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Welcome to the first BlackWyrm Digest. This book containsthe opening chapters of five books weve published in the first half

of 2009. BlackWyrm specializes in speculative fiction (fantasy,

science fiction, and horror) by undiscovered talent.

First up, comes The Vast White by Jason Walters, the first

book in the Murderers Edge trilogy. This fantasy book is written

in the form of military transcriptions, by an unwilling journalist

with contempt for his audience and a gonzo mentality.

Second is The Rainbow Connection by Ian Harac. An FBI

agent finds a dead Munchkin in a suspects apartment, and musttravel to the land of Oz to investigate. Oh, and people are trying to

kill him, of course.

Our third offering is Afterthoughts by Lynn Tincher, the first

book in the Mind Bending series. Policewoman Paige Aldridge is

still grieving from a death in the family when she begins hearing

voices in her head. Is she going crazy?

Fourth is Baour: Strands of Death by Dirk Vandereyken. This

courtroom thriller in a fantasy setting unravels its tale through

testimony, and has far greater repercussions than expected.And finally is Albrims Curse by Trevis Powell, the first book

in the Were-War series. The young boy Albrim is attacked by a

werewolf, losing his arm and his family at once, as well as

becoming Cursed himself!

If youd like to read more of a story, please visit us at our

website, www.blackwyrm.com, and order a printed copy or a

download in your favorite format.

Enjoy reading.

Dave Mattingly

President

BlackWyrm Fiction and Games


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BlackWyrm Digest

Table of Contents

THEVASTWHITE by Jason Walters ...............................................5Highdomes band of mutant and misfit mercenaries are

trapped between monsters, armies, and mad gods.

THE RAINBOWCONNECTION by Ian Harac.................................17

A federal agent investigates a dead Munchkin, while

trying to avoid flying monkeys with automatic weapons.

AFTERTHOUGHTS by Lynn Tincher ..............................................27

Paige begins hearing voices in her head while she tracksher familys killer. Is she losing her mind?

BAOUR:STRANDS OF DEATH by Dirk Vandereyken...................33

Although Baour is on trial for his life, his magic draws

the attention of the Spider that created all.

ALBRIMS CURSE by Trevis Powell...............................................39

How can young Albrim go on when a werewolf robs him

of his family, his arm, and his very humanity all at once?


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Chapter One:

Murderers

Northern al-Muttaqiina Mountains, Year of the Ascension 327

Sometimes you just know when something bad is about to happen.

They offer you all of the usual reasonable assurances: youre being led by

a military genius, youve got possession of the high ground, strength innumbers, and so forth. It all sounds pretty good too. But back in the

center of your head, way back where you really live, that little subhuman

monster part of your brain is scuttling desperately about in the darkness

of your skull, cringing and hiding in fear from the inevitable. It knows.

You know too, even if youre far too frightened to admit it to yourself or,

worse yet, to anybody else.

Youre screwed, and your whole rotten crew is screwed with you. Or

at least youre about to be.

Give me the spyglass Highdome, whined Abdul. Youre hogging it

again. Abdul is always whining. Well, that isnt entirely fair. He onlywhines when he isnt leering, complaining, stealing, sneering, or getting

ready to stab someone in the back for an imaginary insult to his equally

imaginary honor. This makes sense being that he isnt exactly the

greatest warrior ever to crawl out of the Vast White. A backstab is about

the best he can hope for. Hes ready to do it, too. The man has more

daggers in his burka than a back alley dog has fleas using its scraggly ass

for a smorgasbord. And hes the best native tracker we could find.

I sighed, focused the spyglass on another spot further along the

opposing ridge, and tried to ignore him. He wasnt that hard to put up

with, really. After nearly 30 years as a professional mercenary, murderer,scout, skirmisher, thief, scrounger, drunk, and generally useless layabout,

theyre really isnt too much I cant put up with.

Except maybe getting screwed by an employer in broad daylight.

The Padishas army had been filing into the valley below in dribs and

drabs for days, mainly in large squads of three to four dozen men. These

were for the most part Bedune tribesmen like Abdul: hard-bitten, tough-

as-nails sand rats in flowing brown or black robes with fanciful whiskers

that flowered abstractly from their weathered faces. Most of them werent

professional soldiersper se; but Abduls people havent survived out in the

desert for untold centuries by being soft. Theyre as tough to kill as

everything else out on the roasting, permanently forsaken edge of Mans

Empire.

Each Bedune probably started out his journey with at least six of the

god-awful oversized camels that are the only reliable beast of burden in


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this region. But by now most of them are down to one or two, with the

others eaten along the way. The foul things are his transportation, his

currency, provide milk for his children, and, if absolutely necessary, food

for his table. Out here a mans wealth is measured by the size and quality

of his camel herds. The loss of one is a financial disaster. The loss of threeor four is an unthinkable ruin. So the scrawny, sun-bleached tribesmen

have been left with no choice but to win at this point; which, now that I

think about it, has probably been The Padishas plan all along. Its one

hell of a motivation. Without the spoils of war their own wives wont

welcome them back into their own tents.

Each group of Bedune, logically enough, seems to have been assigned

some specific purpose well in advance. The first few in kept their distance,

carefully observing our (stupidly) fixed positions, undoubtedly drawing up

some decent maps and diagrams before sending a bunch of runners back

to The Padishas war caravan. Horsehead Broken One, Archon of theWastes, Master of the cities of Cassia and Myrrh, Lord of the Riders in

Indigo, snappy dresser, and all around terror to those unfortunate enough

to get in his way did absolutely nothing to stop them. Nothing. All part

of his master plan, you see. Right into his trap. So it only stood to reason

that he would do something particularly impressive when the second

wave of around a dozen squads, each containing hard-looking bastards

dressed in rags dyed exactly the same horrible pizzle yellow shade as the

Vast White (which is only white from a distance, you see) arrived,

leisurely dismounted, and then promptly vanished into the waste in broad

daylight. This is the same grand generalissimo wizard who, only a monthbefore, I had seen absolutely pummel the town of Saffron with giant balls

of fire that tumbled, one after another, down from the heavens. Except

this time he calmly and pointedly did nothing.

Ah-hah! I thought to myself at the time. Theyre falling right into

the Bossmans clever trap.

But, a week later, there were probably ten thousand men spread out

in the valley below, their activities clearly visible through my spyglass.

Some were strapping on lamellar armor, others practicing their archery

not that they need a lot of practice, as they were already incredibly good.

Another group was assembling complicated siege equipment out of polesand rope they must have dragged out here from half way across the world.

Oops! Horsehead was probably thinking. Where did that army

come from?

Still, my faith wasnt entirely shaken.

Well, I remember saying to myself, Highdome old sod, that mutant

offspring of a bodybuilder and a draft mule that you call Bossman will

certainly show them some of that old-time deadly wizardry now! More

balls of tumbling fire. Rains of giant man-eating lizards. The dead rising

from their graves to consume the living. Yes indeed: its going to be quite

a show.

Nothing doing. Save for the standard mano-a-mano sniping and

dueling betwixt flankers, nobody had made a substantive move against

the enemy since he drifted in all leisurely-like. No probing raids, no clever

midnight ambushes, and no nocturnal assassinations of enemy sheiks. No


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real attempt at reconnaissance, either. Nothing a clever 13-year-old might

have tried. Nada.

The whole thing stinks. It reeks of ego, arrogance, and

underestimation. It smells of too many victories too easily won: a scent

that nearly always means that defeat is hiding around the next cornerlike a mugger getting ready to pounce on a cocky, drunken nobleman. It

smells like dead friends.

A familiar, horrid scream from above interrupted my fatalistic

musings: an al-Baqara and her rider. I removed my helmet, a battered

Imperial salade, so that I could scratch my perpetually chafed and

sunburned head. The desert is no place for a bald man. I hate wearing the

damn thing during the day; it makes my brain feel like its cooking slowly

in a stew pot. But it beats an arrow between the eyes, thats for certain.

Well, I didnt need to look up. No, thats not really true. I didnt want to

look up. It would remind me that I was probably on the right side of thiswar, which (in my arrogant opinion) generally means the losing side. The

meanest bastards always seem to win at this sort of game.

The al-Baqara cried out once again in its horrible, amplified woman-

being-violated way. Its rider, a Bedune wytch-man or rahaq, probably

wasnt going to do anything while he was up there except look scary in his

black, flowing robes and massive purple veil. Fair enough. But an al-

Baqara made you shudder just to look at it. At some point it must have

been an attractive, normal sized woman... until somebody with a nasty

turn of mind tried unsuccessfully to turn it into a giant bird. Arms

rendered impossibly thin, then stretched ten feet in either direction toform wings. Lovely, smooth skin somehow transformed into frayed, bat-

like wings that flutter raggedly behind the al-Baqara, like morbid

banners being flown by a dead army. Its legs broken then reformed so

that they bend backwards and can fold up underneath its elongated body.

