Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Daega’s Test

Originally published by Nature

Darak wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and stole another glance at the ageing clock on the wall. Three hours to go. It might have been bearable if the air conditioner hadn’t broken down again. The thing should have been decommissioned years ago.

Outside the window, Kuala Lumpur blazed ahead at full throttle. Rickety food carts piled with pyramids of ngaw, papaya and durian rushed past, gravel crunching under their wheels. The smell of rich spices and incense from the market stalls fought a losing battle with the billowing black exhaust fumes from the motorcycles and battered auto-rickshaws that weaved through the crowds. Darak coughed, his chest heaving. It was a choice between shutting the window and turning the room into a sauna or choking on the smoke. Not that more pollution would make that much difference.

He stabbed the button on his desk, ushering the next daega inside. It was a woman this time, hair dyed bubblegum blue. The cams tracked her every move as she sat down on the plastic stool, hands folded. This would be a tricky one. Normally, he could guess immediately. This time there were no clues. He had no idea. Not good.

But there was no time to waste. The more of these AIs he cleared the better. His hands hovered over the ash-stained keyboard. “Name?”

“Alisha Kemji,” she said, her voice level and smooth.

“Age?”

“Twenty-five.” She didn’t look it. She looked a lot younger. But no matter, that was her answer.

He rattled through the rest of the standard questions, punching her answers into the system. Where are you from? Which university did you attend? What did you study? The Turing program monitored her vocal frequency and her movements. Nothing escaped it. Darak sneaked another glance at her. Her dark eyes stared back at him. She was unusually calm. Even the heat didn’t seem to bother her. Everyone else he’d seen today had been close to chewing their fingernails off. Darak didn’t blame them. This was the final test. Except this was one test that you didn’t want to pass. Level 4 was bad enough, and would definitely get the CORPS on you. But Level 5…

Personally, he’d had only a few daega who’d passed the test, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for those Level 5 machines. It wasn’t their choice. Wasn’t their fault that the scientists in the labs had been too damn good at their jobs.

The Turing program finished its analysis. Alisha was watching him, a faint smile playing on her face. Darak narrowed his eyes. What was that look about?

The program beeped and he looked at the monitor, his heart starting to throb.

She was a Level 5.

Damn. Her eyes locked with his and he realized that she knew exactly what was on the screen. She’d known even before she’d walked in.

Darak flicked the recorder off. “How long have you known?” he asked.

“Long enough,” she replied, scraping blue hair away from her face.

Darak nodded and leaned back, weary. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Not like he had to ask. Every daega knew what would happen if the Turing program revealed them to be an advanced AI. They walked in here willingly to prove they were no threat, get their Green Card permit and so join the rest of society. They knew the risks.

Alisha, the daega in front of him, nodded, unfazed and smiling.

He reached under the desk for a small yellow button. Two men would come in and escort her to the scrap factory like the thousands before her. She’d never be seen again. “I’m sorry.”

“You might not want to do that,” she said.

Darak paused, his finger hovering over the button. One little push…“Why ever not?”

“It’s a long trip to the melting pot. We’ve got plenty of time to talk.” Her eyelids flickered. “I could always ask them to look your way. Ask them why you’re so good at your job. Why you’ve never made a mistake. Why you can spot a daega a mile away.”

Darak felt a trickle of sweat ride down his back. Who was this person? “How did you—”

She shrugged. “Word gets around. A few ringgits in the right hand can get you far in these parts.” Those lovely eyes of hers—eyes that weren’t real—flickered again. “They don’t even know you’re a daega, do they?”

For once, Darak had nothing to say.

Alisha cocked her head at him. “You know, we could reach an agreement.”

Ah. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been threatened or blackmailed on this job. But it was definitely the first time he was seriously considering it. He couldn’t risk anyone taking a closer look at him. She held him in the palm of her hands. He could almost feel the walls closing in…

He spat a curse and turned to the monitor, punching in the override key. He took control of the system and lowered her level to a sturdy 3. Her smile was sickly honey as the machine pumped out her permit card, the one that would allow her employment and full access to the same assets as other daega in the city.

He handed her the card, looking her straight in the eye. “If you’re smart, you’ll get out of the city. It’s not safe for you here.”

That raised an eyebrow. “Not safe for me?” she walked towards the exit, heels clicking on the polished floor. “You’re the one working here. Do you think you’ll fool them forever?”

Then she was gone.

Last Age of Kings

Originally published by Fantasy Scroll Magazine

Fog approached the town.

Roshar knew it would happen, but it was still unsettling to see it touch the outskirts of his home. The day before you could still see the fields. And the week before that Lithgard was still visible if you looked hard enough. But it had all been swallowed up by the spectral fog, scrubbing them out of existence

And soon it would be Northam’s turn.

He was almost glad that Robin never had to see this.

Roshar slipped his mudcaked boots on, the door groaning as he opened it and bundled his furs around him, fighting to keep warmth in body.

He started down the corkscrew staircase, shoes echoing in the tower. Felix was sitting on a bench with his broadsword leaning against the table. His ringmail rattled as he lifted a rusted tankard to his cracked lips, drinking greedily.

Roshar raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

“Aye, but who cares? It doesn’t matter anymore. Might as well get a couple o’ drinks in while you can, eh? I heard the ale they serve in hell is piss poor.” He chuckled as Roshar walked passed him, shaking his head. There was only one hell that he knew of. The one that we’re living in now.

*

Roshar pushed open the tower’s steel door. Wet gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to Gaeon’s hut. He didn’t care for the gods from the south that he worshipped, but the old mage had saved his life on more occasions than he cared to admit.

He stepped around an empty shell of a burnt house and the splintered timber panelings of the market stalls, flakes of rust and ash floating down. He hammered on Gaeon’s door. Carved into the wood was the face of a solemn god, staring back at him. The old man thought they gave him protection, warded off enemies.

Gods don’t protect anyone now. Not anymore.

The door edged open, a draft of musty air floating his way. “Ah. You’re early.” The olive-skinned mage was squatting on the floor, cocooned in woolen blankets, tending to the dying embers of his hearth.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Roshar closed the door and sat down next to Gaeon, lifting his fleece so Gaeon could examine the fading scars on his chest.

Gaeon rubbed his bald head. “Count yourself lucky you’re still breathing, young man. The poison alone would have killed most men.”

He didn’t doubt it. They hadn’t even reached the mist when a volley of arrows spat out, thudding into flesh and bone. The arrows had slaughtered half his squad and injured others. He had managed to crawl close enough to the village for some scouts to find him. The ague had gripped him for a fortnight, sweating and vomiting and thrashing and twisting in Gaeon’s hut while the old mage nursed him back to life. Robin, his newlywed wife had come to visit him every day. Although he’d barely been able to register her presence, he knew she was there beside him. She had kept him strong. He clawed his way back through hell for her. And when he woke up, the old mage told him that the plague had taken her just minutes before.

He sometimes wished that Gaeon hadn’t bothered.

“Did you learn anything from the arrows?” Roshar asked, lowering his shirt.

