Caravans love canned goods from Before. Always someone somewhere to find ‘em precious!” “You thinking we need the whole lot?” “Nah, maybe bring up a dozen cases. Enough to make sure and catch their eye. If’n they’re interested, we can get them to do the rest o’ the heavy lifting.” Ely nodded. Mo really was sharp when it came to running the Last Chance. He turned and headed for the cellar door. Back on the porch, Ely Jr. tried to keep his pipe going, but it was determined to go out. So, he knocked the dottle into the palm of his hand, flung it towards the yard, and began packing a new bowl. Most of it he could do by touch, although lighting it without burning himself proved a challenge. His eyes really weren’t worth much anymore, but he was getting old. He’d only been five when the Winds of Death had swept the world clean; he was 65 now, give or take a year or three. Word was that the sorcerer Ralphie up at Castle Yesterday could probably help him. But, like so many of the denizens of the Last Chance, Ely had never left. And Ralphie would not come here. The sorcerer had tried a few times, when Ely was in his teens, but always stopped before getting too close. At his last attempted visit, roughly 50 years ago, Ralphie had planted a red post in the ground, about 300 paces from the Last Chance’s front door. He later sent word, via a magnificent parchment, that he would come no closer than that post, and recommending that noone who had spent their lives in Ely’s should ever venture any farther. Perhaps the strangest thing about Ely’s Last Chance was that during the Winds of Death, no one died there. Ely (the original) and his family lived in the upper floor of their miniature kingdom. Not one of them succumbed. Not one of their employees fell ill, at least while they stayed close. Most who left never returned, but why would they? They all had homes and families to try and return to, and the world was falling apart. Of course they never came back! There was one notable case, though. An accountant named Howard Johansen was trying to get home, but stopped at the Last Chance, feeling very ill. Ely and his family took the man upstairs to rest. They tried to summon medical aid, but the Winds of Death were just getting started, and no aid came. Howard recovered, or mostly recovered, within a couple of days. He stayed one day longer, then left to get home to his family. The last Ely saw of Howard was as his tan Buick headed south. A few weeks later, a small band of survivors came through the tunnel, coming to check on the Yesterville community. They reported passing a tan Buick not far outside the tunnel; the sole occupant, dead. It was suggestive that, somehow, Ely’s Last Chance was immune. The case of Howard Johansen had been enough for Ely I, a superstitious man anyway, to lay down the law: no one in his family was to leave the Last Chance. The later recommendations of Ralphie the Magnificent served to reinforce and better define the law, driving home its import to Ely Jr. as well. Sixty years passed. Ely’s became both the defensive checkpoint and the trading post for Oldtown, Yesterville, and whatever lay beyond. Ely and his family aged and died, living normal lives by the standards of Before, and his descendants carried on. Ely begat Ely Jr., who begat Ely III, who begat Ely IV. Four hadn’t done any begatting yet, but was certainly trying.