Its feet transformed into massive, three-toed claws.

But the thing you remembered most about an al-Baqara is its pair of

massive, oddly perfect breasts. Theyd do any wooden mermaid mounted

to the front of a warship proud. Its misshapen head, on the other hand,

possessed just enough of the shadow of its former beauty to make it truly,

utterly terrifying. It screamed and screamed and screamed out of a row ofrazor-sharp sharks teeth, swooping and flapping about the sky like some

sort of satanic ex-wife. All of this horror is compounded by the fond,

intimate way in which the rahaqcaresses the poor doomed things torso

every so often, like a suitor patting his beloveds hand during dinner. Its

almost domestic.

Abdul was practically humping my leg by this point. Maybe he was

really curious about the enemys troop movements. Maybe he just wanted

to look at the al-Baqaras naked chest. It didnt matter to me one way or

the other, but his bad imitation of a horny dog made it nearly impossible

to concentrate. Id already seen about as much of the Padishas army as

any halfway sane man would want to see anyhow. He was welcome to it. I

stepped down from my perch on the earthworks, gingerly handing him the

instrument with both hands. He accepted it just as carefully. Abdul knew

that the strange devise wasnt at all magical, but anything dragged down


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to the toenails of the world had to be worth a small fortune. Plus, since I

was kind of an officer, he wanted to stay on my good side.

The rahaq turned his mount about in a lazy arc, banking his hellish

bride against the darkening, purple sky. Hed probably caught a glint off

of the spyglass. Only officers had those. My blood ran cold through myveins. Reaching into the folds of his billowing robes he withdrew a dark

circular object, took careful aim, and hurled it toward the earth. A

moment later a tail like a feathery corkscrew sprouted from the rear of

the tumbling object, enabling it to control its rapid descent. Then a nail-

toothed maw opened up at the things front to emit a piercing, unholy wail

of despair and doom.

Blitzscreamer! I yelled down the line. Various trench corporals

quickly took up my cry. Then I tackled Abdul into the sewage filled ditch

below. The two of us went down in a tangle of limbs as the living projectile

struck the ground nearby. The explosion that followed was deafening. Wewere lifted several feet off of the earth, and then flung down like a

petulant childs rag dolls as dust, rock, and mud fell around us on all

sides. Neither of us bothered to get up as, a moment later, hundreds of

bits of spinning bone shrapnel whizzed directly over our heads like a

swarm of deadly bees.

By the Tyrant, I am unmanned! screamed a voice further down the

trenchworks. The Blitzscreamer must have struck dead on at the bottom

of our fortifications, sending tiny bits of itself along the line at waste level.

It was a nasty weapon, some sort of magycally summoned hell-thing with

bones made of steel and bowels filled with explosive gas. Its voice wasintended to awe and shock men on the ground so that they forgot to dive

for cover. Fortunately, that part of its devil magic didnt always work.

High above us the Pashas wytch-man pumped his fist in the air. He

howled his cruel victory cry down at the ground-pounders below, his dark

and brooding voice soon joined by the inhuman cries of his hideous mount.

Their joy was short lived. A streak of fire shot up from the earth below,

missing them by only a few Imperium. It exploded into a ball of fire that

engulfed both rahaq and al-Baqara in white-hot flame. Thoroughly

singed, they turned and limped back toward the relative safety of their

own lines, leaving a trail of smoke behind them as they went.Who sent that up, asked Abdul, peeking his head up over the edge

of the trench. Skulker or Maestro?

Neither. I helped the Bedune scout to his feet. I havent seen

Skulker in days. Odds are hes hiding in the back of a cave somewhere in

the box canyon, hoping the Lieutenant has forgotten about him. Maestro

couldnt turn water into pizzle, let alone pull off a spell as miraculous as

that. That leaves either Virago or one of Horseheads pet wizards. Since it

was actually helpful, my bet is that it was Virago.

Abdul nodded thoughtfully. Like most Bedune men he was

instinctively uncomfortable with any woman who was taller, tougher, and

more frightening than himself. Unlike most Bedune men he was willing to

deal with it, which is probably why Virago hadnt castrated him yet. It

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I slapped the swarthy little man on the back, and then departed for

the slightly more favorable location of our camp. If anything new was

happening in this miserable debacle of a war it was probably happening

back there. Watching our side getting blown to meaty pieces by satanic,

perverse warlocks in black pajamas had gotten old the second it hadstarted.

As youve probably guessed by now literature isnt exactly my first

love nor penmanship my primary craft. I never wanted to be the

Regiments Keeper. I got drafted into the position a few days ago when my

predecessor sort of fell over with an arrow through his head. Old Brushle.

Hed always been a careful sort (a good trait in a professional murderer),

gingerly planning ambushes or working out moderately competent

strategies based on the Regiments hundreds of years of records. As for

me, I always enjoyed reading them by the firelight after a hard days

march as a sort of accompaniment to whatever rotgut the local heathenswere brewing (fat chance of that down here in the mirthless desert) and

whatever nasty weed they were smoking (actually, a good deal better in

that department). Reading about what some officer or grunt did in the

swamps of far Legocia back in the time of the Mageocracy, or how some

epic battle went way back when the God Tyrant himself used to take the

field in the infancy of the Empire, now thats good, exciting stuff! Not like

this sad, sandy trench warfare. Some of it really was well written, even. I

never, ever wanted to write the damn thing myself though. It seems more

like a wyzards job. Useless and self-important-like, with a need for

discretion, diplomacy, and other such things that life hasnt equippedyours truly with much of. Well, to hell with that. If some Imperial

functionary reams the Captain out when he turns this semi-literate

garbage into the Great Library in Throne, then thats his damn problem. I

tell things like they are, bury me face down if I dont.

Anyhow, Old Brushle wasnt a bad or soft sort. Hed killed more men

with the point of his sword then hed had hot lunches, and probably felt a

lot more excited about those lunches. Like I said, a pretty good murderer;

but his writing style was, well, a little dry, with a lot of attention paid to

what he supposed his reader was interested in. Being a bit more of a

realist, I dont suppose anybody much reads these things at all. They gettranscribed, the get numbered, and then they get buried in some back

room in the sub, sub, sub basement of the Imperial City where all of those

careful, diplomatic words are promptly turned into a nest by some

hardworking rat or other. Which is right and natural, if you want the

truth.

Not that Im likely to get in much trouble for being too glib. Its

exceedingly possible that I will becomeexceptionally dead in the next few

weeks, assuming the quality of Horseheads generalship doesnt improve

dramatically. So unless the God Tyrant (may-he-reign-eternal) decides to

reanimate my dingo-chewed corpse, I figure Im pretty safe. Which brings

me back to Old Brushle. He wasnt, as you may have guessed, the most

compassionate fellow you were likely to run into. But I think that what

happened in Saffron was just a little too much for him. He didnt say too

much about it in the last chapter, which if you ask me is a dead giveaway


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for such a detail-mongering scrivener. I dont think he had ever seen

death done in such a wholesale way. He was more of a retailer, so to

speak. Horsehead, however, has a bit of the old school fire-and-brimstone

showman in his nature. He also wasnt in a very good mood that day, even

for one of The Broken, which showed up in the.... I suppose you would callit quality of his work. There wasnt much more than ash, building

foundations, and indistinguishably charred corpses left by the time we

marched down to that village.

So when a guy snaps, he snaps. A lever gets pulled down in his mind.

Hes seen enough of this life, thank you very much, on to the next one. I

figure thats what happened, because I cant think of another reason why

that careful, meticulous bookworm would hop over the side of his trench

to make a dead mans run with a spear at a couple of hundred bow-

welding Bedune hard-cases. He didnt get 15 Imperium before one of them

put a shaft straight through his left eye.It was a bad day for everybody, but most especially for me since I got

promoted to his job. I suppose there is some sort of increase in pay but,

again, I dont suppose it will matter much unless they bury me with the

cash. Somehow I just dont see the grave detail letting that happen.

Still rubbing my sunburned noggin, I made my way through the final

half-dozen rearward trenches, climbing over or squeezing between

sharpened rows of stakes as I went. A shame, really. When we arrived

here the upper part of this small valley (really more of a canyon, to be

honest) had been genuinely lovely, filled with olive and palm groves. Now

they were every last one of them gone, burned for firewood or turned intosharpened stakes to buy the men in the trenches a few precious moments

should the Pashas army get this far. More importantly, all of that wetted

timber would give Horsehead, his advisors, and his extremely unfortunate

(one way or the other) harem a chance to make a run for it should they

wake up one afternoon to find that several thousand angry, gold toothed

desert cutthroats have stopped by for brunch.