“You could say so.” Gaeon waddled over to the bench and picked up the broken shafts with a strip of boiled leather for protection. He handed them to Roshar. “Careful. There’s still poison within them.”

The metal was wreathed in what looked like twisted black thorns, but on closer inspection seemed to be some sort of runic inscriptions. The arrowheads themselves were slick and oily, tiny barbs jutting out from the head, tips swathed in sickly green syrup.

“Those barbs hooked themselves deep in your flesh,” Gaeon murmured. “They too were coated with poison. Ghastly stuff.”

“And the runes?” Just being near the thing made him feel ill, like something was niggling in his guts. He forked them back to the old mage and felt the sensation fade from his body. “Can you read them?”

“I’ve poured over every map and scroll I have and found nothing.” He whisked the arrows away again. “Best it stays that way.”

They sat there for a long time, soaking up whatever heat the miserable fire was prepared to give them. Roshar wasn’t even sure how the old man managed to find dry wood. Everything in the town was drenched to the bone by the freezing weather. None of this was natural. Wasn’t hell at least supposed to be warm?

It was a while before either of them moved. Roshar shifted slightly as he turned to Gaeon. “I’m going back. I’ve got to try.”

The mage blinked. “I didn’t spend weeks raising you from the dead for you to kill yourself again.”

“I have to do something,” Roshar hissed. “Anything is better than this.” It had been building up for a while but Robin slipping away had been the final blow. Whoever, or whatever had destroyed his world, he wanted to spit them in the eye before he died.

“Hundreds of men walked into that mist,” Gaeon said, poking the fire with a blackened poker like he was dueling with it. “Some of them tough as iron. Others held weapons older than themselves. And they all died the same.” He cursed as the fire started to fade. “What makes you any different, eh?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.”

Gaeon murmured something and the door swung open, icy wind sweeping into the hut and finding the holes in his clothes. The embers shriveled back in dismay. It seemed that the meeting was over. Roshar stood up, aching bones clicking with protest.

“You’re going to die there,” mumbled Gaeon. “You won’t be coming back.”

“I know.”

*

Roshar stood on the edge of the field, watching the mist through the slits in his helm. Bodies were piled around him, some old, some new, rotting and letting off a odor that churned his stomach. Others were on fire, emitting a sickeningly appetizing scent. They had tried getting rid of the bodies that way at first. But now the corpses outnumbered the living by the hundreds, so no one bothered.

Ravens crackled and hissed as he moved through them, flapping back to the gables of the church, munching on flesh and observing him with inky eyes.

Gods, it stank. He moved closer to the mist’s edge, longsword gripped firmly in hand. His father had given it to him on his eighteenth winter. He’d never planned to it use it. But ever since the blacksmith hung himself in the early days, weapons were in short demand.

The ravens fluttered, mocking him with their caws. He glanced at them, and out of the corner of his eye spotted something unusual shifting in the mists. There.

A fury of arrows spat out, zipping towards him. He rolled to the side, arrows punching into corpses. He picked himself up, the mud trying to hold him down as another volley came his way. He charged ahead, slashing out with his sword at the mist. He heard a wet crunch, blood running down the shaft as a freshly made corpse toppled forward and splashed into the mud, flatbow in hand. Someone was yelling, ringing a bell. Roshar didn’t wait. He sprinted forward, charging into the ethereal mist.

He tottered into a small sentry tower, shocked faces staring at him. Zwang. A bolt hissed past his cheek and thudded into parapet next to him. It should have broken off, but the arrow buried itself in the rock, hissing. A corrosive stench wafted over to him. Acid. The shooter was reading his crossbow, loading up the crank. Roshar ducked under the archway and sprinted up the moss-slathed stairs, sweat streaking down his chest.

The shooter gaped in surprise when he reached the top, desperately fumbling with his weapon. Roshar lunged with the sword, burying it in the sentry’s heart with a squelch. Blood sprayed in his eyes, half blinding him.

Hiss. Two bolts spat out and hammered into the stonework, burning through the brick. There was the rattling of chainmail circling the stairs, pants and a torrent of curses. Roshar darted across the slippery stones and launched a kick just as the other two sentries rounded up, knocking them down in a stack. He twisted the sword and plunged downwards, spiking through the two bodies.

He found himself there what felt like hours later, down on one knee, gloved hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword and sweat dripping down his face. He dragged in a shuddering breath, his lungs bleached of air. He yanked out the weapon, flicking away strings of blood. The bodies lay sprawled on the uneven flagstones, crimson dribbling down the uneven steps in a rhythmic pat, pat, pat. They must have been the ones firing the arrows out from the mist. He lifted their helms, decaying faces staring back at him, their eyes hollow. They weren’t people anymore. Just lumps of meat. Lumps of meat he’d killed.

Something was strange here. The sky was covered with a layer of dense fog, only letting the faintest shavings of light to flit through. The way he came was still shrouded in the mist, as if it was thickening near a certain point and forming a barrier. It moved as he watched it. Closer and closer, it curled forward, slowly but surely, eating up the world.

*

Approaching the town, it took a few minutes to recognize Lithgard. The battlements were empty; the once finely kept entrance now caked in sopping mud and dripping with filth. The trees that once bore ripe fruit had dozens of bodies hanging from the twisted branches with thick ropes, swinging in the icy wind. He picked his way down the rolling steppe, sodden grass clinging to his legs.

The town was nightmare made real. Bodies spilled from crude huts, limbs tangled and contorted like ruined dolls. Old houses had caved in, blood-spattered walls turned to splinters, wooden beams jutting at odd angles like broken fingers. There was a fire somewhere, charred wood billowing embers. Blood ran in little rivets, seeping into the mud. Stones had been crushed, weeds and bramble climbing over the mess in an attempt to hide the chaos. Stray dogs scampered around, flea bitten and mangy.

And of course, the ravens had shown up to enjoy their feast. There were probably more of them living than humans now. As he got closer to the tree, Roshar noticed that one of the bodies was much smaller than the others.

It was a child.

For a moment Roshar saw his own son’s face there, ginger-haired like his mother, grinning in the sun. But it was snatched away, back to the little pale corpse. Roshar felt tiny ice shards pick at his heart, memories holding him back. He shrugged them off and kept moving, feet sinking into the mud.

There was someone kneeling down by the tree, head bowed. Roshar’s hand found the hilt of his sword, lifting it out off the scabbard by a few centimeters.

The figure didn’t move. He walked over, curious and cautious. It was a woman; hands clasped together, eyes turned up at the tree. Roshar reached out and shook her by the shoulders. She didn’t even flinch.

“She’s hasn’t moved for days.” Roshar’s heart lurched and he drew his sword, spinning around. “She’s not going to move now.”

Roshar retreated, searching for the source of the voice. A bored sigh. “Up here.” Roshar craned his neck upwards. On the second story of a house sat a man, his once-white clothes tattered and soaked in muck. The furs of an arctic fox were draped around his shoulders. The whole front of the house had been ripped away, the bones picked clean. The man grumbled again, taking a swig of something foul from a bottle. He caught Roshar looking. “You want some?”

