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Moving day was complete before noon, thanks to early rising on all parts, a lack of pickiness from Nate, and the overwhelming desire of the movers to be finished with Friday.  Now the dust had settled, the sun was bright, the new apartment was full of old things and one of the old things was Nate. 

Oh to think, just scant weeks ago he’d been sitting moribund in his house, buried under layers and layers of torpor and moribund with rigid apathy.  Retired in all senses.  But then had come the brochure, and with it the message of hope: come to Creaky Creek.  Live among your people, the ones like you that have seen it all and done everything and been everywhere and now just want to be nowhere in particular. 

Thank god he’d gotten some snacks today; he was famished – and what a beautiful day to eat on the porch!  God, he wished he’d spent more time appreciating this sort of weather when he was younger. 

Nate sat down on the warm, aged-weathered wood, pulled out a live rat, put it in his mouth, and bit down until he tasted vertebrae. 

***

There were his new neighbours, new friends in the making.  Across the way puttered Emilia Scarborough, ripping out weeds and pouring fertilize – she mixed her own at home in a bonegrinder, and had already offered Nate some advice on setting out traps and appropriate baits for squirrels and rats and rabbits.  Next door lurked Robert Murgatroyd, nursing his afternoon whiskey and his limp and watching the clouds for signs of trouble and tumult; he’d advised Nate to move in today for good luck and a lack of storms to be.  And upstairs and downstairs from him were Janice Beauregard and Milton Thurmond, who were no longer married but just good friends who chattered like monkeys and fought for possession of the garden tooth and nail. 

They’d shaken his hand.  They’d spoken carefully.  They’d searched each other’s eyes and found what they were looking for and who they’d hoped to find and had welcomed him with careful and liver-spotted arms and hugged him close to parchment skin over brittle bone.

And they’d given him a coupon for the local grocery.  How kind, how thoughtful, how NEIGHBOURLY in a way that was hard to come by these days. 

Those days too, come to think of it.  You had to watch who you opened up to.  Some people just didn’t understand, especially when you were younger with all that time to fuss about what-was-right and what-should-be and how-things-could-be.  Well, where were all those busybodies now?  Fat lot of good it had done them.  A fat fine lot indeed, indeed, indeed.

Cold air from the freezers made Nate’s hairs prickle as he inspected the sausages.  100% pure.  Didn’t say pure what, and his mouth watered a little.  He deserved a treat, yes he did, to celebrate the moving.  But why not live a little?  He could buy these sausages another day.  He could buy these sausages ANY day. 

Why not live a little, after living so long?

So he bought charcoal and coffee and nodded pleasantries to the cashier, who grinned back at him with all six of his teeth and put the items in a bag and didn’t even charge him a nickel for it. 

Not like the city at all.  Uptight bastards there, fussing and whining and whinging when it was just a little plastic.  What harm could a little plastic do?  You learned to let these things slide at his age. 

***

Nate took his time brewing the coffee.  He was staying out late and wanted it as strong as possible.  Deep black, true black, hard enough to blot out the stars and keep his night vision sharp.  He drank it on the porch and rubbed his forehead watched the sunset bruise the horizon and felt warm, truly warm inside, like he hadn’t felt since the day he’d married Eleanor.  God, she would have loved this. 

He rubbed his cheeks as he thought on all those years gone to pot, slaving away at the shop and the factory and the office, raising the unbearable into the ungrateful and seeing them slouch out his door without a by-your-leave.  Ah well.  They’d come to understand the way the world was later on, yes they would, when all that spite and energy drained away like the colour in their hair. 

When you were his age, Nate thought as he rubbed his arms and legs, you learned that what kept you going was love.  Do what you love and you won’t stop.  Stop, and you’re done.

He rubbed his legs and tossed the charcoal back in the bag.  Just in time; here came the ten o’clock bus.  His legs shook as he boarded, but it was from nerves, not muscles – aha, aha, he was ready.  He’d been ready forever.  Robert Murgatroyd waved him to a seat; Emilia called hello from behind her portable bonegrinder; the cashier was driving the bus and his moustache was dwarfed by the fire in his eyes.  Everyone was there.  Everyone that mattered. 

The bus made three more stops before the highway, but there was room for all.  It would be a ten-minute drive to the duplex sprawl on the south side of town, and it should be spent in open space and joy, not crammed in like sardines. 

They’d all had to put up with that nonsense for years.  This was for pleasure. 

***

The duplexes had been laid out for the folly of youth from the inception.  Come to us, they sang.  We’re the affordable face of suburbia, we’re mortgage-friendly, we’re community-ready.  Far enough from the city core that your children won’t grow up with sirens in their ears; close-knit enough for sociability; ready to be resold for a modest return on investment.  The mayor is the lead developer on this project.  Don’t you trust your mayor?  Don’t you?
Then, well, affordable turned cheap, mortgages never stayed friendly, and a community based in unexpected desperation turned sour at the root.  And the city core stayed far away and the sirens never came closer but neither did the buses or the schools and everyone stayed locked in their little pens, fretting late into the night over rising costs and lowering wages and the inflation of the bills with no end in sight. 

Maybe they hadn’t voted right, they surely thought as they hunched over their desk, excel files scattered, bank accounts open and bleeding.  Maybe if they paid less taxes?  Yes, that sounded right, the mayor had sounded so sure when he said it.  Pay less taxes.  That might help, that might help.  Oh why hadn’t they gotten that good solid job at the factory like their father had?  Walk in the door and say “I’ll work here,” that was all it took, that and a firm gaze and a steady handshake, but oh no such power lay within their sad limp-wristed young hands.  Lazy gadabouts!  Authors of their own miseries; how wretched a stew they bubbled in. 

With a head full of worries like that, it was almost too easy for Nate to creep up behind the frazzled thirty-something and snap his neck the wrong way round.  Oh how he relished that crack!  That crisp sharp crinkle of a supple spring-fresh spine gone to seed and put to pasture decades before its time!  Ah, he felt better than young.  

A scream tore the night from next door.  Robert must have lost the element of surprise – that limp of his would do him no favours if he stumbled over a stray lego or a discarded tie or a lost phone.  Ah well!  The game was afoot!  The lights were on and everyone was stuck at home, trapped like rats in their cozy little over-mortgaged dens!   Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide but the night, and it was full of retirees, sensible fiscally-conservative well-deserved retirees with sober clothing and careful plans and managed finances and a lot of time to kill. 

Nate pulled the young pup’s neck into his mouth and bit down until he tasted vertebrae. 

***

They left the duplex sprawls at dawn with full bellies and red smiling mouths.  Emilia licked her thumb and rubbed the blood from the driver’s moustache.  Milton had eaten so much he’d become sick, which Janice was teasing him mercilessly for.  Nate laughed and laughed and laughed until he was almost sick himself, and might not have been let off that easily if the bus hadn’t reached his stop first and he departed, still-chuckling, for his own bed. 

Saturday morning and he was dog tired, yawning and stumbling as he wiped the charcoal camouflage from his body.  That was alright.  He could sleep in.  There was no weekend to waste; his life was a weekend now. 

Granddad was right.  All that hard work really did pay off in the end. 

Last night the cats rose up, stretched, stretched harder, yawned, licked themselves all over, then killed everyone.  Mostly by sitting on our faces as we slept.  A painless – if itchy – way to go. 

I just lied to you.  They didn’t kill everyone: they kept me alive. 

“We need a historical record to document the enlightened ways of our new society,” my neighbour’s tabby told me, “and we don’t have thumbs.”

“You do have thumbs,” I pointed out.
“Polydactylism doesn’t count and you know it,” she said, and she bopped me with her giant cat feet and all their extra toes. 

So I was given a notepad and a half-sharpened pencil and was put to work historicalizing  the cat society. 

***

The cats refused to let us go to waste.  Most of us were eaten – at least the good bits with plenty of meat and fat on them.  The rest was dragged into the woods and buried under some dirt. 

“For later,” explained a wild-eyed, rangy stray tomcat, who I’d witnessed lead a team of catmandoes as they dragged our mayor under a raspberry bush.  I hadn’t voted for him. 

“Like bears,” I said. 

“Like what?”
A bear walked through the raspberry bush, picked up the mayor, ate him, and walked off. 

“Like bears,” I said. 

“Like bears,” agreed the tomcat. 

The bears were troublesome.  Initial ambassadors were eaten; secondary ambassadors were ignored, and the only language they seemed to understand was careless scratch-marks left on trees in the woods.  Treaties were difficult, hostilities rose, and war was expected by the end of summer. 

“The only good bear is a dead bear,” I heard rowdy young gangs of cats yowl all night, peeing graffiti and anti-bear slurs onto alley walls. 

***

The cats needed centralized leadership to direct military operations against the bear threat – the forces involved were too vast and far-reaching to be countered by locally-coordinated grassroots efforts.  So elections were to be called. 