Up and along the none-too-steep sides of the canyon were dozens

upon dozens of small caves that had been carved by hand directly into the

soft limestone. My guess is that theyre used as housing for those few

weeks out of each year when harvesters come down out of the mountainsfrom Salt to gather their annual crops. Im certain they make passable

enough dwellings in the late fall, when the weather in these parts begins

its sudden, catastrophic drop from one of this climes seasons to the next:

hotter than hell to colder than hell. Thats my clever translation from

the local vernacular for the sake of posterity. Unfortunately for all

concerned, its currently that season which we soft people from the north

romantically refer to as summer, but down here is quite rightfully

thought of as an excellent time to stay indoors and smoke hashish.

Unfortunately for the local economy (so to speak), that season lasts nine

months out of the year.

Possessed by such dark and gloomy thoughts as I was, I almost

missed Morlock and Waif silently practicing their odd killing art upon a

high, flat-topped boulder that lay just in the shade of the cliff. Slowly and

quietly they moved together in a perfect synchronicity, one like a


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miniature version of the other, their long hooked outer swords crossing

their short stabbing blades every so often as they rehearsed a dozen or so

of the hundreds of moves which Morlocks people are known for. If one

knows about them at all, that is. Theyre almost unheard of unless you

have spent some time in the sewers of Throne. Which isnt exactlysomething your average farmer from East Skuggley wants to do, either.

Waif was dressed in loose flowing white robes which covered her

entire body save for her hands and eyes, which was something you had to

do if you were a woman among the Bedune (not that Virago did, but thats

a different manner). Morlock was covered completely in light brown strips

of ragged cloth, his eyes camouflaged by an enormous set of darkened

goggles. It made him look kind of like a giant beetle armed with a weird

set of cutlery. He couldnt tan, of course; so keeping the sun away from his

flesh was a matter of life and death. It also meant that he smelled pretty

bad most of the time. Only Waif would get within five Imperium of him.Even at night his stench was a dead giveaway, which is probably why the

two of them hadnt been sent out on one of their usual throat slitting

expeditions into the enemys officers tents.

Now, to your less fancy murderers like myself, Salvatore, or

Ploughboy, a sword is kind of like a mace which has the happy advantage

of being sharp. First you get yourself a nice, heavy, thick blade. Then you

sharpen it until you can shave with it. Finally, you hack your way

through opponents like a mad butcher whos put off all his work until the

night before Springs Festival, taking a few thoughtful moments out here-

and-there to deflect your opponents blows away from such unfortunatespots on your person as your head, groin, and gut. Youre not really out

there to do anything dramatic, epic, and kingly as lopping off arms or

heads. Breaking bones is the name of the game. Crack a mans skull, or

shatter his weapon arm, and hes none too likely to get back up while the

fight is going on. You can move onto the next customer, so to speak. Not

much to it; until that fatal day you get unlucky. That day tends to come

sooner rather than later. Salvatore is the only really old murder Ive ever

known, which makes him either the luckiest guy alive or the least lucky

depending on your.... cosmological view, I suppose it would be. When they

finally get him hell have a lot to answer for, thats for certain.Your smart fighter is, in my humble opinion, not all that eager to get

up close and personal with his opponents. This is a lesson you learn

mighty quickly in the killing professions. Its why a nice long spear, while

tricky to wield, is always better than a sword if you have the strength to

use one. A heavy crossbow combined with thirty yards of open field on a

warm sunny day is better still. A deep concealed pit lined with sharp

stakes along a lonely path is my personal favorite. Not very

sportsmanlike, Highdome, you are undoubtedly thinking. But the farther

away I am from some well-armed teenage conscript, crazed tribesman, or

mounted noble, the happier I am. And the older I get to be.

Morlock is a fancy murderer, though, with all sorts of extravagant

ways of doing his devils work. Morlocks crazy cleaver is heavy and sharp

enough to use as a standard cutting weapon in battle, but you cant stab

with it and its balance is all off. Your hooked sword, sharp on one end but


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blunt on the other with a curved tip which bends back towards its wielder,

isnt a practical weapon because as requires years of training to really use

properly. It takes a nomadic warrior culture, like his or like those Bedune

desert rats down on the plains below, to produce a Morlock. Though

theyre generally strong and good with a bow, farm boys just dont havethat kind of stuff in their hearts. Your standard military unit trains a new

recruit for a month or two then sends him out to get killed. For that

purpose simple weapons broadsword, crossbow, and spear are the

best. Your modern army doesnt spend years training a green kid to be a

soldier, not when there are a dozen more where his sorry ass came from.

But a tribal elder will.

Anyhow, the hooked sword, known as a bokkon(or at least Morlocks

is), has a wickedly sharp tip with a barb on the end so the wielder can

swing it underneath his opponents weapon, get it behind him, drive it

into his backside, then pull the unlucky bastard forward onto a shortstabbing weapon called a kukri. These are really personal weapons, made

in matching sets based on the users height, weight, and fighting style.

The bokkon can also be used to disarm an opponent by hooking his blade,

forcing it to the ground so that the kukri can deliver its last respects.

Sometimes Morlock just shocks his opponent with a few seconds of really

fancy swordplay that involves, among other things, throwing the

ridiculous looking thing over his head in an arc and then catching it

behind his back. While the silly bastard is watching this display all slack

jawed-like, Morlock drives the kukri into his heart. Like I said, fancy.

Plus anybody that stupid needs to be dead.On top of all that, Morlock has an entire code of behavior to govern

his every waking moment. This is a pretty strange way of doing things,

especially when youve been raised in lightless tunnels filled with rotting

human sewage like he was. If youre Morlock, you get up before sunrise to

bathe in the coldest water you can find (fat chance out here). Then you

practice with your silly hooked weapon until the sun peeks its blazing

noggin over the horizon. You sit quietly and stare at a bug or a blade of

grass until the cook practically throws your ration of slop into your face.

You (Morlock that is, not me) then spend your day trying to look calm no

matter how badly your officers, your friends, and life in general tries totick you off. When it gets dark, you go out into the woods and spend a few

leisurely hours sneaking up on squirrels, rabbits, and the like to show off

what a stealthy gutter urchin you are. Which, when you get good at it

(and Morlock is very, very good at this), makes for a much better stewpot

than otherwise. Even out here in the Vast White, where there is naught to

catch but lizards, snakes, and insects the size of kittens. Which, I might

add, arent so bad with a sprig of fire-baked garlic if you boil them to

soften em up a bit first.

Now, Ive known a few fancy murderers in my day, some of them even

partway decent at the killing profession. Morlock is better than all of

those guys by more than half, so you have to give him his due, but none of

them had a pet girl catamite as an apprentice. Not that Waif is a bad

companion. Shes tough, smart, and pretty handy in a fight for somebody

that weighs 90 decaDrach wet. She also doesnt say that much, as opposed


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to Virago, who always says that much even if youre just asking her to

pass the wineskin. Still, it still isnt right to bring a child along on these

sorts of ventures, even if you are just trying to teach her the family

business. Theres only so much that one of tender years should see before

they have to. Not that I had any choice in the matter myself, but I have topoint out that there aint any way that Morlock is her father. Maybe,

being raised in a sewer, he doesnt know his rights from his wrongs.

Which is why his girlfriend is actually a girl, if you get my meaning.

Not for the first time I shook my head and clumped off, wondering

what to make of the two of them. They were a peculiar pair, bound under

most circumstances to attract unwanted, as well as unfriendly, attention

from the local rubes. Traveling with the missing-teeth-and-facial-scars

crowd certainly cuts down on the odds of a random lynching by frightened

farmers or a burning by the hometown Carnifax, but other problems came

along with it. Like getting killed by terrified, desperate Bedune tribesmenbeing driven forward by a mad sheik with the help of flying sex perverts.

Even with such darkling thoughts under my brow, I once again

paused to consider the natural beauty of the canyon Horsehead had, for

better or worse, shoehorned his ratty, hard-bitten mercenary army into. It

was a wide, sandy basin with a small stream running through its center,

its walls studded here and there with fruit bearing trees (all gone into the

cooking fire now) or lovely little yellow desert flowers. The stream, which

had been turned a muddy brown by the passage of countless boots, wound

down from the near mythical city of Salt in the al-Muttaqiina high above.