Ralphie the Magnificent By Hippin_In_Hawaii Ralphie sighed and closed the cover of the mystic tome. He frowned at the row of wands laid out on the table. After over 60 years of effort, since his childhood when the Winds of Death had depopulated the world and awakened his own special powers, he still could not find a combination of wand, motion, and spell to produce a tangible result. It must be the lack of a phoenix feather. Ralphie knew himself to be a sorcerer, and he faithfully tried every summer, re-reading the tomes, practicing the motions and the incantations, and trying wand after wand. Even if he could get just the Lumos spell to work, that would be of immeasurable aid in fighting the spirits. “Next year, Wizard Potter. Next year.” Ralphie turned and look at the shelves of his library. It was piled high and in disarray, as befitted a sorcerer, and contained the sum knowledge of magic as documented from Before. There were no books on that shelf Ralphie hadn’t read thrice over. They were written by the great historians like Rowling, Tolkien, Jordan, and Disney. And still, he could not duplicate the powers described in any of them. He sighed again. Looking out the window, he saw the day was bright and clear. “Lynda!” he bellowed. Lynda scuttled in from the next room. “Yes, sire?” “Prepare Dumbledore and Gandalf. We’re going to the Library.” Lynda didn’t waste time with a reply; she knew Ralphie expected instant and unconditional obedience from his apprentice. Ralphie returned his gaze to the bookshelf. “So much knowledge, yet still I fail. Why?” He turned away, gathering some other books to return. Swadling them in their waterproof wrappings, he began packing them into sacks for Lynda to carry down to the mules. Oldtown was a couple of hours away by foot. Ralphie went first, leading Dumbledore. Lynda followed, with Gandalf trailing behind. Both of the mules were carrying heavy packs. Gandalf bore the precious cargo of books that Ralphie was returning, while Dumbledore was laden with a range of foodstuffs and potions. Ralphie let his mind wander as they walked. The sun was warm and the road was dusty. Ralphie idly speculated on whether he could finally get some form of weather control to work, but he knew that he lacked any of the ordained artifacts. He couldn’t even sense the currents that moved the clouds. For most people, approaching Oldtown was a hazardous affair. The scavengers that lived there weren’t kindly disposed towards the folk from Yesterville. Ralphie was the exception; a sorcerer goes where he pleases. The Oldtowners were both scared by, and appreciative of, Ralphie. They knew the power he wielded and were anxious to stay on his good side. Although Ralphie always brought gifts for the people, and used his powers to ease the suffering of the sick and injured, there was no Oldtowner who didn’t fear what might happen should he be provoked. “You! Stand your ground!” rang a harsh voice from a collapsing building as Ralphie’s short column entered the outskirts of Oldtown. “Hai, an’ shut your mouth, Jarven! Don’t you know a sorcerer when you see one?” shouted Lynda, her thin voice quavering. Ralphie made a subtle sign with his fingers so that Lynda could see his approval. Her ability to recognize auras was coming along nicely. Other than that tiny twitch, though, Ralphie did not acknowledge the shout in any way. He kept walking, and Lynda kept following. “I said stand your ground!” came a second shout. The audible twang of a bowstring preceded the appearance of a fletched shaft in the dirt before Ralphie’s feet by a fraction of a second. “Hai, Jarven, you’ve earned this!” screamed Lynda, her young vocal cords not carrying the menace she clearly hoped to impart. She raised her hand. “Hold,” said Ralphie, stopping and turning to face Lynda. “Never in anger. Never in fear. Never in passion release what you cannot recall.” Lynda’s lip trembled. “He threatened us, master.” Ralphie shrugged. “He is no threat. What can he do? What harm will an arrow bring the likes of us?” Ralphie turned to face the building. “Jarven Holsten, come here.” The man emerged from cover, bow drawn and aimed at Ralphie. “Jarven, what is this? Why do you greet me so?” “You refuse to heal me. Year after year, you force me to beg, and year after year, you leave me ill. Hai, an’ I’ve had enough of it. You’ll heal me, or I’ll take you with me into the next world.” Ralphie looked deep inside Jarven. He could see the tumors around the man’s stomach, and see the slightly wrong cast of the surrounding flesh. The tumors were bad this time; there was no doubt that Jarven was in agony. Ralphie sighed. “Climb up on Gandalf, Jarven. Let us carry you to the Library, where you know we are bound. There, let me look at you, and do what I can.” “You’ll help me now, or by the Winds of Death, I’ll shoot you where you stand.” “Shoot, then, Jarven, and be done with it.” Ralphie slowed his heart and constricted his veins, wanting to minimize blood loss if Jarven made good on his threat. Jarven aimed, dramatically pulled the bowstring even farther back, then slowly lowered the bow. His shoulders slumped, and sobs escaped him. “It hurts so bad, sire. It hurts so bad.” Ralphie took Jarven’s shoulders and steered him to Gandalf’s side. “Ride with us, Jarven. I’ll do what I can.” The Oldtowners gathered respectfully in the courtyard outside the Library. Ralphie nodded to them as he approached. It was a well-practiced ritual, familiar to both sides. Lynda worked on unpacking the supplies, leaving the residents to pull down the bundles of books for the Librarian. Ralphie pushed the heavy Library doors open and walked inside. “Hai, Sorcerer! Sure now, an’ it’s been a long time.” “Samual, my old friend. It has been long. Too long, perhaps. Jarven is doing poorly.” The Librarian nodded, walking