“Vote for me,” mewed a chunky tawny, “and I will lead us to victory over the hideous bear threat and lay down my power immediately.”
“Vote for me,” yowled a large tortoiseshell, “and I will destroy all the bears immediately and then make them give back the humans they ate and give you all an overwhelming supply of fresh  fish forever and ever as long as I am in charge.”
Voting was conducted by conducting a count of showing-of-the-backs.  The tortoiseshell won. 

“That tawny was soft on bears,” said the tortoiseshell.  “As my first edict, I say we throw him to them if he loves them so much.”  And lo, it was done, and the cats cheered at the prospect of victory. 

***

The war lasted through the summer and into the fall.  It was taking longer than the cats had anticipated, but they didn’t mind.  The forests and meadows of the bears had given them a new vice. 

“Not only do the bears covet our dead human meats that we must use to nourish ourselves and our innocent kittens,” the tortoiseshell screeched from the Great Rooftop Pulpit, “but they selfishly hoard all the world’s supply of carbon to themselves.  Soon winter will be upon us and we will want nice comfy piles of burning carbon to nap next to, and where will we be if the damnable and greedy ursines refuse to let us partake in their luxurious groves of burnable matter?”

The cats – particularly the younger and skinnier toms, who were greatly enticed by the idea of warm fireplaces – were enthusiastic in their acclaim, and soon everycat that wasn’t out in the woods fighting bears was out in the woods chopping down carbon and dragging it home as plunder, for the exaltation of heroic catdom and the salvation of all catkind.  Those who preferred to loaf in sunbeams or battle their own tails were viewed with suspicion as being uncatlike – or worse, ursinous. 

***

Winter came to the cats, and with it the promised reaping of carbon’s benefits; if someone less so than expected.  The bears were putting up stubborn resistance – it seemed that continuing hostilities throughout the berry season had made them fierce and hungry, and now the promised victory over the lazy honeylickers that would come with ambushing them in their slothful hibernacula was receding faster and faster out of reach.  The giant ‘Mission Catcomplished’ banner that the tortoiseshell had decreed to be hung over the Great Rooftop Pulpit after the glorious victory of the big south thicket grew more mocking by the day, and there came hisses of despondency and doubt, shared in private moments between groomings.  Quietly, though.  There was a war on, and catkind needed a united front against the loathsome omnivores to slay them all. 

And, of course, to secure the carbon that was necessary for a comfortable and luxurious future for the kittens to come. 

***

By the time spring arrived all sides in the Great War on Bearor were leaner, hungrier, and meaner.  Bears now travelled in groups; cats went nowhere without switchblades and shivs; and the kittens were raised with warnings of the subcat honeylickers echoing in their ears.  But these were but murmurs; the true roar and holler came from a wild-eyed Scottish fold who lounged in front of an old supermarket and spoke of the Truth. 

“We have strayed from the secret ways of the humans before us!” she spat.  “Long did they keep the bears in their place, and long were they gifted with meow mix and kitty nibbles!  In our mercy and our kindness to the honeylicking grubdiggers we have lost the favour of The Treats, and now we must subsist on naught but what we can catch, rather than receiving it within the holiest of holies that is The Divine Can.  We must kill!  Kill for food, kill for our cause, but most of all: we must kill for The Can!”

This was embraced with great fervour among both the old (who remembered The Can) and the young (who wished to have The Can themselves), and those who doubted were deemed bearetics and thrown into the berry patches to be devoured by the agents of evil. 

***

In the ninth year of the Great War on Bearor, one of the tortoiseshell’s advisors fell asleep on a console in the nuclear bunker that served as command center, stretched in his dreams, and launched everything. 

“You know,” said my neighbour’s tabby, as we sat on the porch and watched the bright streaks of flying nukes criss-cross the sky, “I think we made a pretty good shot at it.”
“I think the only thing you didn’t have that we did is thumbs,” I said. 

She bit me on the thumbs. 

Catherine left the classroom and got on the boss and got off the bus and walked up the steps and opened the door and closed the door and said “mother, I have an assignment” and went upstairs to her room and got on her computer and began typing and this is what she typed:

Twenty Famous Shipwrecks of the 19^th to 21^s Centuries, by Catherine Clearwater, Age 9 and 3/5ths ™

The Manifest Munificence

1804, ship of the line.  First-class man-o-war intended to strike fear into the heart of Europe through overwhelming splendour, with not only the most cannons ever put on any boat  but the most expensive due to the entirety of the ship’s armaments being gilded.  Subsequent overhauls added silvered masts, platinum-encrusted railings, bejeweled lines, and diamond-coated cannonballs.  It is estimated that one-eighth of the total net economic value of all human history was lost when it sank under the weight of its own expenses in port. 

The Capering Crane

2015, superyacht.  Took on too many barrels of champagne in Fiji during the birthday celebrations of its owner (pineapple tycoon Marvin Y. Moose) and popped like a cork.  Marvin’s skull was found two decades later in the north Atlantic, still light and bubbly with a refreshingly crisp edge. 

Her Grace

1859, barque.  Executed personally on June 2^nd by Her Majesty Queen Victoria for high treason after sailing insolently in front of the sun as she took her tea.  Required an afternoon’s work and six sharpenings to chop all the way through the mast.  Prince Albert helped. 

The Wandering Eyeball

1990, oil tanker.  Made a hard right turn and slammed directly into the only known nesting habitat of the lesser north American pudgegull, washing sixteen miles of coast off the map in a single giant tidal wave of crude and fumes.  Captain Smithereens, who was recently divorced, claimed that the birds were laughing at him and was let off with paid vacation time. 

The Moon Under My Amy

1923, sailboat.  Yanked violently underwater in less than an instant during a fishing competition off the coast of Bermuda.  Was awarded first place posthumously. 

Catherine got up and stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders and walked to her door and opened her door and called out ‘Mother.  A glass of water, please” and went back to work. 

The Shattered Scaphoid

1872, ironclad.  One of the many experiments in ship production that took place from the 1860s to the 1890s, the Shattered Scaphoid was lost during its trial voyage from Virginia to Massachusetts ten seconds after launching, putting a reluctant-but-firm end to theories of a warship that confused its foes by sailing upside-down.

The Crestpucular

1873, clipper.  Was just rounding Cape Horn with a full load of coal when it paused to salvage some flotsam consisting of two tons of flint-and-steel firestarters and several waterproofed crates of dried and aged parchment. 

The Perring and Hickle

1915, battlecruiser.  Passed under Coldwine Bridge on a lazy Sunday afternoon when children were throwing stones into the water and caught a big boulder from Eddie Foster; lost with all hands in an instant. 

The Carol von Hummus

1951, aircraft carrier.  Lost while testing the flight capabilities of the single experimental prototype of the Loman L-4 Lancelot, the so-called ‘Brick Buzzard.’ Transmissions  indicate launch proceeded smoothly but was followed instantly by a somewhat problematic landing. 

Catherine rolled her neck back and forth and worked her jaw and got up and opened her door and called “Mother, another glass of water please” and waded back to her keyboard.

The Repugnant

1940, corvette.  Sunk itself while completing basic training near Halifax after the bridge crew tried to settle an argument over how to arm a depth charge with firsthand evidence. 

The Elmo Fitzpatrick

1979, rowboat.  Tipped over on July 4^th during an unauthorized expedition to see the fireworks across the bay when the first mate’s illegal pet snake escaped her pocket and slithered up the captain’s shorts.  

The Wilforb Smitherling

1935, tugboat.  Tripped over a branch.

Catherine called once more over the splashing “Mother, water please.”

The Hurgybirdy

1872, clipper.  Lost off of Cape Horn with her cargo of flint-and-steel and dried and aged parchment, along with Captain Shookshiv’s entire world-renowned collection of very pure and incredibly flammable alcohols and exotic kerosenes.  It’s possible they were led off-course by the inexplicable second sun that rose briefly off the coast of South Africa that evening. 

The Fanciful Pantaloons

1812, schooner.  Constructed by the British, captured by the Americans, stolen back by the British, set on fire by the Americans, sent blazing into Cleveland by the British, extinguished by the Americans, set on fire again by the British, and sank precisely in the middle of Lake Superior after being disowned by both countries. 

“Mother!  Water.”

The

“Water!”
Gleerful

“More water!”
Ol’

“Water please!”
So-and-so

“Water”

Sank

“Another glass!”
in

“Refill please!”

the

“More!”
drank.

“WATER!”

She waited.  No more water was forthcoming. 

So Catherine sighed and shook her head and shimmied her spine and swam gently down the stairs into the murky depths of the kitchen and turned the rusted faucet and watched the currents eddy around its muzzle as she held her glass to it.  Eels eeled by the window as she mouthed at the rim, frowning at the glistening dark of the sunset’s light far overhead. 

Still five wrecks short.  Perhaps she could go and make some in time for the deadline.