It was brackish yet drinkable, as mysterious in its origins as any oasis isin the great, dry wasteland that is the Vast White, as obscure as the city

which gives it birth. Salt: the ultimate goal, the paramount reason for this

sad, doomed military melodrama that my friends and I have become two-

bit players in. You know all of this, of course. But in all my years of

murdering Ive never seen nor heard of its like. Two armies of half-dead

men lead by all-powerful blockhead lunatics, turning the desert into a

graveyard for the right to lay siege to a city that has never in all of

mankinds tired history been taken by force. Whats not to love?

Why not retreat back out into the wastes and let the Padishas army

smash itself against Salts impassible walls for a few months, then attackwhatever pitiful remnants is left from behind? Why hasnt it occurred to

the enemy to let us do the same? Abrax save us from madmen, fools,

geniuses, and generals, as the old saying goes. I know why, of course. Its

pride, pure and simple. Any fool could see that. Still, a man should count

his blessings. Never in my wildest nightmares did I think Id get a chance

to bitch at posterity for my rotten luck. So I might as well make the pit

into an olive, as the Bedune are fond of saying.

I crunched my way up the hillside to the section of shaded sandstone

caves that the Regiment has called home for the last couple of weeks,

stopping now and again to pick up an interesting rock. Im sure a

prospector with some real time on his hands could have a field day out

here. Theres quartz everywhere, entire veins of it jutting here and there

straight out from the canyon walls just begging for a pickaxe to the face.

Even a simpleton knows that where that milky white stone shows her


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lovely head silver, gold, and even more valuable metals cant be far

behind. Jade, onyx, and other such semi-valuable stuff is spread pell-mell

across the valley floor. Its almost as if some kind of practical joke is being

played on us by that vengeful father-god the local heathens worship. If

the ninnies on both sides of this pressing military issue would only makethemselves scarce, Im betting the boys and I could spend a pretty

pleasant winter here mining.

Shortround, Skulker, and Salvatore had set up a sort of shade

structure in front of their cave. Its just too damn hot during the day to

hang around inside of one of the shallow little limestone ovens (though

they werent too bad at night). Theyd used some spare bedrolls, spear

shafts, and rope which theyd obviously stolen from some quartermaster

or the other to make a crude porch, and were cheerfully throwing a game

of con for whatever small coins they still had in their possession. Or, to be

more specific, Skulker and Salvatore were gambling their own moneywhile Shortround, who wasnt allowed to own money, gambled with mine.

This didnt matter one fig to me, as he would win anyhow. Whatever

magical skills Skulker had they didnt extend to gambling.

Opening the flap, I unceremoniously plopped myself down on a pile of

rags, my long legs extending right into the middle of their game. This got

me some hard stares all the way around. It wasnt exactly comfortable in

their little hovel of a portico, but compared to most of the accommodations

available in the valley namely none I might have well have been

lounging in the God Tyrants palace back in Throne.

If you wanted in, Highdome, you could have just asked. mutteredSalvatore, his voice its usual charming old mans blacklungish rasp. I

was just about to teach these two storks the meaning of the word

impoverished, I was.

Theyre mercenaries, I snorted, so they dont need a lot of teaching

when it comes to being bums. Its their natural state. Plus Shortround

would have won anyhow like he always does. Ive done you a favor is all,

old man.

He wasnt amused. Maybe Ill do you the favor of leaking out your

lifes blood, Highdome.

Salvatore casually fingered an enormous dagger that had come out ofnowhere, while also shooting me a jaundiced, bloodshot look that would

have sent most strong men scuttling back in terror. It was pure blackened

hate, liberally spiced with homicidal malice, and wrapped in an ugly

blanked of ignorant madness. It was also his normal drunken facial

expression, so I wasnt really all that impressed by it. Shortround and

Skulker simply fisheyed him, as the cat was now out of the stewpot.

Have you been drinking in direct defiance of the Great Southern

Archons most specific orders, soldier? I demanded. I gave him a look just

as mad-psycho-spooky as the one he had given me. I had some small

experience with looking dangerous myself. All three of them glanced away

with a scowl like wet three marsh monkeys trying not to look guilty. If

so, what is it, where is it, and where did you get it from, anyhow?

Skulker pulled an enormous leather canteen out from beneath his

robes, tossing it to me without further comment (not that he was prone to


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lots of them). Its stopper was a plug of palm wood that had been carved

into the shape of a hollow-eyed, grinning skull. The creepy thing came out

with a suspiciously loud pop when I pulled it loose from its bunghole.

The canteen was filled with some still-fermenting sugary slop mixed with

yeast, stolen presumably from some bakers workshop back in Myrrh. Theconcoction smelled like something I wasnt quite prepared, or maybe not

consciously willing, to put my finger on. In spite of that I was just

desperate enough for a drink to give it a try. I put my mouth to the

bunghole and took a long, hard pull. When my stomach didnt

immediately send the swill back up, I took yet another.

For a brief frightening moment I think I went blind. Then my whole

body broke out into a cold sweat from the top of my bald, sunburned head

to the tips of my blister-encrusted toes. An already abused brain did a

small somersault inside of my thick skull. I suppose it was the rotguts

way of warning you about what a real mans hangover could be like. Itried to breathe, but instead just got dancing faeries of light behind my

eyes as my wits begrudgingly agreed to allow my eyes access to my head. I

tried again and was rewarded with a choking, gurgling sort of noise that

slowly turned into violent cough. I evened this out with another, smaller

belt of the evil juice.

The night before they butchered the last of the camels for food I paid

the stable a little visit. Skulkers voice was murmuring confidentially in

my ear, even though he was five feet or so from me. I milked several of

the mares, and then mixed their issue with a quarter of pulped dates

which I liberated from the Lieutenants personal pantry. The corks myown invention. The left eye has a tiny, one-way valve that allows gas to

exit without air getting in. Pretty good, huh?

Oh, he added, I might have cast a minor spell to help speed

fermentation along a wee more quickly. Well, maybe not a minor spell

exactly....

This batch only took about a week, Shortround interrupted

enthusiastically in his little girls voice, but weve got a half dozen more

buried around the canyon. Aging-like.

Aye, theyll be powerful killing strong by the end of the month.

added Salvatore, Then well sell them to those bastard Argonii DeathsHead troopers on their payday for a tidy sum. Theyve been moaning

about the lack of hooch to anyone who can understand them since we, uh,

sacked Saffron. The Donkey turned that place into such a pit, there

wasnt any way to find out if some clever heathen had built himself a still

somewhere in a barn or if some merchant was passing through with a

load of wine from the south. This stuff will send even those fat, flaxen-

haired fools for a loop. See if it doesnt! Its copper in the belt, see if it

isnt!

The three of them grinned their gap-toothed smiles at me like

naughty apprentices off to spend their wages in a brothel. Unable to

speak, I just nodded. Alcohol was damned hard to come across in Bedune

lands, what with its consumers being proscribed by religious law to a

particularly nasty sodomistic death and all. Of course, such things dont

make much difference to an invading army of starved mercenary killers


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lead by a psychotic demigod. Every blistered day is a march-or-die kind of

proposition, which leaves remarkably little time to develop a sophisticated

appreciation of local custom.

I sipped at the thick, soupy substance again. It wasnt so bad once you

got used to it.... actually, it was kind of good. Earthy-like. A happy kind ofwarmth spread over my sunburned body, chasing away a far less

congenial heat that had become my constant companion over the last six

months. Skulker hadnt mentioned it, but maybe hed distilled the humors

out of some of the smoke that the locals favored for this evil concoction.

That would account for all the faerie light and numbness and whatnot.

Using my free hand I grappled the wall of rags behind me, slowly pulling

myself into a standing position using a series of desperate handholds.

Finally I stood on my feet, swaying a little with a bad case of rubberlegs.

Well then lads, I gasped. My voice sounded distant and funny in my

own ears. Ill have to take this contraband with me, lest it fall into thehands of the uncouth common soldier. Being an officer and Keeper and

all, I must now climb to my lofty quarters for the proscribed purpose of

recording the days vital impressions for Imperial posterity. Lets hear no

more about this clear violation of the God Tyrants will, may-he-reign-

eternal.

May-he-reign-eternal! the three criminals intoned, as reverent as a

clutch of penitent monastics.

With as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances, I

gathered my ragged cloak about me, taking my leave while

simultaneously trying to keep my boots from tripping over one another.Outside the sun was not forgiving. Not in the least.


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The Rainbow Connection

Chapter One

It all started with the dead munchkin. Well, maybe a little bitbefore that

The dealers room was a celebration of capitalism on acid.

Everywhere money changed hands frantically, weeks or months of wages

tossed away on all manner of useless gewgaws, from mediocre books

signed by mediocre authors to overpriced replicas of non-existent

weapons. The crowd was filled with all kinds and manners of beings, from

armor-clad science-fiction mercenaries to women who were both nearly

attractive and nearly dressed.