up and clasping Ralphie’s hand warmly. “Yes, he’s in a bad way.” “You know you can bring him to me in the castle anytime.” “And you know, my friend, that many will not leave Oldtown. They believe the stories. They do not wish to court death.” Ralphie nodded. “There is truth in ancient tales.” “Did the books I selected last time please you?” “As always, old friend! Knowledge is a joy, even if one does not find the answers one seeks.” “And what will you seek next?” Ralphie sighed. “Books on the body. Books by the doctors of old. Books on this thing called cancer. Books for young physicians’ apprentices.” The Librarian frowned. “You remember what happened the last time you essayed this path.” “Only too well. I still have nightmares.” This was no exaggeration. Ralphie’s early attempts to cure cancer had proven disastrous, and inflicted horrific deaths on his patients. Their screams still kept him up at nights, all these many decades later. “As you wish. I will provide.” Ralphie clasped the Librarian’s hand again, then turned and left the Library. Outside, the Oldtowners had formed a line, and a rather lengthy one. Ralphie sighed again. He had been away too long. He strode forward and took a seat that had been provided, waving the first in line forward. “What ails thee?” “My foot, my lord,” replied the woman, limping up. “I dropped some firewood on it in the spring, and it’s nae been whole since.” Ralphie looked at the foot, and could clearly see several small breaks that had begun healing improperly. “Lynda, cheese and milk.” He looked at the woman. “You will feel an intense heat for a time, as if you were standing in scalding water. This will be normal. I could block the pain, but if I do, your foot and leg will be numb until I return. For as long as the burning lasts, eat as much milk and cheese as you can stomach. It will be several days. Do you understand?” “I do, my lord.” “And you wish me to proceed?” “Please.” Ralphie took the foot in his hands. Looking at the poorly-healing injuries, he applied pressure to break them free and realign the small bones properly. The woman gasped but did not cry out. Ralphie then opened his perception to the woman’s body, seeking her own healing system. The glow was there, but hard to see. “The rest of you, lay hands on me.” The Oldtowners surged forward, placing their hands wherever they could reach. Every person’s touch strengthened the magic, and Ralphie could see the woman’s healing potential clearly. Silently, with intense concentration, he willed her body to repair the broken bones. Even as he watched, the areas around the fractures began to glow a healing green. Good. He scanned the rest of her body, looking for other things in need of healing, but finding nothing. Again, good. Ralphie relaxed, letting the magic fade. “I’m done. Stay off that foot as much as you can. Here, take a seat by me. You can help with the rest.” “Hai, an’ it burns,” she laughed. “Truth teller, that’s what you are!” Ralphie worked his way through the line, one ailment at a time. Breaks and strains were the most common complaints; it was rare that an illness manifested. And so it progressed. The Oldtowners would lay hands on Ralphie, adding their magic strength to his. Ralphie would wield the power, influencing bodies to heal themselves in accelerated fashion. Lynda would produce whatever the Sorcerer demanded from Dumbledore’s packs. So it continued, until all were done except for one. Jarven stood there before the sorcerer, hunched over in pain. Ralphie took a deep breath, gathering his will. “Lay hands on me,” he commanded. The crowd complied. Jarven’s tumors were an easy fix. Ralphie could mark them, instruct Jarven’s own healing abilities what to do, make sure Jarven ate plenty of leafy green vegetables, and the smallest tumors would be gone in mere days. The largest would take about two weeks. But the tumors kept returning. Ralphie could see the cause, see the tissue in Jarven’s abdomen that wasn’t quite the right color. He knew that doctors of old had called this cancer, but he didn’t know how to combat it. His understanding of the malady, and of the subtle touches needed to fight it, were inadequate. And he knew the consequences of getting an attempted cure wrong. The body could attack itself, literally heal itself to death. It was the stuff of nightmares. Ralphie relaxed and opened his mouth to speak. “Spinach and kale again?” asked Jarven. Ralphie closed his mouth and nodded. “For at least two weeks after the pain subsides. As much as you can stomach.” Jarven nodded. “Thank you, sire. See you again next time.” He turned to go. “Wait,” said Ralphie. “Jarven, I’ve asked the Librarian for all the books on cancer, and on medical training. I will research this thing again. I will try to find a way to help you.” Jarven’s eyes glistened with tears. He ran to Ralphie, gave the sorcerer a hug (much to the chagrin of Lynda and the delight of the crowd), then turned and shuffled away. The rest of the crowd made gestures of obeisance and also wandered away. “Lynda, go help Samual bring the books out here and load Dumbledore. We’ll leave as soon as you’re done.” The sun was setting as Ralphie and Lynda returned to the road. They had accepted the gift of a meal with Samual before leaving, and Ralphie had enjoyed catching up with his childhood friend. Now, as they plodded through the deepening gloom, Ralphie’s thoughts turned to his promise. Rabbits. He was going to have to ask Nathan to breed a surplus of rabbits. The thought of how most of them would die was unpleasant, but Jarven’s need was great. But these dark thoughts were no fit companion for a traveler on a dark night. He took a deep breath and began singing one of the time-honored ballads of greater magic. “Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo…”