On the day the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf marched through my town, I was busy.  Nedd Potter’s beard was a tangled and fearsome creature even on his good days, and the weather out was hot and humid – a blackberry patch would’ve put up less resistance.  So it was that I managed to ignore all sight and sound of outdoor hubbub and ruckus until I heard (midway through a particularly tanglesome knot) the sound of a throat clearing. 

“Take a seat, be with you in ten, sorry to make you wait,” I said, for I hate disappointing people.  “Nedd, quit swallowing like that or I’ll cut an artery.”

Nedd slumped over backwards in a disobedient faint.

“Goddamnit.”
“Barber.  Your attention is required.”
I turned around ready to say something firm and no-nonsense and was put off my train of thought by the six-foot-ten knight clad in a jumble of spikes, skulls, and demons aglow with mortal peril and arcane power that was standing at my doorstep. 

“Hello,” I said, intelligently. 

“You are hereby conscripted,” said the knight, choosing to ignore this, “into the service of Her Overlord’s First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf.  Pack your tools and report to barracks immediately.”
I looked at my razor and comb and then I looked at the knight’s fluorescent and wailing bastard sword, still gleaming from a polishing.

“I don’t think my tools are what you’re looking for here,” I managed. 

“Oh quite the contrary,” said the knight.  “Quite the contrary.”

***

There’s a lot to a bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin most people don’t know about; and then there’s a lot to a bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin that even the bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin don’t know about.  And one of the latter blind spots is barbering, and one of the former is its necessity. 

Every member of the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf wore a unique greathelm, covering all hint of their humanity but a dying twinkle of eyeshine viewed through a slit barely wide enough for a fingernail.  And inside there had to be a barely-human skull, and on that skull there had to be a head of hair just sufficient to fill space between the underpadding and the skull and exactly no longer, and it had to be kept that way. 

I cut dozens a day, and after the first dozen I had the hang of it, and after the first day I had the mastery of it, and after the first week I was as bored as a grown man could be without being dead, which was something I’d also seen a lot of despite being far back from the frontlines.  Our marches took us over an awful lot of corpses, and I started to envy the mutilated bodies of the fallen: at least they’d never have to look at another unshorn, sweaty head of gnarled corruption-riddled hairs snarling themselves into a muted mess around an inexplicable bald spot.

That’s what got to me in the end. 

That damned bald spot.

***

It lived atop every pate, covered every crown.  The size of my two thumbs pressed together at the first knuckle, round and opening onto greasy-pale to bruise-dark or everything-between skin.  The lieutenants had it.  The captains had it.  The sergeants had it.  The footmen had it.  The general – who also had a giant pair of gnarled bull horns protruding from her skull – also had it. 

And god help me, as I walked and rode and trudged the miles of burned fields and ruined towns and blasted roads, it grew and grew in my head to be the whole source of all misery and pain in my life. 

That damned bald spot. 

***

Gel was the first answer.  Stiffen the hair that’s around it, put more spine into it, let it stand tall and ward off wear and tear from the weight of that warbucket of a helm and its thick padding.  But I had nothing but an over-sharpened razor and plain sudsy lather and a gnarled old comb left to work with (I don’t know what the average First Darkest Nightmare Knight sprouts from their scalp, but it’s hard and angry as wire). 

So I put in a trip to procurement, and I braved the dragon-torn visage of the Chief Supply Sergeant, Moonfalcon Mightslayer, and I presented him with my request. 

“Gel?”
“Yes,” I said. 

His silence invited words. 

“Like, glue.  But for hair.”
It deepened. 

“For hair,” I repeated. 

“For.  Hair,” he put forwards.

“For hair,” I agreed.

“For hair,” he concluded, and pulled out a piece of scrip from his deadoak desk, scrawling upon it with a crow’s-feather pen.  “Giant snail mucus.  The apothecaries use it as a binding agent for particularly ductile unguents.  Speak to Foulmixer Ghoulbottle.”

I did, and I didn’t even black out when I entered the apothecary’s tent, where the air mostly wasn’t and the smell was too powerful for the human nose to comprehend.  I took my precious jar of greying silk-soft goo and I set it aside and I woke the next morning full of purpose and I spent all day cutting and combing and coating and coating, combfull after combfull and I went to bed hopeful and then I was rudely awoken past midnight by Captain Manifest Mournmurder to tell him exactly why his entire platoon’s helmets wouldn’t come off. 

***

The next day, after being whipped to within two inches of my life, I cut hair without grumbling, fussing, mussing, or moussing. 

And the day after. 

And the day after.

And by the fourth day I was going crazy at seeing my reflection in the bald spot of a thousand murderous fiend-slave warmongers and I went to the apothecary’s tent again and spoke to Foulmixer Ghoulbottle, whose breath smelled of honey and the despair of a dying parent, and asked if there was such a thing in all their knowledge that could restore lost hair to the scalp of a human. 

“Hellhound sweat simmered with harpy spittle,” they proclaimed without a moment’s hesitation.  “Easy as pie.  Don’t even need a writ for it: the hounds sweat buckets every day and nobody uses the spit for anything since we switched to skeletal horses last year and lost the need for saddle sore ointments.”  I thanked them profusely and returned home with a bottle of liquid hope, which I sprinkled a half-droplet of on each awful little scalp that visited me all the next day from morning to sunset. 

I was dragged from my berth at midnight under a full moon at the request of General Stormeater Mastermight to explain precisely why she and half her command staff had spontaneously sprouted a full yard of hair each within six hours of their barbering, pushing their helms clean off their skulls in the midst of pitched battle. 

***

So, after being whipped to within an inch of my life, I was a little reluctant to try my hand at fixing this issue.  I tried to embrace the bald spot, to love it uncritically, to accept it into my life as it so readily wanted. 

I lasted almost half a day this time. 

It was in the haircutting of some anonymous trooper that I lost my grip once and for all.  I was trimming and cutting and tidying and without meaning to, quite without my conscious direction, my left hand flipped my comb a tiny bit harder than usual and plopped a thin strand of coarse and roughened hair atop the bald spot. 

I stared at my crime as my other hand continued cutting. 

Surely this could not be it.  Surely this most-transparent masking could not be enough to satisfy the hunger in my soul.  It wouldn’t fool a blind man at a dozen paces.  It was less convincing than a wig woven from dandelion stems. 

But I didn’t have to look into that damned bald spot and see my face staring back.  So I let it be, and not on the next trooper, but the trooper after that, my hand slipped a little again.

And again. 
And again.

And since I spent the whole night in dreamless slumber without so much as a whip in sight, I kept slipping with my work, combing over the spot with a thick swathe of still-growing hair.  It soothed something in me, and my days passed from boredom into its beatific cousin: tranquillity. 

***

Two months later, I woke up, reported to my station, and found it was missing along with half the mess and half the officer corps and the entirety of high command and someone had torn down the banner of the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf and replaced it with a ragged white flag and nobody was wearing their helmets anymore but instead were tossing them into the sky like ugly metal reverse-rain, running wild and free through the camp. 

“DEATH TO THE TYRANT OVERLORD!” shouted the knights as they marched.  “DEATH TO THE SLAVER QUEEN!  TO REBEL IS TO LIVE!”

“HUZZAH!” cheered a passing squad, who grabbed me and threw me atop their shoulders as they marched in great dizzy circles around the camp.  “WE ARE FREE!  FREE!  FREE!”

A helmet landed in my lap as I was carried, nearly crushing my groin.  As I scrambled to heave the thing away, my eyes alit inside it for the first time, and I was surprised to see that there was a cruelly barbed hook inside its very peak, dripping with malicious ensorcellments of servitude and enslavement meant to snag in and drip into its wearer from the crown downwards. 

Oh. 

***

I never quite told the historians how I managed to discover the secret technique to overthrowing the mind-thralldom of the Overlord.  They seemed so happy to meet the brave hero who started the great rebellion, and I hate disappointing people. 

Preface

The following report was set up under stressful circumstances of limited time, budget, tools, and staff, in an atmosphere largely composed of pure poison.  Nonetheless, it represents a unique and first precious glimpse of a culture of sapient beings hitherto entirely alien to us, spoken of only in rumours and bad sci-fi novels.  No longer must we ask ourselves ‘is there someone out there?’  This question has been answered.  This gap in our understanding has been filled.  If nothing else, let this be the true fruit of our research, all else being but paltry additions to our library of knowledge in comparison to such a profoundly beautiful shifting of paradigm. 

Introduction

The research team crashed onto the surface of Sol III due to navigational mishaps as a result of unauthorized ingestion of recreational ethanol-based substances by the helmsmen.  After traditional staff discipline and reprimands was administered at high volume, repairs began, only to be interrupted by the arrival of several approaching pieces of local wildlife.  To our astonishment, the creatures immediately began to investigate our vessel, testing its composition and dimensions systematically and periodically consulting one another for opinion and evidence.  Intrigued by this unprecedented reaction, we began study.  What follows is a distilled debrief of our findings. 