Matt Anders surveyed the crowd, noting a wide range of would-bealiens, cyborgs, and monsters. All of them were fairly palpably fake. That

was good. Too authentic, and the INS guys might show, demanding that

you take your head off, or else they would. Immigration laws were getting

stricter every day. Congress was about to require DNA tests for all

employment not that that would weed out any of the truly human

refugees.

At least thats not my job, he thought glumly. I dont have to go telling

people, Sorry, we know where you came from is hell. Tough luck, you cant

stay here. All I do, he thought, is round up greedy nerds.

He looked around at the rows and rows of dealers. And on that note,this is a target-rich environment.

He glanced down at the business card in his hand: Big Franks

Comics And More! On the back was scribbled the somewhat cryptic

notation: G-820. Matt glanced up. Aisle G was one row over. He pushed

through the thick crowd until he found the booth he was looking for.

It was mobbed by an assortment of aficionados of obscure videos

trawling over the densely packed rows of tapes and discs like ants over a

corpse. Every so often, one would give a little grunt of excitement and

lunge frantically for one item or another, adding it to the pile in his arms.

The rotund, bearded gentleman behind the boxes spent most of his timearguing minor points of trivia with all the passion of a debate over

nuclear disarmament, and seemed annoyed when his pontifications on the

topic of computer graphics or filming on-location but off-world were

interrupted by someone eager to pay him hundreds of dollars for a few

slim pieces of plastic.


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18 IAN HARAC

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Matt checked out the display. Most of it was legal or quasi-legal

unaired pilots, foreign programs not yet released in the states, that sort of

thing. Theoretically, he could pin him for those alone, but that wasnt his

job. Nothing here seemed to be under his particular purview, but the

tipoff was supposed to be reliableHe sighed. Hed have to break into the conversation and talk to the

man.

so anyway, I know its supposed to be the real Arrakis, or close

enough, but, man, the worms just looked so wrong. Theres such a thing

as too much authenticity, you know? And they had to splice in all the

actors huh? Can I help you, man?

Yes. Matt put on his best interested fellow geek face. Im looking

for some Trek episodes

Frank pointed, annoyed, at the far row, where perfectly legitimate

boxed DVD sets sat waiting. Over there. He then returned to hisconversation. Anyway, as I was saying

Matt interrupted again. I was really looking for Fragments of the

Soul and The Observer Effect. Frank blinked and looked slightly

nervous. Um not sure I know those. Were they, uh, late-season

Voyager? Cause I never got too into that

Matt lowered his voice and pretended to be very interested in a stack

of manga whose contents would please anyone whose twin fetishes were

squid and schoolgirls. No. Fourth season Classic.

Frank wavered between greed and fear, and momentarily allowed

fear to win. Sorry, dude. Uh Trek was cancelled after three seasons,you know

Sure. Here. But elsewhere

The booths owner busied himself rearranging the patternless array

of discs. Not really sure about anywhere else, man, so

Time to see if the trump card worked, Matt thought. Oh. Sorry. Bob

Sinderman told me you were the one to talk to

Frank paused in his transformation of the discs from one shape of

chaos to another. Sinderman? You know him?

That was the test phrase. Matt took it.

Know her, actually. Bobbi. A good friend of mine. She saidFrank relaxed. Oh, okay. Bobbis cool. There was this time she wore

this His face glazed over in a moment of remembered (and probably

imagined) lust. Anyway, yeah, I can get you those, but not here. He

reached below the table and drew forth a card, scribbling something on it.

Drop by here after the con. And bring cash. A lot of cash. What you want

aint cheap.

Theyre original imports, right? Not any of this scanned crap?

Oh yeah, man. Original, mint-in-box, straight from the Bridge.

Quality only.

Matt smiled. Cool. Ill be there. Then he purchased a few random

manga and the nearest DVD something involving cheerleaders and

chainsaws and made a show of browsing several other booths, slowly,

until he had worked his way back out of the dealers room.


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Matt whistled as he looked around the packed living room. For once,

a tipoff actually worked. Sinderman must have had a real hate for him to

rat him out like this. Wow.

Every flat surface was stacked with video cases, DVDs, and other

media. Matt twirled a small octagonal blue crystal between his fingers.

You ever see one of these, Brian?

Brian Friedman, a young man with clipped blonde hair and a

perennially serious expression, looked over at it. Not outside of a report.

Atlantean? Brian doled out words as if he was being charged for each

one.

Matt smiled. They call the place Atlantis, but I dont think anyones

made any real connection to the myth. Just another sea-covered world,

but way ahead of us on baseline tech.

Brian frowned, something he was good at doing. No market. Just

boring costume dramas. Nothing happens for a year.

Oh, yeah, no ones in the market for their media but this little

baby, He flipped the disc and caught it. can probably hold a few years

worth of standard Prime DVDs. Somewhere in this junk, theres probably

a hacked piece of hardware to make it play to a standard PC. He tossed

the disc in a Ziploc, sealed it, and wrote the date and case number on the

outside. He looked for a safe place to set it down, saw none, and shoved it

in his jacket pocket for the moment. What else we got? Anything really

good?

Matts partner shrugged. Not much quality. Quantity. Hes got

contacts in two, three dozen alts. Almost all sci-fi stuff.

Yeah, for some reason, no one wants those three seasons of Bonanza

with Ronald Reagan.

Check his system. Names, contacts, Bridge frequencies. Huh. Odd.

Matt walked over. What?

Brian handed him a stack of pamphlets and posters. Fudge

Hershey! one declared. Theres Nothing Sweet About Slave Labor

decreed another.

Looks like ol Frank has a socially active side. Brian continued to

sort through the papers.

Matt laid the pamphlets down on top of a stack of videotapes

showcasing Alec Guinness as Dr. Who. That might explain it, then. If

there is some kind of political infighting in whatever fringe group hes a

part of, that could have prompted the ratting-out. He laughed. Political

activists and science fiction fans both prone to violent ideological wars

over crap. And our Frankie is both.

There was a sudden thumping noise.

Brian turned to Matt. Place was supposed to be empty.

Matt nodded. It was might just be some junk falling down. Ill

check it out.

Should I come along?

Uh sure. I mean, its probably a cat. Its not like alternate universe

video bootleggers are known for their violent tendencies.


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20 IAN HARAC

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Protocol.

Matt sighed. Right. This is pathetic. He flipped open his cell phone.

Agent Matt Anders, Copyright Enforcement, reporting a disturbance at

the suspects home. Investigating. Follow the rules, fill out the forms, dot

the isThe two walked through the cluttered apartment, past walls of books

(including, Matt noted with a start, all of Hitlers sci-fi, in deluxe

hardcover worth ten grand, at least), and headed towards the stairs

leading to the loft. The cops had supposedly checked out the place when

they arrested Big Frank, so there shouldnt be anyone upstairs at all.

Still, it was sometimes better to be a little paranoid than a lot dead.

The upstairs area was even more cluttered than the down. There was

also a distinct odor, the familiar smell of the unwashed geek. Open

Chinese food containers in varying degrees of independent evolution

towards sapience cluttered the floor, and a bed whose stains formed aRorschach test as done by Jackson Pollack was sitting in the middle of the

room.

Matt frowned.

That bed should have been over there. Look, the floors a slightly

lighter shade of puke brown. He glanced at the opposite wall. So it was

recently pushed against that wall, then pushed away He pulled it

further away and looked at the wall. There was a poorly concealed

doorway. Hidden room? Wonder if our Frank is smuggling in Orion slave

girls or

There was a sudden scuttling and thumping from the far end of theroom. Matt and Brian both turned to see something, or someone, dashing

out from behind a desk. They both ran to follow, Brian clearly in the lead,

leaping down the stairs. Matt followed as quickly as he could, but tripped

over a pile of books Brian had knocked down in his haste. As he struggled

to his feet, he heard a clear Halt! followed by a gunshot.

Gunshot?

At first, he thought Brian had been shot. When he arrived in the front

room, though, he saw Brian holding a still-smoking pistol, and a small

body splayed on the floor in a growing puddle of dark blood.

You brought agun on a copyright enforcement check?Brian looked perturbed. Standard policy. This is a crime scene. Why

didnt you?

Matt tried for a moment to wrap his mind around what seemed a

truly ludicrous question, then snapped back to present reality. Why did

you shoot him? Hell, what did you shoot? He moved forward to examine

the body.

Hold on. Coroner will be coming. Dont touch the body.

How do you know it he whatevers even dead? We have to

Matt had reached the body.

It was tiny, about three feet in height, and reasonably proportioned.

It was dressed in bright blue clothing, with soft boots. Nearby was a small

knife. Matt reached for the wrist, and quickly noted the lack of a pulse.