It's amazing the advances that get made in fluid tech between now and the 2160s!

In case it's not obvious, this chapter marks the end of the Molly's saga. I'd love to have some discussion about not just this chapter, but the series as a whole. This is the first time I targeted a young audience, hoping to appeal to tweens and teens. How'd I do? Is Tad male, female, or other? What particularly appealed to you? What particularly did I mess up?

Molly’s - Chapter 20 Fanfic in the Tankiverse “Pick one,” she said. It was my first day back at Molly’s. Olaf and crew had moved on. Their farewell party was the most bittersweet thing I’ve ever experienced. I was settling back into my old life, starting classes with people who I had been a year ahead of, and generally trying to get my feet under me again. A year on the road had changed so much of my routine and my perspective that my head was swimming as I struggled to fit back into “civilian” life. I had taken a couple of weeks off from Molly’s so that I could focus on re-integration, but I couldn’t stay away for long. Tanks were in my blood now. “Any one.” They had kept my locker, as promised. I’d picked up a few special tools while on the road, and had been given parting gifts by several of Olaf’s crew, and welcome home gifts by everyone at Molly’s. My first task was going to be reorganizing my locker to fit all the new tools, but Molly had interrupted me, taking me by the arm and marching me outside. “You’ve completed your apprenticeship. In order to get Guild-certified as a Journeyman, you need to build your own tank. Now pick.” I stood there, looking at the derelicts before me. Large or small, clean or rusty, intact or shattered, there was a field of potential. “Let me know when you’ve made your choice,” she said. “Is Twee around?” I asked quietly, the magnitude of this unexpected choice slowly sinking in. “He’ll be here tomorrow morning.” I skipped school to ride out and meet Twee. Together, we roamed Molly’s yard, looking at hull after hull. Twee never once offered an opinion, but would help me think through each tank I stopped to look at. “This one could be quick,” I’d say, looking at a small body. “Yep,” he’d answer. “Look at how much the side armor is pounded, though. Look at her lines. The frame is twisted. She’ll never steer true.” And so it went. If Twee was in town, I would skip school to spend time with him at my side, wandering the graveyard. I spent nine days, spread out over a month, making my choice. I finally went with a medium hull, the one they call Hunter. Molly used the crane to move it adjacent to the work bays. For the last three years, I’ve worked on that tank with every spare minute. Molly was as generous as she could be, letting me park it in the bays if business was slow, sometimes even letting Maurine, Gran, or Conrad help me out. She cut me as much slack as possible on pricing. I could take my pick of components from incoming salvage, and she’d let me have them for her cost. Even with her generosity, though, there’s no way I or my parents could afford to build a tank. I needed a sponsor. I needed Ted. Suddenly, I understood why Olaf had sent me on that side job. He’d hoped that Ted and I would bond, and that I could parlay our shared experience into a sponsorship. Ted was thrilled when I reached out to him, and actually offered his support before I got the chance to ask. His only requirement was that I help him develop refinements to his momentum bank design, which had (as predicted) cost him his last battle. Molly supplied the hardware and the garage. Ted financed whatever needed to be financed. I supplied most of the blood, sweat, and tears. We all contributed to the design, although Nancy, Molly’s mother, really mentored me on that part. She still never really liked me, but she couldn’t stand the idea of not being involved. And now, just a few weeks short of my 19th birthday, I’ll be taking the Tadpole-I into battle for the first time. Then, win or lose, I’ll officially become a Guild-certified Journeyman. Afterwards, this Fall, I’ll be heading off to the university, where I’ve got a scholarship to study engineering. I’m not going to lie to you; I am scared silly. I’ve spend three years working on this tank, and I love her. The idea of driving out there and letting someone actually shoot at me is appalling. My plan, such as it is, involves hiding, sneaking up, and jumping on them from behind. We’ll see how that goes. I guess I’m a tadpole no longer. Time to set that name aside until a new tadpole comes along; time to choose my own. My name is Calico Grimalkin. You can call me Cal. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some ass to kick.