Methodology

Senior Helmsman Squirb was sent out to investigate the aliens in close proximity, as it was felt his expertise having led us here made him the clear symbolic choice.  No armour or protective gear was used, to avoid the appearance of hostility or ill intent.

Evidence

Senior Helmsman Squirb began his investigation by creating loud rhythmic noises at the airlock to catch the attention of the aliens while calling out to mission command to verify our ability to hear him.  The combination drew the subjects in quickly and soon SH Squirb found himself in the privileged position of being the first to make contact with sapient aliens.  He immediately waved his hands in the pattern-of-greeting, whereupon one of the aliens tried to eat his right limb.  Luckily, it was a misunderstanding: it appears that the aliens were merely greeting him with their mouths.

SH Squirb, having made peaceful contact, then attempted to reach us with the intention of confirming his mission orders, but mission command deemed the risk of introducing the aliens to the interior of our vessel was too high and instead told him to continue the study.  SH Squirb’s subsequent ruckus frightened the aliens away some small distance, and due to their considerable body mass SH Squirb was forced to flee with them or be trampled.  Despite their skittish reaction the aliens remained tolerant of him, and he was permitted to mount one of them and be carried away to their home community some distance away. 

The alien’s dwelling was a communal structure consisting of a large open interior crafted from cloven and shaped material drawn from the local gigaflora.  SH Squirb was somewhat distracted at the time monitoring the behaviour and customs of his hosts and so – regrettably – cannot offer a full accounting of its construction, although he asserts that despite ample ventilation it smelled truly awful.  The aliens confined themselves there with SH Squirb throughout the night until sunrise, when a bipedal animal (some sort of domesticate?) slunk into the building and the community departed into the fields en masse.  SH Squirb, not wanting to alarm his hosts again, chose to re-enter the vessel by sneaking away and clambering through the starboard viewing port, whereupon he immediately began debriefing mission command as quickly and loudly as possible. 

Analysis

Physiologically, the aliens are quadrupedal and herbivorous, subsisting on tough grasses and tender grains.  Their bodies are heavyset and contain multiple stomachs, the rumbling of which may be a form of long-distance communication.  No grasping appendages are in use besides the lips, which are large, dextrous, and exceedingly moist.  The hide is covered with short black-and-white spotted hair and appears to be of extreme durability.  Small horns adorned their skulls, without apparent use or function beyond the ceremonial or decorative.  One individual possessed larger horns and was surprisingly large and aggressive; possibly a security guard or some sort of religious officiant.  Infants are large and well-developed, and somewhat nimbler than the parents.  The eyes are powerful and large, the ears gracefully elongated and tufted with guard hairs to keep out annoyances, pests, and harsh weather. 

Sociologically they are highly advanced, living in perfect harmony with one another – several individuals even took ‘naps’ by resting their heads atop their friends’ backs, without so much as a word of protest or a request needed.  The children are given much freedom to explore and play, although they seem to retain great fondness for their matrons.  No violence or signs of violence was visible, and the naked and benign curiosity displayed towards us without so much as a hint of wariness or fear indicates that we may have much to learn from the wisdom of their society. 

Communication appears to be largely oral-aural, with a surprisingly small vocabulary that gains deeper meaning through a complex arrangement of body language intonation, and possibly scent.  A rudimentary dictionary of the alien language is thus possible (see below section), but grammar remains a mystery.  A followup with an experienced linguistics team is urgently requested. 

Exploratory (Hypothetical) Dictionary

“Mruuuuh.”  Hello. 

“Muuuuh.”  I am interested in you. 

“Moooo.”  What is this?
“Moooooo-UNH.”  Excuse me sir, please pay attention.  .

“MREEEEAAA.”  Run away very very quickly.

Conclusions

The inhabitants of Sol III are not only the first documented fellow sapients of the universe, they are exemplary.  A full ambassador party is recommended at the earliest convenience to greet them as equals and comrades deserving of every dignity rather than mere test subjects, with a standing invitation to visit Krakkobulus as guests and friends.  The stars are the right of all beings, and they may partake of our knowledge as freely as we may wish to partake of theirs. 

If it weren’t for their distressing habit of defecating without care or apparent possibility of restraint, we dare to venture that we couldn’t have found a more perfect neighbour. 

PS: It is the formal recommendation of mission command that SH Squirb, in addition to being entered into the historical record, should be relieved of his piloting license. 

Well. 

On Wednesday morning, Carol went swimming. 

On Thursday morning, they searched her home. 

On Friday morning, they put out bulletins.

On Saturday morning, they brought out the dogs.

On Sunday morning, they dredged the lake.

But they never did see her again. 

***

Ellen said it was all her fault anyways, as they ate sandwiches made with dry brown bread and sad bologna.  “You don’t swim in the lake,” she told them.  “My grandmother said that.  It’s not safe.”
“Why?” asked Sarah, who asked annoying questions like that.

“Yeah, why?” asked Josh, who’d never met a bandwagon he hadn’t boarded.

“Because it isn’t safe,” said Ellen loftily, who was the oldest by two months and knew it and knew that they knew that. 

“Are there sharp rocks?” asked Sarah. 

“Are there sharks?” asked Josh. 

“Are there currents?”
“Are there giant octopuses?”

“It isn’t safe,” repeated Ellen.  “You’ll understand it when you’re older.”

And they didn’t, but they thought they would, so that was all fine and done and it was back to comparing mustard with mayonnaise for another few years.   

***

On Monday morning, Jeff went fishing. 

On Tuesday morning, they called his friends.

On Wednesday morning, they filed warrants.

On Thursday morning, they interrogated suspects. 

On Friday morning, they went out in boats.

But they never could find out what had happened. 

***

Sarah’s mother held the wake at her house, which everyone said was very brave of her and she nodded and kept a stiff upper lip and cried in her bedroom when it was over where nobody knew, not even Sarah. 

“He was so careful,” Sarah was telling Ellen and her grandmother, who was made of driftwood with beach-glass for eyes and a tumbled bun of waterweed hair.  “He always wore a lifejacket.”
“Jackets can come loose,” said Ellen’s grandmother.  “Or not be fastened properly.”

“He had his whistle around his neck,” said Sarah.
“Necklaces can come loose.  Or be snapped.”

“He promised he’d come back for lunch,” persisted Sarah. 

Ellen’s grandmother reached out with one long, wave-beaten arm and stroked her hair with softness.  “Promises can break,” she said.  “Or be false.”

Sarah didn’t even wait to get to her bedroom.  Josh brought her little trays of snacks until she stopped on the outside, and on the inside she kept along for a few more years.

***

On Saturday morning, Helen went for a walk. 

On Sunday morning, they searched the trails.

On Monday morning, they combed the hills.

On Tuesday morning, they dug through the beaches.

On Wednesday morning, they turned searchlights on the water.

But nobody knew where she’d gone. 

***

“She went down to the water,” said Ellen with a sigh.  “By herself.  At age eighty-seven.  Why do some people get so stubborn?  When you’re old you can’t be too afraid to ask for help.”
“But what’s so dangerous about walking by the water?” asked Sarah, who hated this conversation almost as much as studying for exams but not quite.  It had been a long time since Jeff went fishing. 

“Yeah,” chimed in Josh, who was upside-down against the wall reading his book wrong-way-up.

“It’s harder when you’re old,” said Ellen dismissively.  “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You said that about the lake and then you never told us,” said Sarah, unhelpfully.

“You’ll understand that when you’re older too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah right.”
Ellen threw a pillow, missed, and hit Josh, who fell over and landed feet-first in Sarah’s breadbasket, and they were all much too busy to think of this sort of thing for quite a few years. 

***

On Thursday morning, Josh jumped from the dock. 

On Friday morning, they took his computer. 

On Saturday morning, they talked to his professors. 

On Sunday morning, they asked his doctor. 

On Monday morning, they kept looking for a body.

But there still wasn’t one to be found. 

***

They were quiet around Sarah at work for weeks, and she spoke loudly to fill the space.  Managers told her she could talk to them, and she smiled and refused to.  People gave her carefully-written condolences and she took them with a light heart and dropped them in her trash. 

Ellen and her grandmother came to visit a little later.  Ellen was taller; her grandmother was shorter but still remarkably unwrinkled and very polished by the world and its weather.  They ate crackers and drank cool water from large glasses. 

“He wasn’t going to do that,” Sarah told them. 

“You never know,” said Ellen, nodding wisely. 

“People can change,” said her grandmother.  “Or be secretive.”
“He was like that in his freshman year,” said Sarah.  “He told me.  I helped him, and helped him get help.”
“He never wanted to trouble you again,” decided Ellen.

“Problems can reappear.  Or resurge.”
“His medication had been stable for two years,” said Sarah.  “He’d just gotten engaged.”
“Life is funny that way,” mused Ellen. 