He carefully turned the body over; ignoring Brians protests, and saw the

shot had struck the heart. There was no hope of revival.


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He looked at the dead figure for a moment. It was a man with the

look of a fat person gone suddenly and painfully to thin, apparently in his

late thirties, though the size of a child of seven or so. His face was gaunt

and hollow, and his hands were badly scarred. His eyes were still open,

staring into nothingness.Matt slowly stepped away from the body and looked for something to

wipe his hands on, then gave up. Instead, he wheeled on Brian. You want

to explain why you shot Frodo?

Brian tried, and failed, to smile. Not a hobbit. Shoes. Round ears.

The Perp was a munchkin.

Perp? What is he guilty of? Why the fuck did you shoot him? Matt

struggled to retain professional detachment. Copyright investigation

rarely placed him face-to-face with bloody violence of any sort, and it

wasnt something that sat well with him.

Brians stoic demeanor began to fail. He had a knife! Look! Brianpointed at the small weapon.

You shot someone because he had a pen-knife? For Gods sake,

Brian, look at him! Hes a wreck! You could have taken him out one

handed!

He drew a weapon on me! Brians voice cracked, and the words he

normally rationed suddenly flowed with uncharacteristic speed. What

the hell else was I supposed to do? Wait for him to hurl it into my throat?

It was pure self defense!

Did you even ask him to drop it?

Of of course I did! Told him to drop it, put his hands up he didntrespond! I had to do something!

I didnt hear any of that.

You missed it, then. Look, I said it, all right? I did what I was

supposed to do. He began to grow flushed.

Matt put his hands to his face, and then realized, too late, he had just

smeared himself with his munchkin blood. Were copyright enforcement,

Brian! We dont kill people!

Were law enforcement. We do what we have to. Just just drop it,

okay? I did what I was supposed to do, thats all. Just just drop it.

They dropped it?

Matt stared disbelievingly at his supervisor.

Julius thats just ridiculous. Brian killed a man yes, a man,

dammit, dont give me that look in cold blood!

Julius Glens mouth formed a particularly twisted expression, almost

a tilde. That was his almost-patented Im looking for the perfect weasel

words facial expression, and he found them quickly.Not quite cold blood, Matt. Call it warm blood. I mean the

suspect was armed. It was a crime scene under active investigation.

Agents have died in the field before.

Matt looked for something to break, and then remembered he was in

his bosss office and restrained himself. He gave a loud grunt of


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frustration and began again. It was a copyright case. And not even one

involving some kind of big Asian syndicates with mob ties. This was a

damn nerd with a munchkin in his closet!

Julius nodded, with a patronizing half-smile. Indeed. He was

probably a slaver. Or running illegal immigrants. Sadly, well neverknow

Matt found his thoughts suddenly derailed from the outraged speech

he was about to make. Never know? Huh? We got three computers off

nerd-boy. Plus, hes in custody. Its not like he wont sing loudly for any

shot at a reduced sentence.

Supervisor Glens face wavered between surprise and

embarrassment. Oh you didnt I mean, you were on the case, you

should have received He turned to his computer and began scrolling

through emails. Oh. Damn. Matt, Im sorry, but it looks like there was

some kind of fuck-up. Your name got dropped from the cc list for this case.You never got the messages.

What? What messages?

The suspect Frank Brummerman was, ah, killed in prison.

Tragic, really. Some sort of knife fight

Wait he was killed in a knife fight in the nerd pen? What, did some

credit card hacker whittle a data key into a shiv? Did a riot break out over

whether was Kirk was better than Picard?

Julius coughed. There was an administrative error. He was sent to

a, ah, more secure institution.

Matt blinked a few times. He what? This is this is passingbeyond ridiculous. I suppose next youll tell me we couldnt get anything

off his systems.

Julius coughed again.

Oh, I am not believing this.

Hardware bomb. EMP pulse linked to a timer.

Matt nodded. Now, that part was almost believable. A lot of people

with sensitive data had deadman switches on their hardware. But the

rest of it put together and, besides, the FBIs data teams were used to

that sort of thing, and would have taken steps he shook his head. He

recognized where his thoughts were going, and he didnt like it. StillMatt waited a minute before speaking, to make sure he was sounding

as calm and rational as possible.

Julius, this could be political.

He just frowned.

That guy, Frank he was some sort of cross-world activist.

Remember that whole Hershey thing, about two years back?

Yeah, Oompa-Loompa rights or something?

Death By Chocolate. That was the book Bathison wrote on it.

Forced labor mining camps in the chocolate mountains, prison labor in

molasses swamp caused Congress to ram through a whole pile of feel-

good, do-nothing labor laws, and we got a new division or two out of it.

Cross-world labor relations enforcement. So? What of it?

Frank was heavy into that. I think, maybe, this whole case was a

setup.


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The supervisor rolled his eyes.

Matt, were domestic copyright enforcement. Nerd Patrol. That kind

of cloak-and-dagger stuff doesnt happen here. Youre taking a comedy of

tragic blunders and turning it into I dont know. A bad movie.

Come on, Julius. You cant be quite so deskbound as to have lost allinstinct for smelling a rat.

Julius Glen drummed his fingers and frowned. Matt smiled. This

meant he was finally thinking seriously about it.

Unlikely silly, even but well, closure is good. Im authorizing

you to look into this um a bit on the sly, if you dont mind. Dont make

it a top priority, but do what you can. Maybe one of his contacts knows

something see what you can find out.

Matt turned to leave, then stopped.

Youre supposed to warn me to be careful.

His boss stopped shuffling papers long enough to look up in confusion.What do you mean?

Youre supposed to say, in a deep and serious tone, that if theres

anything to this, powerful folks are behind it, and that I should watch

myself.

He sighed again. Just find out what you can. I think youve been

doing too much undercover work. Youre starting to think like them.

Matt laughed. Yeah. Maybe. Look, Ill see if anything obvious

turns up. Ive got a pretty hefty caseload as it is Im hoping to get a lead

on whose been supplying those Stormfront bastards with films from

Reich-3.Be good if we could crack that one. Im tired of playing whack-a-mole

with them. Good luck.

Matt nodded and walked out, closing the door quietly. He made his

way back to his desk, started to sit, noticed the time, and then wandered

to the small kitchen area. He fumbled among the rows of brown bags in

the fridge until he found the one with a hastily scrawled M on it, then

returned to his desk and, after clearing a small spot in the clutter, began

to eat.

The tuna salad seemed even more flavorless than usual, and the

bread had absorbed a bit too much liquid and was turning to sodden mushin his hands. He didnt care.

Idly, he called up his files on the Stormfront case, but ignored the

resulting stream of data. Chasing down Neo-Nazis who planned to destroy

America in some fiendish terrorist plot? That would be worthwhile.

Tracking down Neo-Nazis smuggling in movies and TV shows from some

alternate world where the shitheads they worshipped had won, so they

could sit in their musty basements and jerk-off to seeing their power

fantasies fulfilled? Hardly worth bothering with, but these days, copyright

law was starting to trump everything. With so much material wealth

flowing in from the endless worlds out there, the one thing people needed

more and more was entertainment, some way to fill the hours, and thanks

to laws passed prior to the development of the Bridges, the entertainment

conglomerates had incredible control over the flow of any kind of

information which might even arguably qualify as media. The only thing


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bigger was immigration and emigration, and Matt found that even less

palatable. Hed seen the faces of people being sent back to their

hellworlds, pitilessly tossed into temporary Bridges to be dumped back

into whatever sick disaster they were fleeing. Hmm. Immigration

He brought up the directory. There was that one guy he knew fromtraining Harold? Harry? Yeah, he preferred Harry there he was. He

clicked the name, and an image blossomed on his console, a doughy man

going prematurely bald and fat. He didnt seem to recognize Matt.

Um yeah? Harry Kravik. Immigration. Can I help you?

Matt struggle to force joviality into his voice Hey! Matt here, Matt

Anders? We were in handgun training together, back at the Academy?

Uh Yeah, oh yeah, I remember you said Harry, who very

obviously didnt. What can I do for you, he added, with the fairly obvious

coda that it had better be something extremely trivial.

Just looking for an opinion do we have a lot of immigration issueswith Oz?

Harrys face fluttered, as he tried to draw out the answer to the

question from his brain without having to perform any actual work.

Which one? We got, ah, the one which was nuked back in 64, the one

which got hit by that tsunami, the one which is still a penal colony

Matt shook his head. Not Australia. Oz. The merry-old-land-of.