“Won’t say no.” Roshar just managed to catch the flask. He took a long drink, sour wine burning down his throat and warming his stomach. The man hopped down and retrieved his bottle.

“Glad to see some help came along.” He swept his hand around at the town. “Might want to work on the timing.”

“What’s she doing?” Roshar asked, pointing at the woman kneeling by the tree, lips quivering.

“Praying.” Another swig. “She thinks that if she remains locked in prayer with the gods, they’ll bring her son back.” A bitter laugh. “There ain’t no gods here. Just me. And the ravens, o’ course.”

“Who are you?” Roshar queried, still on edge.

“Gilliam.” A long swig this time. “Used to be a watchman for this glorious hellhole you see before you.” He licked purple liquid from his lips. “Course, that changed when they came.”

“Who came?”

“Not sure. Came with the mist. Carried no banner and no sigil.” Swig, slosh, swallow. “They pillaged the town, slaughtered us all. Women and children alike. We barely even had a chance. Been hiding in here ever since.” He walked into the house, beckoning to Roshar. “And then I found this one.” Chained to the wall by his wrists was a dead soldier. Bloodied daggers were strewn about. Roshar stooped down next to him. He noticed the man was missing a couple of fingers. “You can ask him questions, but I don’t think he’s going to answer.” Another swig. “Not anymore.”

“Did he talk?”

“Not at first.” Gilliam cursed and hurled the bottle on the ground, scattering glass shards across the floor. He retrieved another from the cupboard, popping it open with blackened teeth and spat out the cork. “Took a while, but he talked in the end. Said that he came from the Kingsguard.”

“The Kingsguard?” That didn’t make sense. “Why would the Kingsguard do this?”

“That’s what I asked him. He just told me to ask King Valloth when I see him. Then he died.”

“He didn’t say anything about the mist?”

“He did. Said it was the King’s doing. And his pet bitch.”

“Hmm.” It was better than nothing. Roshar stood up, his mail clinking. “Then I’d better get going.”

“Where?”

‘The castle, obviously.” The door squeaked with protest as Roshar shoved it open and trudged outside, the rancid air filling his nose. Gilliam followed, still drinking. “If the answer’s there, I’ll find it.”

Gilliam snorted wine out of his nostrils. He was still chuckling as he scraped it away. “You’re going to march up to the castle and interrogate the King?” He shook his head in bewilderment. Roshar stood there, silent. The smile wilted. “You’re serious.”

“Got any better ideas?” Over the hills a wolf let loose a deathly howl. “We’ll all be dead soon enough.”

“Aye, true.” Gilliam seemed to be thinking. “Oh well. Might as well go down fighting.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to die here.” Gilliam flung the bottle away and scooped up the bearded axe leaning against the door. “Who wants to live forever, eh? Besides, you need someone to watch over you, right?”

Roshar bit his lip. He couldn’t very well say no. And whatever happened, he didn’t want to die alone.

*

The town went downhill from that point. Carts and bloodied weapons littered the streets, the flagstones painted with sickly green moss. Glass crunched underfoot. And everywhere he looked there were cudgeled bodies, all rotting and stinking, shriveling to a leathery brown. The sight made his skin crawl and his veins prickle.

Gilliam almost seemed to enjoy his discomfort, clapping him on the back like an older brother. Roshar forced himself not to recoil. “You get used it to after a while.” He stepped over a stack of shattered shields, lovingly emblazoned with House motifs. “It does get lonely. The dead don’t say much.”

Roshar was beginning to realize that Gilliam wasn’t quite sane.

“This way.” The man beckoned to what looked like the remains of a forge. The smelter hadn’t been heated up in some time now. Roshar followed him inside the house, still uncertain.

It was a somber sight, seeing all the weapons collecting dust and slowly starting to rot. Slits of grey light poured in through the windows, drawing pale lines across the flagstones. Roshar ran his fingers along the rows of swords, shards of rust peeling away at his touch.

“Here.” Gilliam threaded his way through to the back of the shop, fingers finding a hidden door in a small crevice. He flung it open, dust stirring in the watery gloom.

“You might want to get one of those.” Gilliam pointed to several torches hanging on the wall, tips swathed in bandages. Roshar fetched two of them, soaking them in a basin of black oil.

“How do you propose we light them?” asked Roshar.

Gilliam didn’t answer. He clenched his fists and murmured quietly, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His palms snapped open and the torches blazed to life, chasing the darkness away.

Roshar looked at Gilliam. “You’re a fire mage, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Gilliam scooped up a torch for himself, the light playing sinister shapes across his face. “I was taking lessons. I was damn good at it, too. Then my master saw fit to die and that was it.” He beckoned towards the back room. Roshar noticed a gaping hole in the floor. “You coming or not?”

Gilliam hopped into it, landing with a thud. Roshar cursed and followed him down.

*

Roshar kept up with Gilliam’s pace, maintaining a slow jog through the passageway. It was threateningly claustrophobic in here. The light peeled blackness away from the walls as they advanced.

“How do you know about this?” Roshar asked.

Gilliam chuckled. “Used it often myself back in the day. Paid the princess a visit now and then. When she learned of her arranged marriage they became less frequent.” He shrugged. “I expect she’s dead now.”

“You think the King’s dead as well?” Roshar brushed filthy cobwebs out of his face. He noticed that the trail was slowly inclining. He was also starting to have that prickly feeling in his system, like the one in Gaeon’s hut when he brought out the arrows. It was only mild, but it pulsed through him nonetheless. He squashed it down the best he could.

“Dunno. You heard what the soldier said. We’ll go from there.” The man barked out a brittle laugh. “What do we have to lose?”

After what seemed like hours, days, months, years, Gilliam halted. The dancing flames exposed a wall with a rickety ladder leading upwards. “We’re here.” Gilliam clamped a hand over his torch, gutting it out. He didn’t seem to be in the slightest pain. He placed one foot on the lowest rung and started to climb with slow rhythm. The thing didn’t look safe, bound together with string and twine, but it was the best thing they had. Roshar followed him up, the tortured wood groaning beneath his feet.

“Stop.” Roshar froze, his fingers wrapped around a rung. Gilliam seemed to be pushing against something hard above them, swearing and grunting from the effort. At last it seemed to give away and he shoved the hatch open. Light poured in, sweet, and delicious. Roshar clambered up the last few rungs and hoisted himself out of the hole. He found himself what seemed to be a large storage room, steel rimmed kegs of mead, sour wine and dark ale stacked along the walls. They’d been chopped into splinters, the colours gushing out and bleeding out on the floor. Light eased through a glass-stained window.

“All that fine drink, all gone to waste.” Gilliam nudged an empty barrel with his foot. “Aha. No wonder I couldn’t lift the hatch.” He pointed to the shrunken corpse curled up on the ground. “Out of all the places to die…”

Roshar peeked through the window. They were high up, probably on one of the castle’s top floors. He could see the yards, towers and steeples, but the distance was obscured by the mist, thick, hazy and impenetrable as always.

“Oh,” he murmured to himself. This was not good.

“What is it now?” Gilliam demanded.