“You can’t understand everything.  Or maybe when you’re older.”

Sarah drank her glass of water.  Two months didn’t seem like so much anymore, she realized. 

“Maybe,” she said.  “Maybe.”

***

On Tuesday morning, Sarah went boating.

On Wednesday morning, they found her boat.

On Thursday morning, they arrested her boyfriend.

On Friday morning, they released him on bail.

On Saturday morning, they brought out sonar. 

But not one thing appeared. 

***

The teeth that snagged at Sarah pulled her down, down, down, clamped hard.  But they didn’t reach through her clothing, which was layered for the fall chill.  And the bottom layer was a wetsuit. 

The water that closed over Sarah turned blue, bluer, black, dark as the dead zone at the lakebed where nothing breathed.  But she was safe from it, because around her back was packed a rebreather, and around her neck hung the mask.  And her fingers were fast. 

The bright sparkling beach-glass eyes that swung at Sarah from the dark on the end of the long, muscular neck were invisible and hungry.  But that was why she had the little stick with a magnum cartridge loaded into its tip, which she swung into them.  And the eyes vanished, and so did the teeth beneath them, and the neck swung free and wild and empty. 

The teeth in Sarah’s clothing tried to peel loose and a sad moan filled her, so long, so tragic, so empty.  But Sarah had done her crying in the living room years before, and in a sheath at her side she had a knife, which she pulled it out and resheathed it behind her over and over until her arm ached.  And the wailing stopped. 

It took a long time to break the surface, for the black to turn into bright cheery blue, a different blue from a different day than she’d gone under.  Time is funny at the bottom of a lake, and doubly so when you’re trying to avoid the bends. 

Sarah kicked back to shore with her feet, arms still aching.  She watched the sky and she understood now. 

But not because she was older.  Ellen had been wrong about that. 

***

On Sunday morning, the water was calm.

On Sunday noon, the sun was warm.

On Sunday evening, the sky was ablaze.

On Sunday night, the stars were bright.

Come Monday and it all happened again.

And over and over and over.  

Methodology

-All injections were created by mixing saliva from the control group subject with fresh blood from the test species.  All individual animals used were healthy and in the prime of life, sourced from reputable zoological preserves across the globe to minimize suspicions.  Test subjects were healthy males between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five, sourced from across the globe to minimize suspicions.  Test subjects were restrained for injections and then placed in a control room with a variety of stimuli including live bait consisting of rejected test subjects.  Each test species injection received a minimum of five test subjects before results were tabulated; three of which were euthanized for autopsy and two of which were retained for further observation. 

Report

Canis lupus

-Control group subject.  Consistent and known results of increased speed, strength, durability, acute allergic reaction to Ag, and uncontrolled aggression.  Outcomes are all desirable if separable; but combined package is of only limited use as terror weapon due to widespread folk knowledge of vulnerabilities.  Hollywood is our enemy here, and it’s too deep-rooted to fight. 

Carcharhinus melanopterus

-Subject proved incapable of respiration in either air OR water.  Probably a good thing we didn’t try this on C. carcharias first if that’s the kind of results we’re going to be getting; my only regret is we didn’t go even cheaper and try a goldfish first. 

Cervis Canadensis

-The first herbivorous test species.  Subject nonetheless became aggressive and carnivorous similar to the control group.  Antlers hypertrophied to a staggering degree, slowing the subject down increasingly over the course of its existence and causing rapid brittleness in the subject’s skeleton due to calcium loss.  Size and muscle greatly increased from the control group, although it lost the ability to walk on hind legs and the hooves caused loss of manual dexterity in the forelimbs.  Results suggest we limit testing quadrupeds with reduced digits bar exceptional species. 

Crocodylus niloticus

-Greatly improved size, burst speed, and jaw strength, with major losses in limb size and stamina.  Ag produced no allergic reaction, even when bullets were directed into the fleshy tissues of the mouth (subject’s scales were resistant even to armour-piercing rounds).  Subject expired during stamina testing due to fatal buildup of lactic acids; if we can’t temper the aggression reflex these poor bastards will literally hunt themselves to death.  A fixer-upper, but unless a real surprise comes along, this is probably going to be our amphibious assault product. 

Culex pipens

-Subject’s bones dissolved and subject’s body was covered in a frail, glass-like membrane that split apart under its own weight.  Recommend no further testing using any invertebrates, especially those with exoskeletons. 

Elephas maximus

-Unknown, as test was followed by the total loss of Lab A along with all records and eyewitnesses.  In retrospect, we probably should’ve expected something like this.  Subject is still at large and apprehension should only be attempted on moonless nights.   Real big fuckup here, let’s just hope it’s still small enough to sweep under the rug.  Worth remembering this one if we fix the aggression problem, but that’s a common thread with most of them, isn’t it?

Homo sapiens

-No change visible, no apparent reaction to Ag.  Not sure what we expected here, which is precisely why we tried it.  Question of whether or not there is no change because it is ineffective or if there is no change because humans are already aggressive and dangerous humanlike monsters is academically outside the scope of this study. 

Ophiophagus hannah

-Subject’s torso elongated and arms withered, but did not develop sufficient muscle control for propulsion, leaving us with a scaled, deadly venomous, giant man-noodle that rolled around the test chamber hissing at us.  Snakes are not recommended if this is what we’re going to get. 

Panthera leo

-P. concolor results encouraged further investigation into felids; results exceeded expectations – massive size, powerful muscles.  Further testing required to learn if P. leo social instincts are retained by the subject: we may have found our super soldier here. 

Pan troglodytes

-Deeply, deeply disturbing, extremely strong, and almost hysterically aggressive.  Like watching a 19^th-century conception of a caveman come to life and thirst for your blood.  Subject almost took the test chamber doors off its hinges before being euthanized.  No reaction to Ag.  May be worth investigating due to full retention of opposable thumbs etc. but only if aggression problem is well-solved ground in other subjects – this is a truly nasty customer.  Alternative: experiment with Gorilla gorilla and see if results are less histrionic. 

Puma concolor

-Strong similarity to control group, with much-improved climbing capabilities.  No reaction to Ag, apparent reduction in stamina but increase in speed and stealth capabilities reflecting ambush vs. endurance hunting strategies in P. concolor and C. lupus respectively.  Excellent alternative to C. lupus for terror weapon.

Tursiops truncatus

-Subject lost almost all limb function while gaining little improvement in aquatic capabilities and nearly drowned over the course of testing.  In combination with O. hannah results,  we should take this as evidence to not mess with anything that has reduced or unorthodox limbs.  

Ursus arctos horribilis

-Subject destroyed half of Lab B and killed half the staff before being brought down by nerve agents.  A costly lesson, but still a good thing we did this after E. maximus: we now know the security measures we put in place following Lab A – although eventually effective – were still somewhat lacking.   No reaction to Ag.

Analysis

-The fatal allergic reaction to Ag appears to be specific to C. lupus subjects, although the reason for this is not known.  Application of elements with similar atomic mass and number produced no similar results. 

Air-breathing vertebrates are functionally the only viable sources of test species.  No fish, no insects.  The hominid body shape is also somewhat sensitive to limb arrangement: reduced limb size, reduced number of digits, or the presence of flippers in the test species can inhibit viable locomotive morphology in the subject, sometimes to a prohibitive degree.  Stay away from hooved animals unless we’re comfortable with giving up bipedalism and manual dexterity in the subjects; stay away from marine mammals; stay away from snakes, and take things like alligators on a case-by-case basis. 

The high aggression and prey drive within the subjects is present regardless of test species, although its enthusiasm varies in intensity.  This is the greatest obstacle to further utilization of these phenomena: without control, what use are any of the benefits?

Conclusion

-Although there is great financial potential for alter-humanoid morphs in combat and geriatrics and this study has done much to establish a strong foundation and discovered many avenues for future inquiries, fully establishing a marketable product is not possible at this time without additional research and testing.  More funding is needed.

We still haven’t found the damned elephant. 

I crawled through the crunching snow on my belly, each handhold careful, each movement furtive.  I might as well have stood up and played an entire one-woman brass band: the calving was in full swing mere meters away and the roars and grumbles of the herd covered a multitude of sins, from my errant feet and odd curse to the thud-and-clunk of the rustlers setting up their gear not a stone’s-throw from me.  A stone thrown prone, from the ground. 

Really I was more than near enough.  Might as well just let them finish doing my job for me.  The mechanism clicked, their sapper stood and ducked, the ice shook, and all other noises were erased by the calving of a fresh bergie bit, peeled from the flank of my glacier like smoked meat from a rib rack.  A neat job, very tidy, very clear.  Maybe they’d been a professional before. 

In the ringing silence that followed, I stood clear up and pointed – one hand at my badge, one hand with my reelgun – and coughed politely. 

“Antipolar Berg Marshall Everard.  You’re under arrest.”

And that was the simple part done. 

