Apotheosis: Dead Forever Book 2

by William Campbell

Copyright 2010 William Campbell. All Rights Reserved

Chapter 3

Cool water slaps my cheeks, lips burn a salty sting, and my fingers are chilled to numb. I creak one eye open to see a hazy yellow glow, too bright, too hot above, so cold below. I swish and turn and turn again, thrashing, nothing to hold me, water so loose—drowning.

No.

The ocean sneaks higher, a swell rolling beneath me like an enormous carpet snapped by a giant shaking it clean. I cling to the surface, carried aloft by a lifejacket. The ride down is gentle and back up, then down and up again, the endless rolling swells cresting foamy white, ruffled by light wind from a cloudless sky.

A sea journey? We must have lost our vessel. But I don’t remember being a sailor, or being at sea. Maybe I fell from the sky, from a plane struck down. But there’s no parachute, only the orange lifejacket. It doesn’t matter. I have to save myself either way. Swimming across the ocean won’t work. Which direction? I could swim away from land. A rescue ship will come. It takes time. But there should be other survivors, I can’t be alone. But no, not a soul, I am alone. And if no one comes, I may die alone.

A small rowboat, that’s where I was. But that feels like ages ago. And the water, it was clear like glass, not these rising swells. Except the sky wasn’t clear. That was somewhere else. A memory? Gone, through my fingers like dark crystals, and with it, any hint of an identity.

From below, a churning noise grows louder, and the ocean quakes. Vibrations press in from all directions. A thin pole shoots up from the surface and rises fast, followed by a tower of black steel. A grated deck slams into me and I’m thrust above the surf by a big metal whale, flat on top and much longer than across. A submarine. Water sheets down the sides and crashes back to the sea, split open like zipper as the sub charges forward, carving out a foamy slice.

I am saved. Inside are my mates, dry clothes, a warm meal. I start for the tower.

Atop the tower, a hatch opens and someone crawls out.

I reach to my shoulder, for a rifle that isn’t there.

Jared climbs down the rungs and joins me on the deck. He wears shorts and sandals, sunglasses, and a shirt decorated with parrots and pineapples. He is holding a flimsy aluminum lawn chair.

“Hey, Adam, what are you doing out here in the middle of the ocean?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe you should tell me.”

He laughs, then turns away and heads for the bow, where he unfolds the lawn chair. He sits down and watches the sky, like he’s vacationing at the beach, soaking up a few rays.

I creep closer but keep a safe distance from him. He holds a glass that’s wide at the bottom, narrow in the center and flaring at the brim, filled with a milky beverage opaque and frothy, garnished by a pink paper umbrella.

What is this screwy shit? He didn’t have the drink when he came down the ladder.

“Where’d that come from?” I ask.

He sips at the straw and looks to the sky. “I… I don’t know. Maybe you should tell me.”

Maybe I should slap the brat. Except it wouldn’t do any good. Another stupid dream. But if a dream, then my subconscious is doing this. Since I’m stuck here, why not tug at a few layers and get answers that deep down, I already know. The secrets are hiding here, somewhere.

“Jared, tell me why you’ve betrayed me.”

He tips his sunglasses down and scowls. “Who’s betrayed who?”

“You have and you know it.”

“Have what and know what? You’re talking nonsense, like always.”

“You are.”

“That’s right, I am. I am. More than you’ll ever be. You’re a not.”

This will never work. I have to ask the real Jared, once I find the bastard. After this stupid dream ends.

His face morphs into that sickening insincere pity. “Oh, you poor thing, can’t remember, is that it? You won’t, so don’t sweat it. Even if you do, it’s too late anyway.”

I’d say that to myself? Talking to a sick mind maybe.

Jared stands and the chair vanishes. His drink is gone and now he wears a white toga and laurel crown. He raises his arms to the sky.

“Bow before the Mighty One. Behold the wrath of God.”

Small motors whir, then a series of sharp clanks, metal slapping one after another, clack-clack-clack. Along each side of the deck, a string of round hatches stand open, from which fire and smoke burst a deafening roar. Black shafts shoot out, carried aloft by blazing infernos. I cover my ears and turn away from the heat. The missiles spew columns of dark smoke as they climb fast to become specks fanning out across the horizon.

“You can’t win,” he says.

I whirl around to face no one. Water washes across the deck and over my feet. My life jacket is gone. Rotten dream! I climb the rungs, the tower drops fast, and an icy wave smacks hard. I’m drenched and fumbling for a hold but it’s all too slippery. The sealed hatch falls away and I clutch the thin pole. Sucked back to the depths, it slides through my fingers.

Thrashing and splashing, every other gasp I choke on salty water. The sky bursts WHITE to every corner. The flash burns past my eyelids, blinding.

He has won.

The brightness eases, but it’s still uncomfortably warm. The shockwave is next, I know, except it never comes. The sound of slapping waves has ceased, leaving an eerie silence. Then a whoosh rumbles past my ear, and a heated breeze glances my skin.

I crack one eye open. Too bright, and blistering hot, the air is like an oven. I’m somewhere else. Not underwater, not even wet, except the sweat leaking into one eye that stings. The view is a wavering mirage of rusty humps that rise and fall.