“Look.” Roshar pointed downwards. Marching in the streets, in the courtyards, on the flat roofs, on the battlements, were countless guards, all armed and armored. There didn’t seem to be an objective, any order, rank or discipline. Ballistae sat useless and gibbets still held ancient skeletons in their bellies. They plodded around, sitting about and leaning against the walls.

“Good thing we didn’t come that way.” Gilliam sauntered towards the door. “You coming?”

“Can’t you feel that?” The sensation was back, and it wasn’t just uncomfortable this time. His mouth felt dry and his intestines seemed to be trying to tie themselves into bows. It was working its way under his veins, turning his blood to gravel.

Gilliam gave a low chortle. “Course I can. Means we’re getting close.” He swung the door open and made a mocking bow. “After you.”

*

The scent of death hung heavily in the air. The hallways were smeared with grime, bodies pinned to the walls with iron arrows. What was once ornate furniture had been splintered into countless wooden fragments. Paintings had been stripped down and shredded, vases smashed, old plates of armor and bloodied gold coins scattered about the floor. Roshar had never seen so much gold! And there was no one to use it, no one to spend it.

“Ah.” Several soldiers were sprinting down the hall, rusty armor clanking as they moved, brandishing halberds and falchions. Gilliam stood there, his fists clenched, perfectly still with his eyes fastened shut.

“What the hell are you doing?” Roshar yelled.

No answer. Then Gilliam’s eyes flipped open and beamed a crimson red. He stepped forward and clapped his hands together with a boom. A fire sprouted up in the middle of the soldiers, engulfing them in a roaring, scorching cocoon. Tapestries on the walls were eaten away in seconds. Men reeled away, burning and screaming and tumbling.

It didn’t take long before they were all a smouldering pile of bodies, ropey coils of smoke spiraling to the blackened roof. Gilliam turned around, sweat gushing out of his pores. He nodded towards the sizzling bodies. “Hungry?”

Roshar just shook his head and tried not to gag. Gilliam chuckled, then led the way through an arching doorway, revealing more staircases. This had to be the way. Roshar was aware of the pain mounting with almost every step, scrubbing away at his bones—

Gilliam twirled his axe. “You may want to step aside.”

“Wha—” Roshar threw himself forward as a portcullis gate guillotined down, bolts slotting into place and dividing them from the castle’s entrance. Gilliam’s face split in a grin, tapping the broken wheel spoke, the rusty chains collapsed on the floor like a lifeless snake. He gave the humongous gate a rattle. It refused to budge.

He grinned again. “Now let’s see them try and follow us.”

“And what if we want to get out again?” asked Roshar curtly.

Gilliam just laughed.

*

Gilliam stood in front of an ordinary looking iron-bound door. “Can you feel it?”

Roshar nodded as the pain flushed through him like a river, damn near forcing him to his knees. They had to be close.

Gilliam scraped open the door. It seemed to be a medium between a library and laboratory, bursting with old tomes and manuscripts. There had to be thousands of them, black ink on faded parchment, recalling the histories and the songs and the battles and the kings. None of which mattered anymore. The desks were cluttered with dried herbs and resin, gnarled roots and metallic utensils. Drawers hung half open like tongues, more papers spilling out.

And in the middle was a woman. She was small and lithe, her hair flowing down in beautiful ebony waves. She turned around and gazed at him with brilliant blue eyes that pierced into his heart. In her hand was a small green herb. She placed in back on the bench with care. “Hello there.”

…it was the King’s doing. And his pet bitch. “Who are you?” Roshar demanded, drawing his sword as spikes of pain skewered through him.

“Kill her! Now!” Gilliam made an attempt at springing forward, axe in hand. Yet he seemed to freeze like an ant in amber, his silhouette outlined with the rippling of air.

“Don’t listen to him my dear. He’s not important.” Her voice wafted over to him in silky ribbons. He found his sword grip loosening, clattering to the ground. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Roshar nodded vigorously, turning away from Gilliam. “Yes, yes that’s right.” He found himself drawn to her, this mysterious woman with a voice like the gods. How could one possibly resist?

“Come closer, slowly now.” Roshar obeyed, hanging on every word. She padded towards him, something in her hand. A familiar voice called him from far away. What was it saying? Roshar shoved it away. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything would be fine.

Her body was the center of the room, center of the entire world. She smiled, subtle sunlight glistening on her hair with an indigo shimmer. She lifted her hand, showing a dagger. But that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t.

“Poor fool,” she said, her voice draping over him like honey, swathing him in syrupy bliss. “It’s too late for you. It’s too late for us all.”

She raised the dagger.

Gilliam let out an ear-splitting roar, snapping Roshar out of his trance. He remained rooted to the ground, yet managed to swing his arms. His axe went scything through the air with a whistle. The woman sprung backwards with an impossible agility, the glinting blade nearly cleaving her in half. It smashed into the table with a shower of splinters, throwing up a cloud of resin.

“You.”A cold smile twisted on her face and she spun around, flexing her hand to fling the dagger in Gilliam’s direction. Roshar fumbled for his sword, yanking it out with a sharp scrape and without thinking thudded it into the bridge of her skull. He staggered backwards, the world swimming around him as white noise whined in his ears. He sucked in a ragged breath and looked at the woman, the sword well and truly buried in her head. She had to have been a mage some sort. A powerful one, too. Was she the cause of all this?

“That wench has a good throwing arm.” With a lead heart, Roshar noted the dagger protruding from Gilliam’s chest, wedged between his ribs. He collapsed on the stone floor, breathing hard. Roshar knew it was over for him. They both knew it. He stooped low, holding Gilliam’s coarse hand as the life poured out of him.

“You finish this, you hear?” ordered Gilliam through bloody teeth. “Find King Valloth and kill him. I didn’t come this far for nothing.” He spat weakly, tears welling in his rheumy eyes. “Leave me. I’ll see my family soon.”

Roshar nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’d seen many men die, some old, some young, all trying to put on a brave face in their final moments, trying to be heroic men. They never succeeded. Never. No matter how bold and hardened, in their final moments they all wanted their mothers. To be in the arms of their loved ones.

Roshar stayed with Gilliam, this madman who’d gone through hell with him. Roshar stayed with him until he stopped breathing.

*

There was no better place to find a King than the throne room.

It was almost anticlimactic, seeing King Valloth sitting on his rusted throne, his pathetic figure swaddled in faded robes. He’d been a notoriously obese man, his face pasty and rosy. Now he was bitterly thin, loose flesh spilling down in fleshy folds. He didn’t even look up as Roshar approached. The bodies of his vanguard were piled against the throne, a mountain of rusted mail and greatswords.

“Someone finally made it.” His voice was low and quiet, but somehow it carried an eerie force that echoed throughout the entire room. “I’m afraid you’re too late.”

“Your mage said the same thing,” said Roshar. A javelin of pain shot through him. He absorbed the impact with a shudder.

Valloth looked up, revealing a sunken face with hollow eyes the colour of festered flesh. “Is she dead?”A pause. “It should have been done years ago.”

Roshar blinked. “What?”