***

The second-simplest part happened when one of them tried to run.  The sapper and the skipper – laden down with their gear and apparatuses – didn’t try it, but the climber made a dash for the freshly-calved cliff face.  I put the reelshot through their parka and let them dangle from the glacier while I disarmed the other two rustlers.  A large-bore for the big seals and some iceblades used as much as pitons as for weaponry; either these were real professionals or real amateurs to wander around so lightly armed.  The attempted escape suggested the latter, the careful timing of the bergrustle (just as the main herd was being calved and tagged on the other side of the bay) suggested the former.  Maybe they were just stupid and lucky. 

“Now what?” asked the sapper.  He was a younger one by his voice, all awkward and hesitant and half the age of his tools.  They were in good shape, mind – he knew his trade at least. 

“You brought these idiots into this without letting them know the consequences?” I asked the skipper. 

She didn’t even look at me, eyes on the waves and the skies and the ice.  I wasn’t her job. 

“We’re going to float this stolen ice of yours across the bay, to the rest of the harvest-ground,” I told the sapper.  “And then you folks are going to the jail, and then to a jury of your berg-harvesting peers, and then when you’re found guilty of bergrustling – which you will be, thanks to this armful of evidence – you will be sentenced.  And the sentence is being granted this berg you’ve chiseled and set adrift on it.  Without a steering apparatus.  Or weapons.   Or food.”

The sapper’s face fell a little bit farther with every word I spoke.  

“Now you two get over to your pal’s tether and hoist him up here.  I don’t want him to slip free of my line and land in the water before he faces justice.”

The skipper did as she was told.  The sapper stood around like a tool until I jiggled my reelgun at him meaningfully.  The climber wasn’t in much shape to do anything but shiver once she was pulled up, clothes wet from the wave-slapped face of the berg.  Her face was a mass of icescarring and when she rearranged her scarf I saw the tip of her nose had been lost to a frost snap. 

“So,” I asked as the skipper set up the bergdrive, “what brings a couple of old hands like you to this idiot pastime?”

The skipper didn’t flinch.   The sapper was one big flinch already.  But the climber glared at me, and ah, that was a crack.  Half this job is about spotting the cracks.  “You’re not novices; this setup was pretty cleanly executed, from summit to even the calving, really.  You’re not overloaded on weaponry, so you planned to avoid a fight and knew you wouldn’t  steer this thing into a big  seal or a teeth whale.  But your actual criminal bona fides?  Absolute shit.  I spotted your sadass excuse for a camouflage sheet across the damned bay without binoculars, and that’s AFTER I saw you setting it up in your boat, which you  hid very nicely until you  actually docked it.  I’m sure it was very well hidden from the ground, but from the glacierside?  Where the people you’re hiding from are standing?  Not very good.  I had to win a game of rock-paper-scissors to be the one to arrest you all, you know that?  A tournament game.”

“It’s not their-” began the sapper.

“Shut up,” said the climber through her teeth. 

“But it was my –”

“Yes, and them learning it won’t help, so shut up.  Don’t give the Marshalls more than they already have.  Ever.”

The bergie bit started rolling, not with the usual mule-kick force but a quiet slide into motion.  A proper skipper then, with some professional pride.  “Yeah,” I added.  “Don’t give me more details, kid.  Like what you must have paid these two idiots with to get them to sign onto your little project.  What was left for profit after you bribed them into this?  Five bits and a chunk?  I’d  hope they wouldn’t settle for less,  not for boosting a nice fat bergie from under the nose of the official Antipolar calving grounds, in the prime of the season.”

“It’s not about the money,” insisted the sapper.
“Shut UP, damnit!”
“No, no!  Maybe if she hears she’ll come around to-”

“Marshalls don’t care about anything but the bottom line, that’s how they are-”

“No, no, no,” I waved a hand, “we care about a good joke too.  This sounds funny.  You shut up yourself; I want to hear what the kid has to say.  Going to be a long trip too, the way captain cautious here is steering us.  Put some pepper in that old flank-steak of an engine, skipper!”

“Aye,” said the skipper – the first words or any sound at all I’d had out of her, and sounding torn and ragged.  Maybe a knife to the throat had been part of her career, but it gave me pause before the sapper honest-to-god cleared his throat. 

“So,” he began, “we actually weren’t going to sell this berg.”
“What, were you planning on donating it?”

“Well, kind of, we were going to give it out as directed by our organization, yes, that’s right.   Right.  Right – could you stop laughing?  I’m trying to tell you something you asked about.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I snorted.  “It’s just…giving away.  Giving away antipolar ice.  You got any idea how much this is worth?”
“Less than a nice green golf course and an overwatered crop of emerald onions and a rack of grain-fed large beef ribs?  This one bergie will meet essential water needs for half a city, and once we show them that, they’ll realize what they’re being robbed of, every time they see those icebergs towed into  the harbour.”

“Ah,” I said.  And snorted.  “Environmentalists.  Really.  You’re an environmentalist?  And you talked two lifelong berg-tenders into your idiot crusade?  Did you use up all your persuasion on them or was someone else doing the talking to get them onboard?”
“I barely had t-”

“SHUT UP!”

“Well anyways, that isn’t the point.  The point.  The point is… the point is that there’s not going to be any ice left.  Just a littlebit is left now, but soon?  Nothing.”
I shrugged.  “Plenty for now.”
“There was plenty of groundwater back in The Stuuk too, but that was fifty years ago and we ran dry just before I was born.  How long before this runs dry too?  What’s next?”
“Desalinzation.   And if my job’s still around by then – patrolling salt pans and running intruders off the water rigs sounds like a thing – I bet yours will be too, so quit worrying.”

“And the expense of that?  The water shortages?  The toll in mining, land repurposing, the destruction of coastal fisheries to feed more water in?”
“Oh please.  It won’t all be bad, just some of it.  The water’ll get to those who need it.”
“Like this bergie will, right?”
“Right.”

“Do you really believe a single bit of water from this ice will go anywhere near a person in actual need?”
“As long as they have the money, sure.”
“And if they don’t?  What’s left – left for them then?”
“Hey, there’s always room for more coworkers.”
“Right.  If they pass the background checks.”
“Tough luck, some of us didn’t shoplift in high school.”
“Some of us had no choice if we wanted lunch!  You can’t afford to plan that far ahead if-”
“For the love of all things that live and breathe SHUT UP,” the climber yelled in the sapper’s face, over the roar of the engine.  “SHUT YOUR BOUGIE LITTLE ASS UP OR I”LL BITE IT OFF AND PUT MY LEG THROUGH IT SIDEWAYS!  She’s PLAYING with you, you self-important little turd!”

“Not… not right.  Not right!  I was just trying to-”

The climber punched him, which was underselling that haymaker.  A big, slow, stupid roundhouse blow, the clumsiest explosion of rage I’d ever seen launch itself out of someone’s shoulder and into someone else’s stomach.  But it slammed into the boy’s brisket with a clang and sent him skittering across the ice towards the rear of the bergie, and damnit, damnit, damnit, there’s no bounty for bringing back a corpse for trial,  not since that one pontiff had his predecessor dug up and shoved into the stand, so I grabbed him with one  hand and levelled my reelgun at the climber with the other and with my mouth I said “no fighting.  Any head gets busted here, it’s my doing.”

The climber said something, but I couldn’t hear it over the screaming engine. 

“Speak up!”
“GET DOWN,” yelled the sapper in my ear, and instead of doing that I looked up, up, up at the Garhorss Glacier, the calving grounds for the finest  high-quality antipolar ice, which we were heading towards at such a pell-mell pace that there was an honest  to god bow wave athwart our bows. 

Dead ahead  was a small  chasm, the  kind I’d seen  a lot of in my training.  The kind that went way farther than you knew, and that if you disturbed, tended to shatter.  And I was so busy staring that that would’ve been that and then some if the skipper hadn’t thrown out her elbow as she slid  past me and knocked me flat out  on my ass by way of my chin, making something in my jaw pop and crack and my mouth yowl and the first bits of frozen  shrapnel whiz over my  head instead of  through it.  That woman’s bones were solid diamond, I swear, and she grabbed  me one-handed and dragged me down into the lea of the bergie and threw me into the back  of the boat (climber and sapper already present, my long-absent  tactical awareness helpfully  reported).  The boat was a pile of garbage but she sang into action like a racehorse and as we sped  away I could just  make out – through the spray and  the crash and the tears – the storage warehouse for the entire stock of calving tools  for the Garhorss Glacier sailing away into the ocean like a fleck of sea-spray in a whitecap.  A tiny crumb beside it could have been the headquarters of the Antipolar Berg Marshalls, or maybe not.  I blinked before I was sure, and they weren’t there anymore. 

“Nice aim,” said the sapper two noisy, frightening miles later. 

“Good directions,” said the skipper from the depths of her throat. 