My neck is restrained by something. I can’t move much, but enough to see that my outstretched arms are bound by wire, securing me to a horizontal wooden beam. And my ankles are fastened to the lower portion of a vertical beam. I’m going nowhere strung up like this, someone has made sure of that.

But I am going somewhere, carried by a wooden cart rolling across a desert. The crude wheels are not completely round, making the journey rough and uncomfortable. But then, when was hanging from a cross ever comfortable?

The hot breeze kicks up sand, washing over dunes that rise and fall, like the swells, surf and sea, only moments before. The ocean has turned to desert? Dreams do as they damn well please.

A muscular four-legged beast is hauling the cart, following a few riders on horseback. They face forward, clothed in black leather with long sleeves. The backsides of their head and neck are concealed by tight caps that are one with their snug bodysuits.

The riders and cart top the next rise. In the distance are more endless dunes, but now something litters the landscape. Wooden crosses are planted in the sand, aligned in terraced rows. Hundreds of them. Down the rise and farther on, details become clearer. The crosses are like mine, each with someone attached, neck bound, arms out, ankles tight. But getting closer, I realize they are not the same. Not yet anyway, though likely my horrific fate is to join them. The figures are blackened ash, the torched remains of each someone attached.

Time for this fucked-up dream to end.

The cart halts and a rider turns back. He calls to others behind me, “Here iss good.” He points to something but I don’t look, I can only look at his face. A mask? Dark green, big black eyes, and nose little more than a mild hump with two dots for nostrils. But it’s not a mask. It is his face, and slithering tongue between slimy lips. A lizard? A snake. Something reptilian. Except humanoid, with legs and arms and fingered hands.

He nudges his ride closer and stares at me. It’s difficult to gauge his expression. He has no brow, and his dark eyes are wide open like a fish. He could be happy or sad, pissed off or indifferent, you wouldn’t know by looking at him, but I can feel it more than the hot sun—this snake doesn’t like me.

They haul my cross backward, off the cart and to the sand, landing with a thud. Wire binding my neck yanks tighter, and my outstretched arms scream. The snakes drag me up an embankment to where another snake-man with a shovel is digging a hole. I’m planted upright, facing the blazing sun.

I try speaking but it’s difficult with a swollen tongue. “Hey, how about we turn it around, give me a little shade. What do you say?”

The snake-men stride down the embankment, boots kicking up sand, and return to the cart and other riders.

A slight breeze is no relief, hotter than the blazing sun. Reserves of moisture bleed from every pore and coat my sunburned skin. Sweat pools in my eyes and stings, hot needles I cannot wipe away.

All right, go ahead and burn me. Just make it quick, not this slow, agonizing torture. Then we can move on to a more pleasant dream, like the grassy meadow beneath my best friend, Mister Tree. Except I was doing something else before all of this. What was I doing? It doesn’t matter. I’m asleep somewhere, dreaming, and my body is safe.

Down the line, the next cross also has someone attached. Not burned yet, other than by the hot day, reason enough for his squirming effort to get loose.

Snake-men climb the rise, approaching the other prisoner. One snake carries a metal can, another wields a flaming torch. The victim fights his binds. He has fur and whiskers.

“I beg,” the Felidian cries. “Save me, Adam, I beg!”

I know him. But I can’t remember his name. Too hard to pronounce.

The snake with metal can pumps clear liquid from a short hose and drenches the prisoner. The cat convulses, swinging his head and chest squirming, trying to fling away moisture that is clearly not water. Useless. The snake just loads more into the cat’s dripping fur.

The snake with torch leans in on the cat.

“Hey!” I call out. “Don’t burn him. Don’t burn anyone.”

The torch-bearing snake whirls around and stares at me from his big empty eyes. He marches closer. “Death to all heathens.” He swishes the torch before me as if casting a curse. “And you, evil creature, who feigns he iss a god. Die a thousand deaths.”

But this is a dream, and he’s part of it, part of me, my fear that drives this. So he knows, doesn’t he? I’m no god, that was all pretend. He’s still an asshole about it. Did I invent that too, him being an asshole? Probably a modified version of some other asshole I used to know.

“Hey, bucko. Go fuck yourself.”

Though being a snake, he probably does anyway.

He thrusts the torch in threatening jabs. “Iss a pleasure to watch you burn, wicked infidel.”

I’m wicked? Right. Wicked infidel heathen scum, whatever. So I get mounted to a cross and fried. What about the nutcase holding the torch? What, like he’s some angel? Screw that shit, he’s a psycho. This is totally backward.

The snake leaves me and goes to the other prisoner.

The Felidian calls out, “Adam, I be in your service. Though forgive me, I cannot serve beyond death.”

In the desert enduring unbearable heat until his dying moment.

No!

The torch draws near his side, flames flicker and leap, and the vapor rising from his fur bursts into a brilliant aura that smothers him. Translucent blue to begin, with Stu caught in the center, convulsing and screaming, though my eyes won’t lend attention to my ears, it’s all a dull hum. The deep-blue base drives flaming orange that pours out to the whipping edges, cracking and snapping, and the cremation roars a fiery blaze. Soon his struggle ends, his cries cease, and all that remains are crackling pops of bone on fire.

The torch-bearing snake turns to me.

That’s enough, I’m out of here.

I dive into my own blackness, in search of my sleeping body, determined to force its eyes open and see anything but this nightmare.