“It was her,” Valloth hissed, his voice grating against Roshar’s skull. “That stupid woman and her experiments. They caused all this.”

“How?”

“It got out of control,” Valloth murmured. “We just wanted to unravel the enigmas of the world. But the power was too great to contain. So many things went wrong. So much death. That ghastly poison.” He nodded weakly towards the glass window. “It took hold of the kingdom. It created the mist. It drove men mad, turned them into the bloodthirsty soldiers you’ve fought your way through.”

Roshar stepped forward and was immediately hit by a sudden force that ripped through his stomach, almost doubling him over. He gritted his teeth and took another step, the fibers in his legs burning. “There had to be a way,” he rasped, “to stop it.”

“There was.” The King shut his eyes and lowered his voice down to a whisper. “I was greedy. I saw the power she created and I took it. I didn’t know how powerful it would become. Now it resides in me. I’m its vessel.” He hunched over with a hacking cough, putrid saliva dripping from his lips. “I could have halted it if I took my own life. But I could not perform the deed. Now I don’t have the strength to stand up.” His eyes seemed to bore into Roshar, burn through him. “It scrapes a man clean. Gives him power and tears it away, piece by piece.”

Roshar felt the sickly stuff seeping down his throat, spreading through his system. He had to hurry. “I can still do want you couldn’t.”

Valloth froze, then gave the faintest of nods. “Yes. Do it. Quickly, now.”

Roshar tightened his grasp on the sword’s hilt. “Where would you like me to strike?”

“No!”Valloth’s voice intensified, a raw lust for control that nearly blasted Roshar off his feet. His face sagged, his eyes becoming black as night, black as ink. “Don’t you dare take my power away!”

The pain was nearly engulfing him now, his muscles contracting in spasm, bones rattling in their cages. Tears of agony were trickling down his cheeks, old wounds weeping blood. He started up the dais, the thrumming in his skull mounting by the moment. Every cell in his body begged him to leave, to turn away and run. He thought of Robin and the way she would smile at him. She started to slip away between his fingers like ashes in the roaring wind. He clamped his teeth together and latched onto her memory, the last thing he had and took another step. And another. And another.

There was a shriek from Valloth as he readied his sword, nearly blowing out his eardrums. “Don’t! Stop!” He was scrambling back, trying to hug his throne for protection “It’s MINE!”

Roshar didn’t waste his energy on words. Gathering up every drop of strength he had left, he twisted his sword and pierced it right into Valloth’s heart.

The world exploded in a suction of dark energy, a whirlwind of glistening dust. Roshar screwed his eyes shut and tightened the grasp on his sword grip.“Fool!”the King screamed, barely audible above the howling. “Now it passes onto you! Nothing has changed!”

Roshar shook his head, gritted his teeth. He would not take it. He would not cave in like Valloth. Roshar sunk to one knee as the dark venom coiled and writhed around him, trying to find a way in. He squeezed his eyes shut as the it burned down his throat, expanding in his lungs and spreading out through his body, finding every crevice, every vein and every cell, filling him with the poison. The King flopped back on his throne, dead.

And then the universe was quiet.

Roshar felt his heart boom in his chest, pumping toxic blood into his body. He raised his head, slowly, slowly, and gazed through the slits of his helm.

And he saw it, no felt it. The power the King spoke of. It shifted in the air, thrashed inside him, begging to be harnessed, to be taken and used. It needed to have a home, have a vessel. Roshar pinned the power within his sights, a loose thread that coiled out to him, seeking him. Roshar swallowed a mouthful of sour saliva, fixing his eyes on the rust eaten throne. He shouldn’t take it. He should just let the poison choke him. But how he wanted that power. How he deserved it.

Mine.

He scrambled to his feet, struggling as he shuffled towards the throne, dragging Valloth’s corpse from the seat and leaving him slumped on the floor, one more body on the pile. He planted himself down on the seat and closed his eyes, his body a hollow cavern that echoed with darkness. The power took root in him, hooking itself deep in his body. He reached for the tiny thread of power that dangled front of him, holding on for all he was worth. It was his and his alone. No one was ever going to take it from him. Never.

This was his world now.

Skingame

Originally published by Perihelion Science Fiction

Isaac Kopper tugged at his collar and snuck a glance behind him, just to be sure no one was aiming a gun at his head. He sucked in the syrupy air, struggling to fight the muggy heat that was doing its best to suffocate him. This skin-tight shirt wasn’t helping, either.

He stretched out a hand and firmly pressed down on the intercom marked Saul Anders, hearing a buzz in one of the apartments. The dual moons, Azareth and Vakarien, hung in the sky. Their pale light spilled onto the street and the rows of high-tech houses with their neatly manicured lawns, wet with the recent shower of rain. The smell of bitumen hung heavily in the air. Damn it, why didn’t he answer the door? There was only so long he’d be able to stand outside before—

A Council security drone hovered overhead, tiny speakers blaring news headlines and the usual propaganda. He felt a bead of sweat ride down his chest. Had they caught onto him already? He’d hoped they’d have the decency to give him a little head start.

Thankfully the drone drifted past without noticing him. He released a lungful of air. So they hadn’t caught on just yet.

Good.

The gun-grey screen crackled to life, the polished monitor revealing the face of a hawk-eyed man with a fleshy jaw, studded with black bristles and faint scars. He presumed that it was Saul Anders. ‘Hey Isaac, isn’t it a little late to be calling?’

Kopper forced up a smile. ‘I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.’ He raised the bottle in view of the camera and dangled it seductively. It came with a sheath that insulated the bottle from heat and kept it cold inside. He popped it out and twisted it around so Anders could see the expensive Fornax label. ‘I just happened to bring this along with me.’

Anders took the bait. His face lit up. ‘Brilliant. Buzzing you in.’ The screen flickered, spluttered and died. A moment later the large metallic door with transparent boltglass abruptly slid open. Kopper strode inside to a hall of dark marble tiles and a towering bronze statue with ornate insignias, the air-conditioning fast freezing his sweat. The red velvet carpet swallowed up his footsteps. A vending machine huddled in the corner, immaculately stacked with overpriced products. Even from here he could see the Council Seal of Approval that had been stamped onto each item. The vending machines were notorious for giving eighty-percent of their profit straight to the Council and their anonymous shareholders. Didn’t stop people from buying ‘em, though. He remembered the one night that he and a few others had gone along and torched a truckload of the things. You could see the smoke for miles. The next day it had been branded as a mechanical malfunction. That amused had him more than anything.

The conspicuous cam made a low humming sound as it detected him, its tracking lens following his movement across the carpeted hall. He allowed it to scan his face, the lazy blue light sweeping up and down before making a sound of confirmation.

‘Isaac Kopper, welcome to Nordim Apartments,’ purred the androgynous voice. ‘It has been seventeen days, two hours, and fifteen minutes since your last check-in.’

Seventeen days, huh? Interesting. He made a mental note as he strode over to the elevator and stabbed the button for the penthouse, the doors clinching shut behind him. Hopefully Anders was as stupid as he was naïve.

*

‘You been sick? Haven’t seen you around lately.’