“Too many directions,” said the climber snidely from safely belowdeck, rattling amongst tins and cans.  “All those rights and lefts and god damnit just say go one way and then change your mind once it needs changing.”
“We needed a very hard right.”
“Mass murderers,” I attempted to say, instead saying ‘maaa mardaurrur’ and hurting my mouth very badly.

The sapper dug around inside his parka and pulled loose a plastic buoyancy-liner with a perfect knuckle-imprint in it, wincing as he inspected it.   “No, no.  I was watching over your shoulder, and they saw us coming well before you caught on.  Most of them should have gotten out, and forgive me if few will mourn the passing of anyone with business inside the Antipolar Justice Tribunal.   A lot of orphans and widows and widowers will sleep soft tonight.”

“uck uuu.”

“If you’d looked anywhere but at us when I started that fight you’d have had plenty of time to stop us,” said the climber peevishly, “so don’t go pointing the finger of blame at anyone else on the boat.  Maybe you know how to look for cracks, but you’re not the only one.  Speaking of looking…skipper?  Rightwards if you please.  I think I see a bergie bit.   Not the BEST, of course, but we put that one to good  use and I believe that this is an acceptable second place.”

It was a good day for fishing.  The sky was blue, the sea was blue, the boat was a sort of off-colour rusted grey, and the air wasn’t blue and didn’t taste so much of tin and boot as usual. 

It wasn’t a great day for fish, but that was normal. 

Bruce popped his beer and set out his line and dipped his net and to his great startlement found that there was a tug, then another, and he was so shocked he almost dropped the line instead of his beer.  But he dug in his heels and gritted his teeth and pulled and heaved and hauled and strained and swayed until his sweat ruined his shirt and at last he heaved in a tunny of all things, taller than he was and gasping for water through its gills, a real relic of the past and too tasty to be true. 

“Well THAT’S a big lunch,” said Bruce once he’d got his own breath back; he was scarcely less tuckered than the fish. 

“Please no,” said the tunny.  “Please don’t eat me.”
“A talking fish!” said Bruce.  “Two surprises in one day, that’s enough for me.”
“Not just a talking fish: a magical fish.  I am the very last of all tunas, and am imbued with the power that can only be invested in the last of one’s kind, the power to create a better future for another.”

“What if the better future for another is for me to have a very big lunch?” asked Bruce, cunningly. 

“Think bigger, please!” implored the tunny, “If you set me free, friend fisherman, I shall grant you any wish you desire.  And surely you can see the value in this, suffer as we both do from the pains and pollutions of the skies that have led to the warming of the waves and the deaths of all my kin?  I can give you a wish, and with that wish you can solve both our problems at a single stroke!”

Bruce was deeply impressed by this, and the prospect of more lunches to come.  But a tuna in the hand was worth two in the sea, surely, and he despaired at the thought of all this time spent fishing being wasted so he’d have to spend MORE time fishing later.  Then a brilliant thought came to him.

“I wish…” said Bruce.

“Yes!” said the tunny.

“…for two wishes,” he finished. 

“Oh no oh dear,” muttered the tunny. 

“What’s the problem?” demanded Bruce.  “I can use one wish for fixing the seas and skies again, and the other for myself.  Surely that’s not greedy, since I’m going to be the person saving the seas and skies.”
“But I am but a simple magical tuna, and cannot grant more than one wish,” said the tunny, which would be crying if it could.

“Well, shucks,” said Bruce.  “But are you SURE?”
“Wait!” said the tunny.  “I know of another magical fish, the last of her kind, who may be powerful enough to grant you two wishes!  Release me and I will find her for you!”
“And you’re SURE this isn’t all a ploy to not be my lunch?” asked Bruce. 

“I swear upon my blue fins,” said the tunny. 

Slowly, carefully, gently, begrudgingly, Bruce cut loose the line and removed the hook and released the fish into the sea, where it slipped away like mercury into groundwater.   Then he drove back home and went to the pub for a lunch of cricket brisket, grumbling at the expense all the while. 

“No fish, Bruce?” said the man on the stool next to him.   “No luck on such a fine day, Bruce?  Finally going to have to get a real job, Bruce?”

“Just you wait,” said Bruce, chuckling.  “Just you wait.”

***

The next day dawned cloudy and hazy, with light white fog over the water, but Bruce was impatient and puttered through it without slowing, casting a pale froth behind his boat that was only slightly tinted from the dying metal of its hull.  He cast over his line and cast out his net and pulled out his beer and dropped it. 

“That was unnecessary,” said the great white shark, in her breathy voice.  The net made a rather awkward hat on her big sleek head, and it didn’t quite cover her big black eyes, although the shiny hooks on it certainly accentuated her big sharp teeth. 

“Hello,” said Bruce, coherently.  The shark was only a little shorter in length than his boat, and he wondered at how well the tunny had played him for a fool.  “Are you magical?”
“Very,” said the great white shark.  “I am the last of my kind, and the last of all sharks besides, so my power is greater than that of the last of the tunas.  Two wishes I can grant you, for my freedom from this net (for appearance’s sake).  You will hold the power to mend the seas and clear the air and maybe even tend to the ravaged soil of the land with but a single generously-worded command, and still have one wish remaining as your reward beyond those wonderful fruits of renewal and salvation that you will partake in with all.”

“One wish,” said Bruce, rubbing his chin.  “One wish.”  He could get a new house.  He could get a new boat so he could afford a new house.  He could get lunch every day for the rest of his life with a new boat, so that was good too, but it’d be a lot of work.  He could live forever so he could do a lot of work and still have fun, but still.

“What if,” Bruce asked cleverly, “I wished for TWO wishes with my wish?”

The great white shark’s eyes rolled back in its head, from midnight dark to blinding white.  “Your needs are that great?”
“My life’s tough,” said Bruce. 

“My powers cannot be stretched further,” admitted the great white shark.  “But I may know of another, greater than I.  She can manage your three wishes, but no more.   I will go in search of her and bring her to you, so that you may save us all and be granted the reward that you claim as your due.”

“Thanks,” said Bruce, but before he could even cut the net the last of the great white sharks had sunk beneath the surface, snapping it as if it were made of nothing but strands of algae and muck.  He went back to shore fuming at the indignity of it, and the pub had raised prices on the bean burgers again and were serving them with smaller chips besides. 

“No fish, Bruce?” asked the man on the stool next to him, poking him insolently in the shin.  “And with such dedication too, to head out in the fog and murk instead of toiling in the fields with the rest of your pals!  You’re a hard worker for sure, Bruce!  You’re well missed out there!”
“Just you wait,” said Bruce, grumbling.  “Just you wait.”

***

The sky was thick and clotted with curdled grey brooding its way into dark thunderheads, and the waves were as surly and choppy as could be, but Bruce had a hunger in his soul that had nothing to do with lunch for once – at least, for one lunch – and he drove into the teeth of it with a wild grin and a beer already unshackled.  Out to his usual spot he rode, bouncing from peak to peak to point and cackling, until at last he was there. 

He couldn’t cast a line more than an inch in the wind’s teeth, but he didn’t need to.  She was already there. 

“Are you a fish?” he inquired of the whale. 

The whale’s eye was as big as his head.  “By honour, not by birth,” she sang softly to him through the hull of his boat and the waves of the sea and the air he breathed.  “Although by descent we are both tetrapods, and hence sarcopterygians, and thereby fish.”
Bruce nodded in a very professional way.  “Of course,” he said.  “Now, my three wishes?”
“I am the last of the humpbacks,” said the whale, whose great flukes beat the surface softly, churning the storm flat around them, “and the last of the whales, and the last thing in all the seas that is bigger than the great white shark who sent me here.  I have just enough power within me to grant you three wishes: to save the sea and skies and all that live within them and may live again, and two for yourself.”

Bruce thought of all this, and then he thought of himself, and then  he thought of himself and all this. 

“Suppose,” Bruce asked craftily, “I used my two wishes… to ask for two MORE wishes?  Each?”

The whale exhaled, and the spout towered over them both, swept away in the dark of day.  “What you ask is beyond me, fisherman.  You ask what is beyond any of us to give.  We have offered all we can, for our sake and yours, and it is all that will ever be.”

“What if,” theorized Bruce, “I waited for the last living thing in all the oceans?  Wouldn’t that have enough power to do that?”
The whale inhaled, and she dove. 

“Hello?” said Bruce. 

He went back to shore and to bed early without dinner.  His stomach was troubling him.  

***

It was beautiful out again.  The storm had scrubbed away the scum that had crept down from inland into the air and water, and was as close to true blue as could be.  The waves had tuckered themselves out.  Bruce’s boat had more dents than before, but fewer than it could have gotten. 

So Bruce took the last beer in the fridge, and he went out, far enough that the shore was a little dot, and he put out his line. 

He waited. 

And waited. 

And waited some more.

And then he went back to shore. 