Thanks for making it! I enjoy the little bit of flash it brings to the page!

Two reasons, I think. First, if Tadpole became Fred, then the storyline is self-terminating. Tad enrolls in the service; cue the Tanker Fred series. This way, if I decide to return to Tadpole's life farther down the timeline, it's an option. Second, I wanted to begin exploring a world where competitive tanking was a thing. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the world where tanks are engines of war, and that theme is continuing in the One-Eyed Man series. But I also wanted to play in a world where tanks are entertainment. I'm pretty sure I'll return to that at some point, maybe from the perspective of the participants, maybe from the view of the sportscasters or even a die-hard fan (still working the details.) By using Molly's to establish what the future of the Tankiverse looks like, circa 2158 - 2165, I effectively give myself a second world to play in! This is the penultimate Molly's story, although I may do a couple of one-offs.

That's a completely reasonable leap, and one I toyed with when I was formulating the idea for the series.

Ok, I have (I think) set up a Discord server for the anthology project. If you're interested in playing, PM me for an invite!

I'm not saying that today's popular gods aren't included. Just saying that that no one really ever claimed a monopoly the way a couple of attention-hogging deities did in our universe. YHWH and family are still known and worshipped, but so are Horus, Shiva, Apollo, Balor, Ny-Rakath... you get the idea. Rather than 1/3 of the planet being Christian, it's somewhere around 0.25%. I don't think I used "jeez" anywhere, but there are a couple of "Jesus" and "Jesus Christ" back in the Tanker Fred series. That's set roughly in contemporary times; Molly's is set over a hundred years later. Theism in general wanes quite a bit in the intervening years. But even in the One-Eyed Man saga so far, which is set only shortly after Tanker Fred, the references are plural.

Thanks for the kind words! And I'll be sure to find a place for "axaxaxaxa hy6" somewhere down the road! ;) As far as "how do you..." I honestly have no idea. In part, I've been an avid reader since I was tiny. Having all of that in my head helps. But often, when I sit down to write, I just feel as if I've been possessed. Something takes control of my fingers, and these words just flow out. I'm sitting here at the keyboard, typing, and waiting to see what happens next!

Ohmygods... This isn't the first indication that polytheism is commonplace in the Tankiverse. All through Molly's and General Fred, any reference to divinity has been plural. "Gods above" was used a few times, and also just "Gods..." as an expression of dismay. It's not overt, except in the Halloween story "Crossing Over." It's just one of the differences between the Tankiverse and our very similar universe.