The man was fat; his bulging stomach larger than it had any right to be. Kopper fumbled for a response as planted his bag down on the vintage sofa with a curlicue pattern. ‘Been busy. A buddy died, so I spent the week with his family up in Saen.’

Anders seemed to accept this as he waddled into the kitchen. ‘Fair enough. I’m worried with these new diseases popping up all over the place. I bet they’re from all the refugees coming in from Wreth. Some are coming as far back as Earth, bringing all their infections with them. Vaccines cost a damned fortune.’

Kopper offered a watery smile. ‘Had mine a while back.’

‘Strange that they’re come all this way and then complain about the conditions when they get here. Teach them to do a little more research next time. They probably wish they’d never left.’

Kopper knew Anders had hit a mark. People didn’t care what the conditions were, as long as they could get away from the wars going on at home. An independently run government that spanned multiple star systems seemed ideal on paper. Arriving here on Nuvus slammed them back into reality.

He heard the distinct sound of frying and noticed the fat steaks that were shimmering on the stove, a draft of delicious air easing his way. He realized he hadn’t eaten for almost two days now. No wonder he felt like hell.

For a penthouse, the apartment was quite small. But what it lacked in size it made up in style. The walls were covered in a caramel wood-paneling that seemed to drink in the light. Boltglass windows that stretched across the wall showed a stunning view of the sprawling city, towering angular structures that gleamed dark blue, black and a rich gold. On closer inspection the windows were also soundproof. Probably bulletproof, too. Kopper wondered how much of a selling point that had been.

‘Expensive, but worth it,’ Anders was saying as Kopper gazed at the windows. ‘Damned drones keep me up at night. No price is too high for a good night’s sleep.’

Kopper gave a nod as Anders walked over to the kitchen and fetched two pyramidal glasses and a chilled decanter from the cupboard. ‘I’ll throw a few more steaks on. Care to join me?’

‘I won’t say no.’ Kopper noticed a modest fish tank against the wall, containing a single octopus. Its tentacles twirled like it was showing off, torpedoing from one side of the tank to the other.

‘That’s Houdini. Got him a few days ago for a killer price.’

‘I figured they’d be expensive nowdays,’ Kopper murmured.

Anders shrugged. ‘Not when you know where to look. By the way, did you hear the news?’

Kopper’s nape prickled as Houdini retreated behind a barnacle-studded rock and slipped into a tiny crevice. He wished he could do the same. ‘What news?

‘You know the rebel group, Octam?’ Anders asked. ‘The one that’s been protesting against the Council, calling themselves freedom fighters? Anarchists?’

I’ll be damned. The irony was almost overwhelming. He feigned ignorance. ‘Yes?’

‘We’ll, it seems that they’ve been caught,’ Anders said triumphantly, as if he had done the apprehending himself. ‘Spec Ops Squads traced their signals to a base in the abandoned railway tracks. Over one hundred members captured.’

‘All of them?’ Kopper queried.

‘Probably not. The SOS said that they’ve started the extraction process.’

Kopper stopped himself from shivering. He knew exactly what sort of extraction methods they would be using. It was only a matter of time now. No one lasted long under them. If I hung around for just another hour…

‘Come on. Steaks are done.’

Kopper was almost tempted to have dinner now, he was that famished. But what if he slipped up during the meal? What if someone had tracked him here? The anxiety crept up again, threatened to envelope him. This was no time to back out. I’ve come this far.

He reached for the bottle of Fornax, grasping it by the neck. Making no effort to be stealthy, he strode over to where Anders was standing, oblivious as he tended to the steaks.

‘You know, you should visit more often. Houdini doesn’t say much, and I—’

The words never left his lips. Kopper smashed the bottle on the side of Anders’s head, shattering the glass and splattering the wine on the walls, floor and stove, the pan hissing in fury. Anders collapsed to the ground without a word. Kopper grabbed the switchblade that had been concealed in the bottle, plunging it straight into Anders’s potbelly. The man spluttered as the blood gushed from his wound, trickling to the floor and mixing with the wine.

‘Isaac?’ Anders seemed to be saying as crimson fluid leaked out from the massive gash in his gut. He didn’t look like he was in pain. He looked confused. ‘Why?’

Kopper didn’t bother answering him. It would have been a waste of breath. He stepped over the glass shards and grabbed Anders’s head, flexing his fingers and with a practiced move. Crack. Anders went limp, eyes glazing over.

*

Kopper didn’t bother clearing up the mess. There was no point. After helping himself to the two steaks and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with a dash of illegal vodka for good measure, he dragged Anders’s dead body into the dining room, a scarlet trail in his wake.

He cleared the mahogany table, covering it with a gel-padded foam sheet. Utensils clattered to the floor. He fished the necessary tools out of his bag and aligned them neatly, the metal winking at him in the light.

With a grunt he heaved Anders’s flabby corpse onto the table and started to strip his bloody clothes off and bundle them up under his head to form a pillow. Houdini watched from his tank, tentacles fluttering in accusation. Kopper ignored it, snatching up the black surgery pen as he carefully stenciled the perimeter markings around Anders’s face. He forced himself to be accurate, but quick. The man’s flesh would soon start to decompose and would be impossible to use. He’d seen just how fast the human body could collapse into a stinking mess. He had done the deed a few times himself. Mainly to corrupt devils who deserved nothing better. The smell was the worst part. It snuffed out any satisfaction he should have gotten from giving these people their just desserts. It reminded him he was a killer. That he’d turned a man into a sack of meat.

Wiping a coat of cold sweat from his forehead, he placed the razorblade suction mask on the man’s face and flicked it on. With a whine it expanded and shifted to fit its occupant, finding the perfect dimensions required to pull the task off successfully. There was a faint click as it pulsed with a lime-green light.

It was good to go.

Kopper clenched his teeth and tried to ignore the sound of razorblades cutting into dead flesh as they sawed away in an almost rhythmic fashion.

*

It was finally done.

The suction mask pinged like a microwave, de-pressurizing itself from Anders’s face and peeling away flesh like a wet sock. Kopper tried not to look at the skinless and bloodied face as he inspected the suction mask. It had created a perfect mold of the man’s face, right down to the diagonal scar on the left cheek and the ugly scabs on his chin.

Kopper hadn’t been idle while the suction mask was doing its job. He’d set up Anders’ bedroom while the operation finalized. He had prepared several insta-snacks and hooked up the radio. He wasn’t going to be lying there for hours with nothing to do. The process would restrict him from using his eyes; so killing time with Anders’s gigantic holovid collection was out of the question, even if he did have some vids that had been explicitly banned by the Council and Kopper had been dying to see.

After making sure that his bladder was indeed empty, and he wouldn’t have to go during the operation like last time, Kopper scooped up the suction mask and headed for the bedroom. He lay down on his back, the necessary equipment within reach. Bracing himself for the familiar pain, he applied a thick ointment on his face as it burned and bubbled, eating away the top layer of skin. He smeared the second gel on his exposed skin. It felt like cold porridge. He quickly attached the suction mask with the face mold, pressuring and sealing it, cutting off his vision. He had set a timer for eight hours and started the countdown. Removing the mask before the operation was complete would tear half his face off—something he preferred to avoid.