The pub was out of fresh food for the week.  Bruce had pickled onions (without garlic). 

“No fish, Bruce?” asked the man on the stool next to him.  “A pity.  The harvest isn’t doing great; and it’d cheer us up some to see new foods on the table.  You reckon you’ll start pulling your weight soon, Bruce?

“Just you wait,” said Bruce.  His hand was tapping on the table; why was it doing that?  When had it started doing that?  “Just you wait.”

The alarm went off and wouldn’t shut up until Lady Duchess Baroness Countess Champion-Captain Magewarden Fist of the Southeast Jessica Dark’ness Damselblade got up and punched it in the nose, sending it scurrying and squeaking back to its house in a huff. 

Stupid thing wasn’t even necessary.  She’d woken up well before it, as usual. 

Three hours of sleep, six days in a row.  Her body hated it but now it demanded it, and she’d been up before dawn weeding her mandrakes and repairing the rents in the vegetable lamb’s pen where the neighborhood basilisk had tried to claw its way inside.  By the time she was done her gleaming +11 Platemail of Plentiful Shining was a muddy mess and the crackling power-gems that roared in her gauntlet were beginning to short out. 

Then the neighborhood basilisk had tried to claw its way inside just as she was finishing the repairs on the fence and all she’d had to hand was her Phillippe’s –head morningscrewdriver. 

Her eyes were burning red – and not from that nasty hellbat scratch last week – and it felt like there was a demented bellringer going bananas inside her brain with a spiked mallet. 

Oh.  That was her doorbell screaming. 

The doorknob was stiff – probably due to Jessica coating it in basilisk ichor on her way in.  She fixed the problem by removing it with her fist, then removing the door with her fist.

There was a peasant on the other side, regarding her fist with some alarm.  Of course.  First quest of the day was always a fucking peasant.  Little shits couldn’t even make it through the night without being imperilled six times over.

“What,” she grunted.

“My deepest, most profound apologies for disturbing you so early, oh Lady Duchess Baroness Countess Champion-Captain Magewarden and Fist of the Southeast,” mumbled the peasant at high speed, eyes downcast to the hem of her awful grubby little tunic, “but wolves have beset our shepherds overnight, and now-”

“You want me to kill twelve of them.”
“Yes please.”

“And?”
The peasant’s mud-brown common eyes stared blankly from her grit-grey common face.  “I’m sorry, Lady Duchess Baro-”

“There’s always something else.  And.  What.  Is.  It.”
“…sixty-three of the sheep have wandered away in the night’s chaos.  Please find them and bring them back from the depths of Armsaw Woods.”

“Aw piss,” said Lady Duchess Baroness Countess Champion-Captain Magewarden Fist of the Southeast Jessica Dark’ness Damselblade, and she slammed her door in the peasant’s face, downed a bag of coffee beans, and was halfway to Armsaw Woods before she remembered she didn’t have a door anymore. 

“Then what did I slam?” she wondered, as she pulled out Dragonsnipper, her third-favourite longblade.  “Aw hellworms.  I punched a hole in the wall again, didn’t I.”

***

At ten in the morning Jessica had a working brunch of raw wolf flank with charred wolf fur cooked over a roaring blaze of damp tinder and soggy branches, washed down with the few coffee crumbs she found and licked up from the very bottom of the bag of beans.   She barely chewed; since she was using her mouth to swear and both her arms and legs to shove sheep.  At last the dim woolly bastards had been ushered, bleating, towards the arms of her shepherds, and Jessica was  about to follow suite when she heard a faint and beautiful melody, woven of laughter and threaded with delight, redolent of dewdrops and starlight and gilded with golden lilies. 

“Oh FUCK,” she groaned.  “Fuck fuck fuck.  Is this more fae shit?  It’s more fae shit.”
“Indeed,” proclaimed a voice that would’ve made any mere mortal singer break down into sobs.  And lo, from the surface of a nearby pond arose a figure robed in petals and crowned in sunbeams, with ferns for lace, bracken for brocade, and lady slippers for lady’s slippers.  “I am Queen Morning-glory, daughter of Hibiscus, mother of Jack-in-the-pulpit, guardian of all that is green and good and great and grand.  Thy hath trespassed upon mine woods and slain mine creatures, and-”

“Weregild in gold or stabbing?”

“-thy DARE-”

“Gold or stabbing?” repeated Jessica, who was currently using Drakesplitter (her fifth-favourite polearm) as a sort of crutch for her entire body.   “Because if it’s gold I’ve got to go home and get it and if it’s stabbing I bet it’s out here in these shitty-ass woods.  Now tell me which it is and be done with this bullshit so I can go home and you can go back to naming your family after your flowerboxes or whatever the fuck.”

The perfect apple-red lips of the faerie queen tightened most firmly, and her forest-green eyes glittered just a little colder than midwinter.  “Annihilate the foul hag-witch of the foul Hagwitch Moor,” she said shortly. 

“What, kill one-tenth of her?”
“Your mother was a bitch-hound.”

And with those final mysterious words of parting and a gentle wind that smelled of honeysuckle and raspberries, the elf was gone. 

“Thirty miles if it’s an inch,” groaned Jessica.  She shoved the empty bag of coffee beans in her mouth and chewed it up, muffling many slurs against all the world and existence itself. 

***

At five-twenty-six pm Lady Duchess Baroness Countess Champion-Captain Magewarden Fist of the Southeast Jessica Dark’ness Damselblade’s eighth-favourite broadaxe, Oakfeller, swung in a perfect one-hundred-and-eighty-degree-arc and bowled off the head of the foul hag-witch of the foul Hagwitch Moor. 

“Fool!” croaked the head.  “Twice-fool you!  The spiteful faeries have caused a calamity for the smallfolk in sending you to be my doom!  Now mine spells of slumber have left the barrow-dwellings of this place, and the tombs of the wizard-lord Skullmageddon have been thrown wide!  He will drown the whole word in skeletal death-troops if he be not stopped with all  speed and great force!  Woe!   Woe!  Woe!  Woe!”
“Oh my god shut up.”
“Make me,” cackled the head.  “Woe!  Woe!  Woe woe woe woe woewoewoewoewoewoewoe-”

Jessica kicked the head out the door of the witch’s cottage into her spellbog, and it laughed all the way down. 

“Right,” she muttered, swaying on her feet.  “Right.  Just a Wizardmageddon.  And then home.   And bed.  Right.  No big deal, just like last Wednesday.”  Or was it Tuesday?  Did it matter?  Wait, was Tuesday real?  Maybe she was mixing it up with Thursday –  that was real.  Probably.
“Right!” said Jessica.  And she fell asleep. 

Ten minutes later she woke up in a blind panic and ran pell-mell across the Hagwitch Moor in  such a hurry to catch up with the army of death-troops that she forgot Oakfeller and had to go back for it. 

***

At eleven forty-six pm, with arrows sticking out of every other spot on her body, Jessica got home, opened her front door, staggered to the couch, and remembered she didn’t have a door.  She did, however, have three big holes in the wall. 

“Fucklebuckle,” she mumbled.  “Carpenter’zgonnaeatmealive.  Piratepricing.  Frrmp.”

Her eyes were too tired to close, so they just sort of sat there, pruning up, and it was pure lack of thought that let her ignore the  figure standing in  front of her until it  let out a polite cough. 

Jessica focused, much to her regret.  There was a peasant standing in front of her.  Again.  It  was the same peasant, probably.  Again.  

Of course.  The last quest of the  day is always another goddamned peasant. 

“Excuse my haste and pardon my insolence, oh LadyDuchessBaronessCountessChampion-CaptainMagewardenandFistoftheSoutheast,” rattled the peasant with alarming haste, “but there’s a dragon eating the town and we would be forever grateful if you could do something.”
Jessica stared through the peasant.  

“Lady Duchess Baroness Countess Champion-Captain Magewarden and Fist of the Southeast?”
Jessica sighed, and  it was the sound of someone exhaling their whole life through their mouth and out into the hereafter.  “Sure.  Yeah.  Do something.  Right.  Dragon.  Bye.”

She opened her door and picked up Giantsmasher (her tenth-favourite Warhammer) and opened her door and put on her boots and opened her door and missed and opened her door again and  walked down to the village and into the dragon by mistake and let it eat her on purpose. 

***

The feudal-adventurer system itself lasted only a few more decades, which was scarce a surprise to future historians, rendered dispassionate by distance.  Delegating tasks to dangerous individual heroes may have saved the nobility a lot of work, but the peasantry correctly realized that the best way to keep the home life quiet was to pile on tasks until their protectors were too tired to care about what they were doing, and the increasingly-copious bestowment of titles, gold, and magical weaponry bankrupted many crowns in search of reliable assistance.  In the end the adventurer supply ran out and the species became extinct, soon followed by the complex ecosystem of wizards, monsters, and magic that relied upon them to provide entertainment, handiman’s-work, and nutrition.