Molly’s - Chapter 19 Fanfic in the Tankiverse The other story I need to tell about my year on the road is much darker, but it taught me a hard lesson. Unscrupulous people do exist, and they look just like the nice ones. This was about six months into my apprenticeship. Olaf’s caravan had pulled up outside a salvage yard; I won’t tell you the name. We’ll call the owner “Des.” Des had a reputation for being a harsh taskmaster. He worked his people hard, but paid them well. His salvage yard was huge. Huge. Molly’s would have fit in his parking lot. Des had set up shop in a spot close to several large Tanki arenas, and had contracted with them directly, so he had a constant supply of the freshest scrap. Fittingly, “Des can get it” was his motto. I didn’t find out until later that he had another reputation; his yard had one of the highest rates of worker injuries on the continent. On the first day, Olaf introduced me to Des. He seemed like a nice guy who took an interest in me, and over the next couple of days, he always made time to acknowledge me when our paths crossed, which seemed to happen a lot. On the fourth day, I was helping disassemble a drive train. As the new kid on the caravan, I was in charge of disassembling the treads into components. Always with the treads! I didn’t really mind, as I was close to the rest of the team and could watch what they were doing, but this was grunt work. Des came over. “Hey, Tadpole, I hear you’re a forklift operator. Can I borrow you?” I looked hopefully at Lisbon, who was heading this team. He looked at Des. “Tad isn’t authorized to run the lift unsupervised.” Des nodded. “No problem. I’ll supervise myself.” Lisbon frowned. “Seriously? You won’t have your nose buried in a clipboard, or run off to oversee something else?” Des raised his right hand. “I solemnly swear to give my full concentration to the supervision of the forklift operations.” “Liiiiiizzzzzzz,” I whined. “Puh-LEASE!” “Fine, off you go.” Lisbon grinned and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. I was really excited. Driving a forklift really felt like a grown-up and important thing to do, and I always looked forward to any opportunity. Even just moving the lift from one spot to another was fun! Des’ forklift was a different model from anything I’d driven before. He watched as I did the walkaround inspection, nodding approvingly as I checked the hydraulic fluid reservoirs. Once I mounted the machine, he called out “Clear to come alongside?” “Clear to come alongside,” I responded. Des walked up beside me. “Ok, take a look at the controls. The layout is standard, but let me know if you have any questions.” While there were dozens of subtle differences, nothing was confusing. The only real difference about this machine was that the forks were curved, which I hadn’t seen before. “I think I’ve got this,” I answered after taking a minute to survey everything. Des pointed. “Ok, meet me behind that warehouse. We’ll be moving cargo onto a flatbed.” He walked off towards the building. I checked to make sure all was clear around me. It always made me feel silly, calling out “Clear ahead!” and “Clear to the left!” and whatnot when there was no one within 50 meters of me, but that was what I had been taught, so that was what I did. As I arrived behind the warehouse, Des was opening a loading door. Inside were dozens of barrels, each covered with hazardous material warnings. I could see now why the forks had that curve; they were designed to grab a barrel from the sides. “Um, I’ve never done this before,” I said. “Nothing to it,” Des replied. “Just be gentle so that you don’t buckle the sides. Grab the barrel about a third of the way below the top and close the forks gently. When you think it’s tight, lift just a little bit. If the barrel comes up, you’re good. If the forks slip, just close them a tad more and try again.” I looked at the warning labels. “Should I be wearing protective gear?” Des snorted. “This stuff is just old lubricant and such. The Damaged Environment Reclamation Treaty requires absurd labelling for things that aren’t really hazardous. Honestly, these are about as dangerous as bath water.” I looked over the layout one more time. There was a ramp which lead up to the loading dock. The barrels were stacked in columns three layers high, each layer made of four barrels, with pieces of lumber acting as a platform between levels. Nothing looked particularly difficult, other than the new challenge of grabbing the barrels. Confidently, I drove up the ramp to the first tower of barrels. Working with items stacked high was nothing new. Since they were all “edge pieces,” so to speak, I could see enough to gently maneuver into place. I slowly closed the forks until the barrel was securely nested in the opening, then lifted a few centimeters. The barrel rose with no problems. “Excellent!” called Des. He was standing outside, near the flatbed truck. “Load from the front to the back, bottom layer first. I’ll take care of laying the boards so that you can stack the second layer.” I had moved a dozen barrels, and was just pulling the first one down from a new tower, when I heard “FORKLIFT STOP!” I took my hands immediately off the controls and scanned the area. What was the problem? I saw Olaf standing there in the loading door, fists clenched. Des was walking up to him, hands raised in a placating gesture. “MAKE SAFE!” roared Olaf. The quickest way for me to do that was to lower the barrel to the ground, so I did. “Tadpole, get out of there. Go back to the caravan.” I’d never heard Olaf’s voice like this. He was furious. I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but I was genuinely terrified. “NOW!” he bellowed, when I hadn’t moved immediately. I leapt from the chair and ran back to the bus. There was no one standing around for me to talk to. I didn’t know what to do. Should I wake someone up? I was on the verge of tears. Why was Olaf so mad at me? What had I done wrong? Was he going to send me home? It was only a couple of minutes later that I saw Olaf striding back towards the caravan. He had his tablet out and was tapping away. I heard an unfamiliar chime from my own pocket. Pulling out my device, I saw something totally unexpected, a single word that had only been mentioned once during my orientation. “RECALL” Recall. One word, large font, red letters, no punctuation. Code for “Stop what you’re doing, grab your things, and get back to the caravan.” There was frantic activity as everyone broke camp and repacked. All of the sleepers were awakened to help out. Des tried to approach three or four times, but someone always intercepted him and turned him away. No one would answer my questions, they just pointed at another thing to get packed. Most of them had no idea what was going on either, but no one was wasting time talking about it. Less than an hour later, we were on the road. Olaf had invited me to ride with him in the command vehicle, our name for the van which served as Olaf’s office. Well, I say invited. What he actually did was point at the passenger door and say “Get in.” Usually only senior staff rode with Olaf; that was where planning for the next stop was finalized. Olaf was still furious. It showed in the set of his eyes, in the way his giant hands gripped the steering wheel, in the terse way he barked orders into the radio. Once we reached the highway, he said nothing, and I was too terrified to break the silence. We rode that way for a couple of hours before he pulled over into a rest area. “Huddle up,” he barked over the radio. I reached for the door. “Just a minute, Cal,” he said. I froze. No one in this crew had ever used my given name before. Until this moment, I hadn’t even been sure they knew what it was. “I want you to understand something. I am not mad at you.” Ohmygods! The sheer relief exploding inside my chest did what the terror before hadn’t done, and the tears started to fall. Olaf reached over and hugged me (an awkward feat for two people in captain’s chairs). “What Des had you doing was illegal, dangerous, and unconscionable. The waste in those barrels is highly toxic. Only someone with level three Hazmat training should be allowed to touch them. And then, only when wearing full protective gear, including oxygen supply, and working with a spotter. That stuff is DEADLY. If one of those barrels had leaked, or gods forbid, you had damaged or dropped one….” He paused, his voice trembling. “Des is licensed to handle such things. He knows what the law is, and what protocol is. I can’t believe he would take advantage of your naivety to save on hiring the proper personnel.” Olaf clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles popped. I was suddenly glad that the crew had kept Des away from Olaf before we left; Olaf clearly wanted to hurt the man. “I need to explain to everyone why we just broke contract with that rat. He may sue us. If he does, I’ll damn sure turn him in to the feds for what he pulled. But regardless, we’ve dealt with him for the last time.” He hugged me again. No one ever explained it to me, but I understood that Olaf wouldn’t be filing a complaint against Des. He couldn’t, lest Des sue him for breach of contract. I didn’t know much about contract law, but I did know something about trials. Even winning costs time and money, and Olaf couldn’t spare much of either. So, my ignorance and my eagerness had not only put me personally in danger, it had compromised Olaf’s ethics as well. I wasn’t sure how, but I resolved that I wouldn’t let myself be a liability to the people I loved ever again.