* * *

Thumping hooves grow louder, a strong gallop coming closer. I open my eyes. Naked? My chest is blackened. Dreams are tenacious. I’m still on the cross, still in the desert.

Snake-men gather round, one with the torch, another with the metal can, aiming his hose. Not much left of Stu, just a smoldering mass of charred flesh hanging from a disjointed skeleton. Those monstrous fiends. But that thumping, it’s getting louder. Beyond the snake-men, hooves pound the sand. A rider on horseback is racing up the dune.

“No!” the rider calls. “Not him! Stop!”

The snake-men turn and look. The approaching rider wears the same bodysuit all black, but he’s no snake. Without the snug cap, his hair blows in the wind. Yellow hair, like he used to have. But it wasn’t yellow when…

He reins in the horse and leaps from the saddle. It really is Dave. He advances on the snakes and swats the torch to the sand. “You cannot burn him.”

“Hey, Dave, what are you doing in my dream?”

He spins around. “Adam, this is not a dream. They’re going to burn you, for real.”

But this has to be a dream. It’s too weird for reality. Or I’m delirious from the heat. Not a dream? Now I’m embarrassed, naked up here for everyone to see.

The snake-man retrieves his torch and hisses at Dave. “He must burn. He iss a devil sent to destroy us.”

Dave gets in the snake’s face. “No he is NOT! Get him down from there.”

That can’t be Dave. I’ve never seen Mister Laid-back get so aggressive.

The snake-man drops the torch and bows. The others kneel.

“Get him down,” Dave says. “Now!”

They loosen the wire binding me. I crash to the hot sand, burning my bare butt, then hop from one foot to the next, but naked I quickly crouch, wrap arms around my knees, and let my soles roast. I’ll deal with it.

Dave goes to his saddle, gets a canteen, and offers it. I guzzle what little gets past my swollen tongue and shower in the rest.

“What’s with the hair?” I ask. “Back to yellow?”

He smirks. “Blond, pal. I think we’ve masqueraded as goons long enough.”

He could be right, not a dream. Only the real Dave cares that much about his hair. But if this isn’t a dream…

“Dave! What are you doing in the desert with weird snake-men, burning people, burning cats, burning me!”

“It’s how they punish the enemy,” he says. “It’s not my idea.”

“I don’t care whose idea it is, make them stop.”

He says to the snakes, “Tell the soldiers to stop burning and get back to camp. And you, bring Adam some clothes.” Dave passes the reins of his horse. The snake-man bows and leads the animal down the embankment. The others follow.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You have to understand,” Dave says, “these creatures mean well, they worship and obey, but their enemy isn’t like that. They have no respect for the gods.”

“Since when do you care about any gods?”

“Oh, not me.” He points to the departing snake-men. “But they do. They’re wrapped up deep in that shit.”

More god-fearing creatures battling a heathen enemy. The same enemy?

“Ophidians,” I realize.

“They just want to live in peace,” he says. “But the cats won’t leave them alone.”

“Cats?”

He points to what’s left of Stu.

“Dave! The Felidians aren’t the enemy.”

“Who else would they be fighting?”

I scan the dunes, the cart that carried me here, and countless nightmare creatures on horseback, more on foot. “These snakes are Ophidians?”

“What else did you think?”

“Considering what they had in mind for me, I was thinking, what a bunch of psychos.”

“That was just a mix-up. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? Dave, listen to yourself. They were going to burn me alive. Doesn’t that sound just a little insane?”

“They’ve been driven to insane measures by a ruthless invader.”

The truth hits—none of this is a dream. Oh no, please no. Dread tumbles down a landslide that buries me. I look to the blackened figure hanging from the cross. What have I done? I didn’t save him. I’ve led Stu to a gruesome death. And my reward—the grisly sight of his charred remains.

I drop to the sand, on my knees and head in my hands, there is no strength enough to fight the tears. A merciful god would have saved him. Even a decent man would have. I’m no god, not by any measure, and hardly a man. No, I’m a monster.

* * *

Sand is my only view, burning my knees, when tall black boots halt before me. I pull a forearm across my face, smearing tears and scratchy sand. Blocking out the sun, the gangly snake-man is a silhouette standing over me. He holds out a uniform, the same bodysuit they all wear, and rattles it in my face. “Dress,” he says, then drops the garment.

I guide one leg after the other into the jumpsuit. Arms are a bitch, muscle flowing across my chest pulled apart in shredded strands that scream while I try wrestling into something made for a beanpole. A zipper runs from crotch to neck, sealing me inside a constraining skin that cries to be shed. With a high collar and arms covered to the wrists, the thing is unbearably hot. The cap is attached behind the neck like a hood, except skintight. Like Dave, I pass, it stays flopped back. The rest is already slimy enough with trapped sweat just that fast. The tall boots are as roasting, though better than bare soles on sizzling sand. How can they wear this stuff in the desert? Oh, but of course, they’re reptiles—cold-blooded.

Dave starts down the embankment. Before joining him, I have to look one last time. I face the string of crosses planted in the sand, one empty where I was hanging, and the next down the line, blackened regret.

“What’s wrong?” Dave asks.

If only my eyes would betray me.

“He was my friend.”

He climbs to my side. “A cat?”

“Yes! They’re all my friends.”

“Get your head scrambled again?” He points to Stu’s crispy remains. “The cats are murdering monsters. They destroy entire villages, kill everybody, even children. It’s sick.”