Harry smiled and laughed. That place? Oh, hell no. Emigration,

sure, got way too many people want to play around in fairy-land, but

theres hardly anyone who wants to leave. I mean, only that Dorothy chick

would be stupid enough to want to go back to Kansas, right?So, thered be no money in Bridgerunning to there, at least not

coming our way? Not something someone would do on the side to pick up

some spare bucks or doubloons, or gold pieces, or whatever they use for

cash there?

Harry shook his head. No way thered be enough traffic to be worth

the risk. I mean, maybe some witch fleeing an executioner with a bucket,

but thats about it Why?

Just clearing out some old case files. Please, Matt thought, be

lazy and unconcerned. Be lazy and unconcerned.

Harry pondered this for about a second, then seemed to find the non-answer perfectly satisfying. Oh. Okay. Uh, glad I could help out an old

friend from training. We should do lunch sometime.

Yeah. Sometime. Thanks! Matt cut the connection.

Strike one, he thought. Frank wasnt just smuggling in munchkins en

masse. That meant twinkle-toes was here for some kind of purpose.

Furthermore, Julius Glen was almost certainly part of it.

Matt sighed. Am I spinning this too much? Now Ive got the corrupt

boss who reveals himself in the shocking twist tacked on to my growing

delusion. Still he was too blas. He wouldnt tolerate that string of

blunders happening on his watch unless he was sure hed be protected

from any kind of retribution. Everyone was just being too damn forgiving,

too willing to shrug and say tragic human error. The FBI wasnt about

being forgiving.


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How paranoid should I be, he wondered? How far will Glen go? Is this

big enough to risk killing me over?

I dont know, he realized. And unless I investigate more, I wont know

and investigating more is likely to be put me more at risk. Damn.

He reached for his console again, and then paused. He flipped openhis briefcase and took out a small personal computer, one he carried with

him for traffic jams or purely personal use. Then he gathered up all of his

work thus far on the Frank case, placed it in a special directory, and

touched the keyboard with his index finger. A light on the keyboard

flashed briefly red, then went green. He then transferred the data over to

his personal system, logged it into a few places, and signed off. He

contemplated wiping the data from the finger chip, as well, but decided he

might need it again.

Now where to?

He brought the Frank data up again, and filtered back through thehistory. He had only one real lead: the woman whod betrayed him.

Roberta Sindermans face shone a ghostly, eerie, blue. This was due

to neither makeup nor mutation, but the fact that her apartment was lit

entirely by computer screens, ranging from some ancient cathode tubes to

the latest free-space displays. Her hands moved deftly from one input

device to another, as if she was playing a half-dozen organs at once,

conducting a symphony of information which flickered in pulses of light

from one screen to another.

Then, just as the final movement was nearing its crescendo, the

performance was interrupted by the insistent intrusion of the technology

of the 19th Century the telephone. Bobbi sent forth a long string of

profanity in several languages, some of which were not native to Earth.

Around her, patterns of data clashed discordantly: conversational queries

hung unanswered as game avatars succumbed to violent attacks, while

stacks of paper and assorted gewgaws went flying, detritus hurled aside

in the frantic search for the phone.

By the time she found it, on the sixth ring, fury and frustration had

peaked. She flipped it open and snarled. Someone better be dying.

The voice on the other side paused for a moment, taken aback, then

replied: Someone is. Dead, actually. We need to talk.

There was a Starbucks nearby. There always was. Rumor had it a

certain class of rich would-be migrs were paying illicit Bridgerunners a

fortune for access to any 1-Delta parallel which lacked Starbucks. To date,none had been officially found, but many of the wealthy and gullible had

paid real money for false coordinates.

Bobbi and Matt sat at a small table, surrounded by unkempt college

students and young businessmen. The din of the crowd (not to mention


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the complete self-absorption of those who composed it) provided near

perfect privacy.

Matt sipped his coffee, frowned, and added more Perfection, the

latest trend in non-fattening sweeteners. It was sugar, really; it just had

some sort of molecular twist that rendered it indigestible. Anothercommoditized miracle, courtesy of the Bridges.

Bobbi poked listlessly at her pie as her coffee sublimated from

volcanic to glacial while completely skipping pleasantly hot. She tried

to find something witty or insightful to say, and failed utterly.

Franks really dead?

Images of a dead munchkin dancing in his mind, Matt fought back

the impulse to say really most sincerely dead, and instead just said,

Yes. Toss someone like that into a maximum-security prison, he was

pretty much certain to be. Especially if someone wanted him to be. He

paused, sipped, and continued. Did you want him dead, Ms. Sinderman?


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Afterthoughts

Chapter One

It was all Detective Paige Aldridge could do to not throw up. She

leaned against the tree trunk of a huge oak that stood in her adopted

sisters front yard. Her hands shook violently as she tried to cover her

mouth. Her stomach gave another turn. Taking a deep breath, she stood

up straight and squared her shoulders. Gathering up any strength she

had left, she walked back toward the garage.

Unusually cold for a late August evening in Louisville, Kentucky, a

soft breeze swirled around her, raising the hair on the back of her neck as

she slowly, numbly glanced up. Suicide. Its never easy to see, even harder

when its the seventeen-year-old son of her adopted sister. A boy she loved

as if he was her very own son. She clutched her hands to her chest. Her

heart ripped right out as she walked around the body that hung lifelessly

in front of her. His face was already swollen and blue. The smell of death

filled the garage. Fighting back another urge to throw up, she swallowed

hard, forcing the lump down. Her knees were weak as she cautiously

stepped over the small stepladder that was kicked aside to accomplish the

task and steadied herself by grabbing the elbow of a fellow officer. She

maneuvered between the other detectives in the garage. Silence swept

through the room as everyone watched her. She could feel their eyes

moving along with her. Tonys camera flashed while tears filled Paiges

eyes. She fought back the urge to run home screaming as she slowly

backed away and turned toward the garage door where her partner stood.

Jay Vittidini didnt try to force a smile when she walked toward him

but instead offered her his handkerchief. Hey, Paige, he said slowly.

You okay?

No. I am never ready for anything like this, she replied as she took

a deep breath, not noticing the light mist she left in front of her as she

exhaled in the cool air. It was difficult to draw another breath in, like

trying to blow up a new balloon. Hugging herself tightly to try to fend off

the nausea and chills that were taking over her entire body, she tried to

steady herself against the garage doorframe beside Jay. Have you talked

with Sarah? Is she okay?

Yes, shes inside, poor thing. Toms with her, Jay sighed, scuffing

his feet on the driveway as he mindlessly glanced at what was left of the

sunset. Shes had to deal with so much lately, he said, as he gently put

his hand on Paiges shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She needs you, and if


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you need me, Im right here. I mean it.

Paige couldnt feel his touch. I know, she drew in another deep

breath while she covered his hand with hers, trying to reach for some sort

of reality. Ill go on in and talk to her, she could only whisper as she

walked around the front of the red BMW parked in the driveway. Pausingwhen she reached the end of the gray stone sidewalk that she had walked

on so many times the last several years, she leaned against the railing.

Paige and Sarah had planted all the shrubs and flowers that were

now growing beautifully along the sidewalk. She absentmindedly ran her

hand across the top of the shrubs. Paiges parents died when she was

three and Sarahs mother and father had adopted her. They passed away

several years later while both Paige and Sarah were in college. They were

not only sisters, but best friends as well. How could she help her now?

Again, she felt helpless. If only I had come out to see Sarah when I

wanted to earlier, Richie may have been okay, she thought to herself.Tears burned the back of her eyelids again as she thought that maybe

just maybe she could have prevented Richie from killing himself. She

remembered Richie playing in the back yard and picking dandelions for

her. He would run up to her with handfuls of the bright yellow flowers

along with the grass and clover that had happened to grow along side

them. She remembered his red hair and freckled nose. How he would

smile up at her and shower her with big hugs and kisses.

Paige remembered the panic-stricken phone call from Sarah only

thirty minutes earlier. Hes dead oh God hes dead! was all that

Paige could make out between Sarahs sobs.Who? Anthony? Paige tried to ask calmly. Senator Anthony Steckler

was Sarahs late husband and the love of her life. They had met in college

and were inseparable. After marrying just after graduation, Anthony and

Sarah immediately tried to start a family. They were elated when Sarah

became pregnant right away. Everything was perfect until Sarah found

Anthony in their bedroom strangled to death not even a week ago.

Devastation had taken over Sarahs life.

During the investigation, Paige determined that all roads were

leading to the Stecklers teenage son, Richard. Richie had been home at

the time of Anthonys murder but claimed to be passed out in his bedroomfrom his usual alcohol binge. Richie had become a troubled teen over the

last year. He was rarely home. When he happened to be, it was usually in

the middle of the night. He would stumble up the stairs and pass out until

far past noon the next day. Unable to be objective any longer, she asked to

be removed from the case and turned it over to Jay, with the promise of

helping him every step of the way.