I've been kicking around the idea of working on a shared anthology with others here. If you're not familiar with the idea, we'd start by agreeing on a world. The first several authors write short stories of their own, with the only limitations being those we agree on before starting. Those initial stories become canon, defining the world, establishing important characters, outlining story arcs. By way of example, perhaps we agree on the theme of a small town in the American Old West. My story introduces the town, named Bushville. It's a small town, a trading and farming community, located at the intersection of a small river and a trade route. The nearest large city is two days' ride. I also introduce the characters of the sheriff, the deputy, and the bartender. The next writer introduces One-Eyed Willy's outlaw gang, who have a hideout in the mountains just west of town. The next introduces Ol' Doc Malbok. The next introduces Crazy Pete, the prospector. He's actually found silver up in the mountains, and is trying to keep it a secret, which is extra challenging because he's mining dangerously close to One-Eyed Willy's territory. And so on. Once the locations and characters are established, other writers can use them in stories of their own, subject to rules. Thieves World is a pretty good example of a shared anthology, and probably some of the most enjoyable pulp fantasy out there. The original series ran 12 novels before the lead editor died. There's a second series, and have been a few spin-offs as well. I posted this over on the Discord server as well. I think, if there's enough interest to try, I'll start a Discord server for discussion. If you'd like to play, either reply here or PM me.

This series is a lot of fun!

Mighty fine melodrama!