“They wouldn’t if those, those, snakes! If those snakes would leave them alone!”

“Sorry, dude, you got it all backward. The Ophidians want to live in peace. It’s the cats making this war.”

“They can hardly defend themselves.”

His eyes get big. “They’re awful handy with assault craft.”

“That’s ridiculous. They don’t even know how to open the hatch.”

“I think they got you fooled, buddy. I’ve seen it myself, the sky full of them.”

“What? No way.” I point to the snakes, farther down the dune. “It’s them, they have the craft.”

“You are whacked. They don’t know how to fly.”

“They don’t?”

“Hell no,” he says. “They say only gods can travel through the heavens.”

Just like the Felidians. This planet is so full of lies I can’t keep up with it all.

Of course—the airborne invaders were not Ophidians. Every attack ever, it was never them, or cats.

“Dave, don’t you see what’s going on here?”

“All I know is these creatures are very angry with each other.”

“Right. Because someone lied to both and made them angry.”

* * *

Moving down the dune, every other step is a slide through loose sand, surfing down a dry wave that never crests. The sun hangs low in the sky, past snakes busy erecting tents. At a cart, Dave drinks from a canteen, then offers me some. My skin is too leaky, all moisture lost as sweat faster than I can fill myself. We head for a tent and duck inside, out of the sun.

This world has my mind in a vise. Solving one riddle only spawns a new one. If not Ophidians, the pilots had to be our enemy. But our enemy knows about shields and wouldn’t hesitate using them. Besides the obvious advantage, procedure likely demands it. Why no shields?

Pressing down on my shoulders, Dave stuffs me onto a cot. “Let’s have a look at that wound.” He gestures that I open my garment.

I ease the zipper down. My chest is blackened and tender. Looks like the work of a blast rifle. The memory comes alive—burning flesh, sky gone magenta, darker almost blue, it looked cool. The rock against my back was colder, a frigid singe leaking past a shell of skin. I can feel it again, and the rest—enemy troops cresting the ridge, hopeless odds moving in and out of the sun, I was shot, but the vision…

I stand fast. “Where’s Christina?”

Dave stumbles back, staring at me and speechless.

“Tell me!”

He hesitates. “She’s with Jared, I don’t know where. He had a fancy cruiser, you know, one of those sky-yachts.”

I slap the tent’s flap, dart outside and scan the sky, to every side, ahead and behind. Empty.

“I’m sorry,” Dave says, peering out of the tent. “I tried to stop him, but you saw those bastards in white helmets. They beat the crap out of me.”

The sky holds all hope yet delivers none. A trace of high clouds, no trace of my love, not even a departing speck, any last glimpse. I have to find her but can’t imagine where to start. I’ll go crazy, I can’t do this. No, stop it, relax, that’s what she would say. She would hold me, a soothing hand to my cheek, and focus my scattered attention. Calm down and think.

She’s with Jared. The Mighty One, one of their gods. The gods aren’t in any heaven. The gods are here, standing on this planet the same as anyone else.

“I know where he took her.”

Dave steps out of the tent. “Really?”

“Home of the Gods.”

His enthusiasm dissolves. “That’s swell you got it all figured out, but what good does it do? I doubt the place is listed on any map, and I sure as hell don’t know where it is.”

“You don’t?”

His blank stare says it all—he doesn’t.

But someone does. Oh no.

“Where’s the other Felidian?”

“What other?” he asks.

“There were two with me.”

“I don’t know anything about that. They capture cats and burn them all the time. You know, they are the enemy.”

“He can’t burn. I’ll never find Christina.”

I spot a horse and sprint, seize the reins, and fly into the saddle.

“Hey!” Dave calls. “Where you going?”

“To save a friend.”

I slap the reins and hooves pound the sand.

* * *

Ophidian troops divide rank as I guide my horse between them. Ahead, more carts carry victims yet unburned. I slow my ride, nudge in and out of gaps between the desert convoy, and scan the prisoners mounted to crosses. None of them is Physuro. I flick the reins and gallop up a slope to more crosses and cats yowling for mercy.

A soldier extends his torch, nearing a cross, seconds to ignition. I send the horse soaring up the slope. When the snake whirls around, his torch spooks the animal and I’m thrown. I get up, swat his torch away, and launch a punch that levels him.

I say to all, “There will be no more burning.”

Soldiers withdraw their flaming twig torches. They back away from the crosses and close in around me. The soldier I decked tries to get up. I slap one hand around his neck and keep him pinned.

“Where’s the Felidian who was with me?”

“The spy?”

“He’s no spy. What have you done with him?”

“Spies iss interrogated first, then we burn.”

I command the soldiers, “Stop burning!”

The snakes shuffle apart as someone penetrates the crowd. Dave emerges on horseback.

“Do as Adam says. He is a powerful god.”

The snakes drop to their knees and plunge their torches into the sand, flames buried and out. How does he do that?

“Find your friend?” Dave asks.

“Your buddy here says he’s a spy.”

Dave turns in his saddle to check the sky, where the sun hangs low.

“What is it, Dave?”

“It’s a long ride,” he says. “We’ll start at daybreak.”

“You know where he is? We have to go now.”

He reins the animal around. “We can’t.”