No oh, God, Paige its Richie hes in the Sarahs frantic

words became impossible to understand between the sobs.

Have you called 911? Im on my way! Paige threw the phone down

and ran out of the door. When her car squealed onto Sarahs street in

Gellendale Estates, the police were already there, lights flashing in

unison with an ambulance that was pulled into the yard. The shadow of

someone hanging from the garage ceiling made her stop in her tracks. She

felt like she had been smacked in the face with a baseball bat.


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Paige snapped back to reality when another detective brushed her

arm as he passed. She realized she was still standing at the foot of the

sidewalk, gripping the railing with her knuckles that were already white.

Taking another deep breath, she moved toward the door. She could hear a

voice in the back of her mind saying, Be calm, Paige. Everything will befine. Just relax.

As she opened one of the large double glass storm doors, she could

hear Sarahs sobs echoing from the parlor. What was left of her heart

shattered into a million pieces as she ran into the room. Sarahs face was

as pallid as death itself. As she tried to stand and run to Paige, Sarah

stumbled and fell back onto the couch, knocking the throw pillows from

the sofa as she fell.

Sarah breathless, Paige ran to her. Their arms closed around

each other as if hanging on for their very lives. Sarah, Im so sorry! she

tried to comfort her. Not knowing what to say, Paige sobbed along withher, rocking her back and forth, letting Sarah rest completely in her arms

like she was her own child. She stroked Sarahs long blonde hair,

desperate to comfort her. Paige tried to embrace the pain that Sarah was

feeling, but she only felt numb. How could anyone understand such grief?

The tears fell down Paiges cheeks as if a faucet had been turned on inside

her, but she didnt feel the tears. She wished she could feel the pain. How

could she relieve some of it for Sarah? What could she possibly say to

make things better? Paige again felt fragile and helpless. Doing the only

thing she could do, she held onto Sarah with all her strength and let

Sarah release some of the pain herself.Sarah, I dont know what to say or do. Im sorry, so sorry.

Sarah nodded as if she understood and hugged her tightly. Paige

could feel her relax a little as Sarahs breathing slowed down and she

realized how much her just being there helped Sarah. Hope. Paige had

hope.

Finally, Paige opened her eyes, her lashes heavy with tears. Glancing

up, she found Tom Miller, one of the policemen on the scene, standing

over them. She hugged Sarah once more. Im going outside to talk with

Tom for a minute. Ill be right back. Sarahs swollen eyes looked at her

blankly. She nodded her head as Paige squeezed her hand. When Paigestood up to walk with Tom, she asked another police officer to look after

Sarah for a few minutes as she and Tom headed for the door.

When they stepped out onto the front porch, Tom looked out at the

scene in the front yard. The news vans and reporters were swarming the

investigators even as they were taping off the scene. This was the second

time in the same week there had been a tragedy at Senator Stecklers

estate and the reporters were determined to have answers. A crowd of

spectators was also gathering around, shouting questions without

concern.

She found him she came home tonight, opened the garage door and

saw him there, Tom whispered to Paige. Im surprised the poor woman

has any sanity left. She was at the station earlier asking questions about

her husbands murder. She swears Richard was innocent. Now Im not so

sure. Tom sat down on the step, shielding himself from the crowd with


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the shrubs that lined the porch.

If Richie was guilty, we need to find out why, Paige sighed as she

sat beside him. Did he need money? Drugs? Did he hate his father

enough to kill him? Was it an accident in the state he was in that night? I

have to find the answers somehow. For Sarahs sake. Paiges eyes filledwith tears again. She wouldnt let them fall. Not anymore. She had to be

strong. That was the only way she could help Sarah. Biting her lip, she

stood up gracefully with what precious little strength remained and

walked back into the house with Tom behind her.

Before she could enter the parlor, Tom pulled her aside. They are

going to be removing the body any minute now. Maybe you should take

Mrs. Steckler somewhere else in the house so that she doesnt see.

Thanks, Tom. I will, she said as she laid her hand on Toms arm

with a light touch that appeared to be out of concern but was more of

trying to keep from falling down. She slowly turned and walked into theparlor to where Sarah was now laying on the sofa.

Come on, Sarah. Lets go upstairs and clean you up a bit. Paige

offered her hand to help Sarah stand. She nodded and walked with Paige

toward the stairs. As they entered the bedroom, Paige suddenly felt ill

again. Breaking into a sweat as nausea swept over her, she fought the

urge to rush into the bathroom. I need to be strong for Sarah. She really

needs me now.she told herself.

As Sarah was changing clothes and drying her face with a hand

towel, Paige walked to the window and looked outside through the blinds.

The EMTs were pushing Richies body, covered in a white sheet, into theambulance. The memory of the same scene with Anthonys body caused

Paiges stomach to lurch, yet again. As she watched the scenes unfold in

the front yard, she saw someone in the shadows behind the trees that

lined the front yard. Watching him as he moved from tree to tree along

the back of the crowd, a suspicious feeling came over her. Relax, Paige,a

voice whispered. Its just a curious neighbor or a member of the press.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she turned her back to the window. As she

glanced around the room, she noticed the pictures on the desk and

dresser. She walked over and picked up a picture of Sarah and Anthony.

They had their arms around each other and they were both smiling. Asfar as Paige knew, they had a nearly perfect marriage. Fighting off a little

twinge of jealousy, Paige placed the picture carefully back on the dresser.

She wondered if she would ever find happiness like that.

She made her way to the guest bathroom and splashed cold water on

her face until she felt better. As she looked at herself in the mirror she

wondered what to do next. I have to figure out if Richie was guilty or if

there is someone else. Did Richie kill himself for another reason?Then it

hit her. The obvious question, Has anyone found a suicide note? she

asked the reflection in the mirror.

Sarah was back in the bedroom when Paige came back in. Paige put

her arm around her and led her back downstairs to face more detectives,

suspicions, doubts, and tears. Ill be back in a couple of minutes, she

assured her and hugged her tightly. Leaving Sarah with Tom as they

reached the parlor, she ran back outside to find Jay.


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Before she could even ask the question, Jay had the answer. We

found a note. It doesnt make any sense, but its all we have, he said as

he handed her a note that had already been sealed in an evidence bag.

Paiges hands shook as she took it from Jay and held it up to the porch

light. She could barely make out the words on the letter through theplastic in the dim light of the garage.

Dear Mom,

Im sorry for all of the trouble Ive caused you and Dad. I

need help. I love you.

Richie

I dont understand. This letter sounds like someone who is reaching

out, not someone who is about to Paige was trembling.

Exactly, Jay cut her off. They looked at each other with complete

understanding. They had been partners long enough to develop a sense of

what each other was thinking. Paige likened it to a marriage where the

couple could speak to each other without saying a word. Jay was not only

her partner, but also her friend. One she argued with frequently but

completely understood even if she didnt agree.

The rest of the investigation of the scene went quickly; perhaps it was

because Paige was numb and couldnt concentrate. After taking Sarah to

stay at her cousin Aileens, farm, she decided to go home. She poured

herself a large gin and tonic with the juice of a large lime, crawled into

bed, and opened her journal.

Its amazing how quickly things can change. Youthink everything is normal, fine, routine. I mean,one minute Im running bath water, ready to relaxand the next, Im staring death in the face. Why

Richie? Why did he have to kill himself?She sighed and continued to write in her journal as suggested by her

psychiatrist.

I feel as if my world is caving in on me. Im gettingsmaller and smaller. I have no control anymore. Iwant to reach out and help but I cant. Im helpless,

alone, insignificant.She toyed with the corner of the page as she put her pen in her

mouth, tears steaming down her face. She wiped them on her sleeve and

decided to write more of exactly how she was feeling.


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I feel like Im going crazy. I cant remember things,days even. Something is happening to me. I thought

I was better. I thought I had made progress. Today, Istarted to visit my sister, Sarah, to check up on herand it was like a voice was telling me to leave heralone. So, I didnt call. I didnt call!

She drew several underlines.

Im going out of my mind. I should have been there.

If I had, Richie would still be alive!She gave up, slammed her journal closed, and turned off her light.

Sobbing into her pillow, she lay there remembering the few hours before.


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BAOUR: STRANDS OF DEATH 33

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Baour: Strands of Death

Chapter One

How how do you plead? Reald was very much conscious of the fact

that he sounded insecure. It had been more than thirteen years since hehad last felt like this. The part-time barrister still remembered his first

few court cases, when he was young and inexperienced. Except for the

local clergy, he was the only man in the village who had learned how to

read and write, so it was only natural that he would take up the mantle of

a lawyer during those few times that Barnsby had needed on

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