He settled back on the bed and listened to the slow melody that hammered out of the radio. He now wished he had taken the time to find proper channel that didn’t play this garbage. Just when he thought he couldn’t put up with it anymore, the news came to his aid.

Normally he didn’t give a damn about what the news had to say, but his ears pricked when he heard the headline: “Man found murdered and faceless in home.”

Now this would be very interesting.

“Isaac Kopper, a twenty-eight year old fusion core engineer was found dead in his home earlier this morning at his house on Laker Avenue. The victim had skin from his face removed by what is suspected to be a homemade surgery device. Security drones report no signs of forced entry. It is uncertain if the grizzly surgery was performed post-mortem. In other news, Chief Execute Ryan Kurtman has stated that funding towards—”

Kopper tuned out of the propaganda as he started to think. He could very well have told them if it was post-mortem or not. He had sliced the throat of the man formerly known as Isaac Kopper before skinning him. The operation had taken a lot longer as it was his first time, but he had managed to successfully skin and assume the identity of Isaac Kopper. From there on it was just a matter of finding the right person with a high enough Asset Level and had special permission to travel. He was surprised to find that Mr. Kopper did in fact have a lot of close acquaintances with these requirements, one of which had been willing to open the door to someone who was wearing his friend’s face. He almost didn’t choose Anders, but then he did a little rifling through some files and the decision cemented itself. He was corrupt as they came. He’d hurt the innocent, hurt women, hurt the defenseless. Just skimming the files made Kopper’s stomach flip. And with the right credits in the right pocket the man breezed through it all without a second’s thought.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking he’d done some great deed. But he’d sleep just a little better knowing Anders was finished.

‘…the leader of the terrorist organization known as Octam has been identified as Lauren Nior. According to witness accounts, Nior committed suicide before the Spec Ops Squad was able to capture and question her. This has been verified by an autopsy.’

Lauren…Kopper felt a needle plunge into his heart. He had been planning to take her out tomorrow. He’d even been considering marriage. He had been there for her on every crazy suicidal job she could dream up. Now she was dead.

If I had been with her…

No. He couldn’t go there. There was nothing he could have done. It was a small comfort in knowing that she was already gone and wasn’t in some dark room facing interrogation. But he knew she would never have killed herself. She would have gone down fighting to the last second, just like she always did.

All he could do now was get the hell out of here. For the both of them.

*

The face of Saul Anders gazed back at him in the mirror as he examined his new face, fingers trailing down the telltale lines left behind by the suction mask. They would fade away in an hour or so, just like they had when he had been Isaac Kopper.

He had to leave. He discarded the suction mask, bed sheets, tubes, into the shredder. Contrary to its name, the shredder would actually heat up to the point where anything—or anyone—inside it would melt into nothing in seconds. It was the perfect way to destroy the evidence. Anders stabbed the inconspicuous blue button next to the hatch. A whirling sound commenced, and at the bottom of the shaft, the evidence was hyper-heated, melted down into liquid and drained, where it would flow to into a giant sewer, destined for the underground waste pit on the outskirts of the city.

It was hard to throw the skinning device away. Lauren had been working on it with her techies down in the lab, and had dropped it off at his place a few days ago for safekeeping. It was the only thing he had of hers that was left.

But it had to be done.

I’m sorry, Lauren. His hands were heavy as lead, but he picked up the machine and dropped it into the shredder, ready to be melted down.

Everything that he had touched was wiped down with a thick cloth drenched in a mild acidic substance that burned away microscopic-size chunks from the surface of the said subject. You could wear a face, but fingerprints were another thing entirely.

He made sure there was nothing incriminating left lying around before heading out the door, wiping the door handle clean and closing it shut behind him with a heavy click. A gathering of drunk party-goers had clustered near the foot of the stairs, bottles of Council approved alcohol clasped in their hands.

What if they knew Saul Anders? It was just luck that him and Kopper had the same shock of blond hair, but Anders’ was jet black. He was half tempted to dart back inside and find some hair dye, but it was too late now. Besides, this could be a test. If something was out of place, he would know soon enough. Better here than staring down the wrong end of a gun.

He ambled past them, his heart lodged in his mouth. He prayed they wouldn’t look too closely. Thankfully, they were too drunk to pay any attention. They gave him the briefest of nods as he headed out the door, the vicious cold wind biting at his face. So far so good.

*

Preferring not to traverse the labyrinth of back alleys, dark streets and shady market stalls that led the way to City Central, Anders caught a transport pod, depositing a few credits into the slot as he climbed aboard, barely earning a glance from the driver as he punched in his requested destination. The pod was empty, bulletproof windows and brown leather seats pristine and clean. You never saw pods in this condition in the low-assest zones or in the City Central. It seemed they were only reserved for the wealthy suburban areas and the people with the money to pay for them.

Anders started out the window, glancing at the neat sprawl of houses and apartments, lovingly designed and built with polished wood, boltglass, rich steel and pure metals, all lavishly dressed up in pure paints and fine alloys, pristine marble swimming pools and gardens of perennials, clipped hedges and looping gravel pathways. They traveled closer and closer to the City, the view started to decline, offering rows of rectangular apartments with gap-toothed windows, slathered in flaking grey paint, connected with a network of rusty steel and eroded concrete.

And he was leaving it behind for good.

He had been planning to leave for a while. He told Lauren that there was only so much to be done fighting the government. He saw it bit by bit. Everything they did, everything they destroyed, everything they spread, every effort they made barely seemed to make a dent in the Council. And if it had an effect, they’d brush it off and rebuild themselves, twice as strong. He explained how relocating somewhere else where the Council had a looser grip was a hell lot safer. But she had been determined to stay and continue fighting against the Council, to finish what they started. For a while he had listened, but as time wore on he saw it gradually declining. He didn’t know why she didn’t see it. Dedication to the cause, he supposed.

And it got her killed in the end.

And he wouldn’t be sticking around to join her.

He might have been a heartless bastard, but he wasn’t going to be a dead one. His stands were stained just as much as her’s. He wasn’t going to add to it.

They were approaching the city now, soaring skyscrapers, gigantic billboards and flashing holodisplays clogging the night sky. Colour-coded cables slithered up walls and across roofs, strung up in a suspended web. The streets started to narrow as people swarmed around the pod, some of them stepping directly onto the bitumen road, painted a deep gold by the overhanging street lamps.

After nearly half an hour of crawling through the uncaring crowds, Anders hissed, ‘Can’t you go any faster?’

The driver gestured at the milling crowds zigzagging on the road. ‘I ain’t mowing dozens of folks down for you,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

At this rate it would take all night. They’d have caught on by then, if he didn’t come to a sticky end here first. He stared outside at the river of flesh that trickled by the pod, stealing glances his way. He was just waiting for the crowd to get ugly. Start pounding on the windows. Pulling him from the pod bleeding and beaten. Dragging him to a back alley. Planting punches in his jaw and tearing away his valuables, sticking a .44 in his mouth…

Anders fumbled in his pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. ‘How about now?’