“We have to. Physuro knows where to find her. If anything happens—”

“We’ll get halfway at best. But really, Adam, we shouldn’t.”

“Then it’s settled. But one thing first.” I leave Dave and climb the embankment, past the crosses yet unburned, and higher above the gathered soldiers.

I call out, “Take these prisoners down.”

An Ophidian steps out of rank. “We say not. They iss the enemy, and here they iss to die.”

I soar down, knock him flat, and straddle the slimy worm.

He wrestles and squirms. “You iss a devil! Felidian devil monster!”

I wrap a crushing grasp around his throat. “Take these prisoners down or you’re burning, every last one of you, when I set the desert on fire, all of it!”

“Do as Adam says.” Dave twists in his saddle to address all. “He will punish anyone who dares to defy him.”

The snakes drop to their knees and bow. I don’t get it. I threaten torture and they just gawk at me. But Dave, all he has to do is open his mouth and presto, instant cult-master.

A soldier asks, “But what iss we to do with them?”

“You will place them in a suitable camp or prison, feed them, and give them water. And once I resolve this conflict, you will set them free. Until that time, you will not mistreat any of them in any way. No more torture, and no more burning. Is that clear?”

He nods.

I scan the others. “Is that clear?”

Most nod.

“Now take them down!”

Soldiers scatter, climbing the dunes, and begin releasing prisoners. I follow to assist, starting with an older cat, his head and torso sagging between his outstretched arms. At the roots of disheveled fur, I get at the wire binding him.

His dull gaze lands on me. His voice is frail. “A savior who suffers our fate be the greatest god.”

I focus on untwisting the wire. “I’m not a god.”

“Ah, yet you be.” His weak smile grows stronger. “Indeed, you be a god of greatness, our lord above all lords.”

* * *

Only three were brave enough to join us. The unwilling soldiers were more concerned with erecting tents as the sun crept low, convinced that no one should cross the desert in darkness. But the Marsean night is not a pit of blackness that any should fear. In the fading light, dual moons glow brighter, one high another low, squat and yellow, neither very large nor round, but enough light to cast faint shadows across the endless ripples of sand.

Miles from the encampment, the dunes grow higher, on which our ghostly shadows rise larger than life, five mounted giants swaying in their saddles. Dave leads the way and keeps checking the sky. Moonlit vapors roll across the night, darkening our course as the dunes dip and rise deeper and higher the farther we go. For each we crest, endless more remain, fading dimmer under a thickening blanket of clouds.

Dave suggests that we make camp. I’d rather not, but he insists, and the snakes strongly agree. All appear troubled and hurried. Dave mutters something about not far enough but it’ll have to do. He gets busy pitching a tent and the snakes do the same. Dave checks the sky again, then builds a campfire, but with the wind kicking up, flames dance and flicker fighting to stay alive. He starts a pot of coffee and gets some food from his saddlebags. In a shallow pan he cooks yellow stalks in an oily sauce, and we eat. Not sure what, though being hungry or it being so bland, the meal doesn’t qualify as disgusting, a texture close to celery but less flavorful. The temperature drops fast, bringing on shivers. Dave unstraps blankets stowed above his saddlebags, wraps himself in one, and offers another to me.

“Cover your face when it comes,” he says.

“It?” I ask.

He reaches for the coffeepot, fills a pair of tin cups, and hands one over. The Ophidians don’t ask and he doesn’t offer. They must not care for the beverage. They just sit around the campfire staring at us. I can’t tell if it’s awe or scared out of their wits. Maybe both.

Dave tells them, “Get in your tents and stay put. We’ll be fine.”

They spring up and vanish into their shelters. Scared of Dave, or scared of something.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

He chuckles and keeps his voice low. “They think I’m a god.”

“And what am I, a fire log? You’re no more a god than me. How do you get off so easy?”

“I wasn’t in cahoots with any cats. Besides, I told them the Mighty One sent me. You could have said the same, maybe avoided all that.”

“Jared?”

“What’s Jared got to do with it?”

“Dave, have you seen the Mighty One?”

“Not in person, just heard of the guy.” He sips coffee. “Figured I’d drop the name, you know, cash in on some of that godly respect.”

“Well I have seen the Mighty One, a statue larger than life, and trust me, no one shares the same cocky grin.”

“Check a mirror lately?” He smirks.

“Ha-ha, real funny.”

“You could actually laugh, you know, it might do you some good. You look like shit.”

“Try hanging from a cross all day.”

He winces. “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

Too bad it wasn’t that easy. For some reason, the snakes hold Dave and Jared in high regard. The only way they hold me is over a barbecue.

I say, “By the way, thanks.”

“You would’ve saved me too.”

“Yeah, but how did you know?”

“When I heard they captured a fake god, who else would it be?”

Not exactly a vote of confidence, but I won’t complain.

“So how did you get here?” I ask.

He scoots near the campfire, reaches for the pot and refills his cup, then mine. “I’m not really sure. Got my ass kicked, more like brains bashed out, pretty bad. Next thing I know, I’m in prison. Weird, man.” He sips his coffee, then chuckles. “Had to talk my way out. Wasn’t too tough, actually. They thought I was a god, so I just played along.”

The parallel could not be a coincidence.

“And what lie did you tell them?” I ask.

“Doesn’t hurt to lie sometimes.”

“We’ll debate that later. What did you tell them?”

He shrugs. “Not much, just that I was Jovial, God of Jokes, Jester to the court of Jovas. Get it? They all start with J. Pretty funny, eh?”

“No, it’s stupid.”

He frowns. “Well it worked. I’m not toast like you almost were.”

The snakes are one gullible bunch if they believe anything this laugh-happy jackass has to say. They don’t understand—for Dave, this is all a joke. They just don’t get the punch line.

Then I realize, “You said the Mighty One sent you. But you said Jovas.”

“Right, the Mighty One.”

“Jovas is a planet. You know that, right?”

“Of course, all their gods are planets.” He spins a finger in the windy night. “You know, in the heavens, where the gods are.” He chuckles. “They got all kinds of kooky stories.”

“So do the Felidians. Except they say Crontis is the Mighty One.”

“No way, Jovas is way bigger.”

Sometimes I really want to smack him. “Look, Dave, it’s not about the size of any planet. That’s not the point.”

“There’s a point?”

“Yes! The cats and snakes are worshipping the same god, they just don’t know it. Not any accident, either.”

“You think Jared’s behind it.”

“Sounds like a good way to stir up a conflict. Don’t you see? He’s screwing with this planet and using us to do it.”

Dave sips his coffee. “I think you should worry less about Jared and more about what the Association is doing.”

“Why? What are they up to?”

Wind smacks harder, ruffling the tents. Dave sets his cup down and steers around the dwindling campfire, goes to the Ophidian tents, and secures straps holding the flaps shut. A sharp blast kills the fire and escaping smoke washes away in a flash. He comes back to fill our cups one last time, dumps the rest, then points to our tent. “Before it gets any worse.”

We crawl inside. Once settled, I ask, “So what are they doing? What do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he says, on his knees cinching the straps from within, “but I’ve been thinking about a few things. Remember the computer we broke into?”

“The wannabe hooker.”

He tightens the last strap and shakes his head once. “No, back on Orn-3. You remember, in the training room.” He sits facing me, wrapped in his blanket and sipping coffee. “That stuff about the Restricted Zone, how the inhabitants were incurable.”

“What about it?”

Every inch of the tent is slapped by howling wind.

“So I was thinking,” he says. “They figure these creatures are incurable, like us, so I doubt they plan to conquer this planet and govern it. More likely wipe them out.”

“You mean supply weapons and let them wipe out each other. But that’s the part I don’t get. Why not land here with an invasion force and be done with it? They have plenty of resources. They could lay waste to this planet and kill every living thing, all in one afternoon.”

“Except for one problem—the killed would know who killed them. Remember, these creatures may not realize it, but deep down, they’re no different from us.”

“They’ll live again.”

“With the memory,” he says. “For some reason they don’t believe it, but you know how it goes. The memory gets buried, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. If the Association kills them, they might remember someday and want revenge. But if they destroy each other, it’s not so obvious. What is not witnessed is not remembered, including the face of your executioner.”

Gusts smack the tent, then the faint ticking of granules grows to a roar, and the canvas is sandblasted. Stinging grains shoot in and fill the tent with a swirling hurricane. Dave throws the blanket over his head.

It has come, so loud that to shout would be silent, a sandstorm that threatens to rip the atmosphere from the planet. Or it already has, given the temperature, nearing the cold of outer space. The blanket guards my face from the shotgun spray but can’t begin to fight the shivers.

Muffled by his blanket, Dave hollers, “Try and get some sleep.”

His best joke ever.

* * *

Far into a night darker than any nightmare, I clutch the blanket, curled on my side and knees held tight to my chest. Slapping canvas and swirling sand, the wind moans a chorus of sirens tempting escape, leave the body and go somewhere safe, return when it’s over. Or the moans are wraiths tempting the same, knowing that when I am gone, the body is theirs to take. So much like death, its very cause, when the pain is too great, we run away. Tempting, but I can’t.

Night is overwhelmed by a train whistle that never sleeps, wailing its call across the desert while ripping a layer from it. Within the screams I hear her cries—find me, don’t get lost.

* * *

Sleep never came. Beyond the imminent threat of getting swept out to space, if not buried alive, sleep is impossible with a mind wrapped around a nagging mystery—what makes the cats and snakes ignorant of repeating life? This planet is an oddity, or it’s the whole system. Creatures of countless other worlds take repeating life for granted, just one of those things. It’s a completely natural course to grow old and die, then do it again, and again. We call it life. But on this planet, rebirth is a fantastic notion believed impossible based on a single article of evidence—what soul can recall a past prior to their birth? That’s not evidence, it’s a lack of it. Evidence that has been suppressed, deleted or made inaccessible, and it’s no accident. The same my memory loss was no accident. Both must spring from the same fountain.

At last the storm loses strength. I shake the blanket clean, clear grains from my hair and teeth, and brush myself off. The straps have come untied and desert pours into the tent. There is no sky, only sand. I tunnel through and emerge atop a dune that buries all but the peaks of our shelters. Morning is close, coloring the horizon deep magenta.

“We should have waited,” Dave says, crawling out behind me. He climbs higher and scans the desert dawn. “But no, you just don’t listen.”

“It wasn’t so bad. We made it through okay.”

He glares. “The horses ran.”