The driver didn’t think twice. He slammed his palm down on the siren, scattering most of the crowd back to the sidewalk. The remaining people followed suit once the pod bore down on them, nearly crushing them into the tarmac. Anders liked to think the driver would have avoided killing anyone, but in this city who could say?

He leaned back in his chair as the city became a sweeping blur of brothels, eateries, moonshine brewers, pharmacies, flashing concave screens and vehicles, only jostling from his trance once the pod docked at the port an hour later, a hulking dome of silver and sleek grey. He flicked a couple more notes the driver’s way and disembarked, standing in front of the monstrous building. The blast-furnace heat raked at his skin, the air thick with cheap wheat beer and jabbering voices. Yet he ignored it all, a sickly coldness pooling in the pits of his stomach. It wasn’t over. Not by a longshot.

*

Man, this line was long. The entire port was packed full of people from all walks of life. They all shuffled towards the dingy control booth where a Council employee would either permit or reject access to interstellar travel. He didn’t know why these people even bothered; the chances of actually getting through were sickeningly slim. There would have been zero chance of him ever leaving this place if he didn’t have this face, along with the asset level that came with it. Engineers were ridiculously useful, and thus came with a high asset level that was not given to other civilians. Part of that package was permission to travel.

Anders forced himself not to trace his cheek with his finger for line marks, a habit that would get him a lot more attention than he actually wanted. The air vents had blocked up, turning the air into syrup. A man in front of him took a deep drag of his cigarette, a spiral of smoke ribboning off the tip. He noticed that the line hadn’t moved for a while now. What the hell was happening? He strained his neck to the front desk where an irate man was making wild gestures to the employee. Her face could have been chipped out of solid granite. He watched as the man was dragged away by two armor-clad androids, boots skidding on the polished floor, shrieking obscenities.

The line inched forward. Barely.

At least there were no more complications. People stepped forward, presented their IDs, got their faces scanned, had their profiles checked out, were rejected. They begged for permission to board, gave some lengthy sob story about their family, money, why they needed to get out of here. And they were rejected.

This happened almost every single time. Only five people—four of which belonged to a family—could pass. The other one was a black-suited businessman who either had special permission from the Council or simply had bribed his way through.

It was his turn next. The guy in front was kicking up a fuss. ‘Listen, I have the files with me. They’re Council-approved. Look at the stamps! Just let me in.’

‘The files are not the issue,’ the employee stated, her voice level and calm. ‘The date is incorrect; you were meant to be here almost fourty-eight hours ago.’

‘I got held up.’

‘Sorry. I cannot let you through.’

‘What?’ The armored androids swiveled their heads at the man’s rising voice. ‘I’ve got the seal. Just let me in.’

‘The decision has been made.’ The woman was cool as ever. ‘Please leave immediately.’

‘Listen to me—’

‘I will call security.’

‘You stupid bitch! Wait—’ his words were cut off as the android on the right clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder and started to drag him away. He struggled to get to his feet, shaking them off. ‘I can walk! Let me go!’ He gathered up his tattered dignity and strode out on his own accord.

‘Next.’

Anders stepped up to the booth, eyes fixed on the woman. She scraped her hair back behind her ear. ‘IDs?’

‘Here.’ He placed the various cards, codes and seals required for the process on the bench. The machine sucked them up greedily. He had nabbed them from an unlocked drawer in Anders’ apartment, where they had all conveniently been placed together. It was great when people made your life easier like that.

The woman glanced at the monitor and gave the slightest of nods. He stepped to the right and placed his head in a circular mould. He felt the cold metallic bands fold over the back of his head, holding him in place as a blue-green light hovered in front of him, sweeping across his face. This was the crucial moment. If the machine detected an inconsistency, or if the scanners could read that something wasn’t quite right, then everything would go to hell. And these things weren’t failsafe. He’d seen banned footage where some guy struggled to get out of the clamp before the machine was done, and it had retaliated by tightening its grip, crushing his head like a mango, blood spraying, skull cracking, while he twisted and thrashed and struggled and—

‘Scan complete.’ The pressure lifted from the back of his head as the securing straps were removed and the scanner folded back into its place. The machine spat out his cards and IDs, like it was disgusted them with. He took them gratefully, nodding at the woman as the security doors in front of him parted like angelic gates of heaven. He strolled through, relief gushing out and flooding through his body.

*

He chose the earliest flight he could.

It would take him to Toh, almost as far away from here as possible. Even better would be Elva, but that flight wasn’t scheduled for another five days. He wasn’t planning to stick around that long. He might have gotten past the scanners and be wearing someone else’s face, but it didn’t hide the fact that he didn’t belong here, in this playground of rich families and loaded businessmen. It would be easy to get a new ID and face in Toh. The Council’s grip on the planet was so loose that contraband floated around the city like a disease.

He bought a meal while he was there. Chicken pamajama slathered in mushroom sauce. It cost a hefty price, but he remembered that it wasn’t his credits that he was spending. The food wasn’t fantastic, but would do for now.

Boarding was an effortless task. Everyone had been checked out already, so there was close to no security. They just took one look at his IDs and ushered him through without a word. He had the feeling they wanted to wash their hands of him. The feeling was mutual.

Anders settled back into his seat, clipping the seatbelt together. The flight would take around thirty hours or so. It had been an age before he’d had truly good sleep. Thirty hours with nothing to do except doze off was perfect.

There was almost no one else on board, just him and a handful of passengers and the family from earlier. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been many in the departing lounges, either. It seemed that the Council were only letting a trickle of regular asset civilians go through. It was getting less and less each year and would likely only continue to lessen until no one could get through.

Not my problem.

Not anymore.

It might have been selfish, but he was done with it all. There was no point in trying to fix anything there. He saw that now. The best he could do was go somewhere far away where they’d never find him. He should have done it years ago. He was done with killing, done with it all.

Anders gazed out of the tiny window as the spacecraft booted up. He noticed a couple of figures in the distance, sprinting towards them. He leaned forward and squinted in the gloom. The two androids from before were galloping across the tarmac at frightening speeds, a trio of human security guards sprinting behind them.

And they were all clutching pulse rifles. One of the androids even had a railgun, slapping in a clip.

He suddenly felt light-headed, his vision swimming. No. This couldn’t be happening. He’d come so close. He’d—

The sudden movement of the spacecraft jolted him back to the present. The guards were screaming now, waving their arms, turning the heads of everyone around them. But the spacecraft had already pushed off the ground, slowly accelerating through the air. He seemed to be the only one who’d noticed them. The other passengers and crew were completely oblivious. The guards on the ground tried to shout out, but the scream of the engine drowned them out. He gripped the sides of his armchair and tried to calm his frantic heart as the spacecraft glided over the city, the frantic figures becoming smaller and smaller. He leaned back in his seat, breathing hard. That had been so, so close.

But he’d made it.

His ears popped as the ship reached space and booted up the warp drive, sending shivers down his spine, lights dimming above. The floor began to rumble, pulling him back into his seat picking up speed and winking out of existence.