* * *

The sun climbs higher in a cloudless sky, scorching pink. Same dry desert, different day. Rusty dunes rise and fall, and for each we conquer, countless more remain. Us gods may be handy with advanced craft and battle tactics, but when confronted by a hostile climate, the snakes are the wiser—they had enough sense to get canteens from their saddles before losing their rides. Dave held on to a knapsack, from which he pulls out lumps wrapped in foil like candy bars, except someone forgot the sugar. The snack melts like chocolate, and the bitter mess keeps us going a few more miles. We never did find the horses. Dave thought we might, or he was hoping. They either outran the storm or were buried by it. We may never know.

Each step forward our boots sink in the loose sand, which absorbs all momentum, like walking a treadmill and going nowhere. I’m ready to die roasting in this sweaty leather, but Dave manages to keep his spirits high—or he’s delirious—singing a ditty about a broom sweeping ninety-nine dunes of sand, each verse counting down. Except when he reaches zero, countless more remain. So he starts over.

“Will you shut up.”

“What?” he says. “I’m just—”

“Driving me crazy.”

He’s silent maybe three seconds. “Not my idea to walk across a desert.”

“Just shut up.”

At last, the stupid song ends. Now if only the desert would.

The Ophidians hike alongside, one next to Dave, the other two on my side, but keeping a distance. Looks like they’re having a private conversation.

“I don’t bite,” I call.

Climbing the next dune, they look over at me, say nothing, and keep climbing. The snake beside Dave might be more sociable.

I ask, “How much farther you think?”

We reach the top and he studies the horizon. “Far.”

He could have lied, I wouldn’t mind.

“Get any sleep?” Dave asks.

“Don’t tell me you managed.”

We surf down loose sand and start climbing the next rise.

Snake-man says, “Sleep iss difficult for our kind.”

“I can imagine, living in this hellhole. Is every night like a freight train running through town?”

He shakes his head once. “Iss a better place.” He climbs the next rise and points to the horizon.

We reach the top and join him. Nothing for miles, only wave after wave of rusty sand, baked by unrelenting sun.

“This side of the planet maybe?”

He just stares at me. I don’t think he understands. Then, sliding down on his boots, he says, “Safe from night demons.”

The only thing safe from last night’s demon is a reinforced concrete bunker. Let’s hope we find one before sundown.

“Just think,” Dave says, staring out at the endless dunes. “We could be home about now, kicked back on the deck, chugging down a few cold—”

“Shut up. Not another word.”

We surf down another wave of loose sand.

* * *

Minutes feel like hours, up one dune and down the next. It seems the desert will never end. But we keep a steady pace, pressing on for a goal that probably doesn’t exist. The snakes appear used to this sort of thing, and Dave manages somehow, but I’m ready to drop and let the buzzards have their way.

The two unsociable snakes continue pacing our trek, but they keep a safe distance off our flank. The third snake doesn’t appear uncomfortable around gods, scaling slope after slope right alongside us like he’s part of the gang.

“So what’s with your pals?” I ask the snake and indicate the two soldiers off in their own private slice of desert. “They have a problem with me?”

“Iss respect,” he says. “Product of fear. In their view, they see a god.”

“And you don’t? Or something else?”

He laughs, an odd sort of squealing snort. I had no idea they even laughed. We reach the next rise and he looks me in the eye. “The else.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Some of you worship and others want me torched. And your enemy isn’t much better. Not as bad as what your buddies had in mind, but some Felidians are just as ornery to me.”

“Not all belief iss agreed, even among a single species.” He indicates his comrades who keep a distance. “They iss acting how they believe, what iss taught to many.”

“But not you.”

Again he surprises me—a tweak of his lips is almost like a smirk. “Iss a choice to keep what iss taught,” he says. “Most learn only what iss taught. Others add teaching from life.”

“They look for themselves.”

He nods once and starts down the slope. “Not all feel the same about your kind. Many, both enemy and Ophids, see gods to worship, how they iss taught. Some mistrust, even in worship, but fear iss their silence. Still others mistrust, but do not understand your power. No worship, but still worried. The fewest of either species believe the fantastic and iss called fools.”

“You believe the fantastic.”

He goes silent. We reach the bottom and start up the next dune.

Dave says, “Think about it, Adam. Around here, there isn’t just one god.”

The Ophidian says, “And not one follower. Iss many, with different beliefs.”

“Some don’t believe in god.”

“Godsss,” Dave says. “You’re missing the point. Look at it this way. Say our friend here believes in a particular god. Then along comes Adam, another god who challenges his chosen god. Who do you expect him to like better? Or put it the other way around. Say you help his god conquer another he doesn’t like. Our friend here is going to like you a whole lot better.”

“I didn’t realize we came here for a popularity contest.”

He halts. “And you get on my ass for making a joke of things.” Shaking his head, he starts climbing the next rise.

I catch up. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t get it,” he says.

“I get it just fine. I just get tired of it.”

Past the top and heading down, the snake asks, “Iss your world where every belief iss agreed?”

“My world?”

Dave says, “I think he means where we come from.”

“I realize that, but…” I reach out to the Ophidian and urge him to pause. “Do you know?”

He turns to face me. “You iss not a god.”

At last, one of them knows the truth. But now I’m even more curious.

“So tell me, in your view—if I’m not a god, then what am I?”

“You iss a traveler from another world, brought here by great ships that reach between the stars. Your advantage iss inventive, clever devices, not mystical power.”

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

“Exactly right,” I say. “Who else knows this?”

“Few only suspect, but it does little good. Now you should go. Your visit here iss not good, not better than before. I will deliver you to your goal, then you go.”

“Why?” I ask. “How was it before?”

“Not at war.”

* * *

By noon we crest a ridge, and the landscape opens to a promising view. A mirage? Only one way to find out—keep going. Sand thins to a dusting and our boots snap against smooth rock. Enormous slabs are laid out randomly to form a sprawling cobblestone patchwork. Roasted weeds fill in the cracks, clusters of broiled sagebrush grow more frequent, and gradually, the elevation begins to rise.

The stony plateau ends at a bluff overlooking a valley. Not much greener, but it looks like a creek down below. At this point a pond would do. In the distance stands a great city constructed of metal. Every corner and edge is a sharp angle, and the flat sections are polished smooth. A few of the mirror-like panels align between us and above to spark intense flashes of sunlight.

Carved in the bluff, a narrow trail descends to a traveled road. The Ophidians know this route, and know where it goes—they quicken their pace. Taller trees grow alongside the road, but not enough to mask the creek beyond the grove. The snakes leave the road and head for the water. Dave and I follow their sprint and make it to the creek.

On my knees, I lap the cool water from my cupped hands. Someone is across the creek, and we’ve startled them. Snake-men splash and churn, scrambling out of the water and up the opposite bank. Unlike the soldiers, they wear loose trousers and no shirt. Two more on horseback notice us and gallop away.

Back on the road, more snakes emerge from the thickening grove. They come no closer than the road’s edge, where they kneel as we pass. The route continues toward a distant monument—a towering steel arch, polished to a glistening shine. Gateway to their city, contained inside steel walls some twenty feet high. Each step closer, buildings beyond the walls rise taller, constructed of copper, brass, stern iron, more prominent flourishes crafted from gold.

A cavalry unit is passing beneath the steel arch, leaving the city and coming our way. Twenty or so, with heavier leather, chain mail, and armor skirts for their horses. And each one is armed with a blast rifle. They realize our approach and halt. The snakes joining us hurry to greet their fellow Ophidians. Several of the mounted soldiers look our way, their expressionless faces difficult to read.

Dave privately says, “Let’s see a convincing god.”

A mounted soldier breaks rank and rides to within shouting distance. “Who iss the unknown god?”

“Now’s your big chance,” Dave says. “Introduce yourself, and make it good.”

Right. God or burn.

I step forward. “Adam of Idan, God of Truth.”

Behind me, Dave snorts his stifled laughter. “God of what?”

I swing around. “It’s a long story. Come on, back me up here.”

“Truth?” He snickers. “Wow, Adam, you’re way over the top this time, totally.”

“Stop laughing and back me up before you’re top down totally eating dirt.”

Eyes wide, he rushes past me. “Stand down, stand down!”

I spin around to face the charging cavalry. A clatter of hooves, in seconds we’re surrounded by a dozen blast rifles targeting my chest.

“We’re not the enemy,” Dave says, hands out trying to push them back. Waving his arms, he upsets the horses.

The soldier who called for my identity nudges his horse closer and stares down at me with that cold-blooded emptiness.

I stare right back up at him. “We must speak with the Felidian spy. Take us to him at once.”

He coaxes his horse to sidestep around me. “We iss warned an enemy comes to destroy us.” He looks at Dave. “And you, Jovial, iss now friend to Felidians?”

“Nothing friendly, just talk to him.”

“What have you done with him?” I ask.

The snake shifts his horse away. “His fate iss sealed.”

“Lieutenant,” Dave says, “we must speak to the spy immediately. He knows secrets that could determine the fate of all Ophidians. It is vital that we bring his words back to the Mighty One.”

The snake leans forward in the saddle to lock his stare on Dave. “We iss informed otherwise.”

“He lied to you,” I say.

The snake angles back. “So the challenge iss true.”

“No,” Dave says. “There’s no challenge.”

“It’s a trick,” I say. “He plans to hurt you.”

“No!” Dave shouts. “We’re all on the same side here. Nobody’s getting hurt.” He starts digging through his knapsack.

The lieutenant says, “The challenge iss true.” He turns in his saddle to address the troops. “We please our greatest god, a grand reward iss ours!”

The cheering cavalry goes silent when Dave pulls something from his knapsack and holds it up. The horses shift apart as Dave turns with the object held high, making sure everyone gets a good look. Then he presses a button on the slender device. A flash, dancing rays shoot out, and a holographic image appears.

Soldiers lean forward in their saddles, straining for a better view.

It’s the hologram of Matt. There he stands, scrawny geek in baggy shorts and orange tee, stringy hair and proud-of-himself grin. Except he’s a midget, hardly up to our waists.

“Oops.” Dave fiddles with the device. The image of Matt towers to over three times our size.

Horses shuffle back and snakes gasp.

The hologram flickers but recovers to hold steady.

“If you do not please us,” Dave says, “the god Matthew will step on you.”

“Step on them?” I ask.

He shrugs, then threatens the snakes, “The giant god will haunt your nightmares!”

Still idiotic, but it seems to work. Soldiers nudge their horses back.

Dave releases the button and the image of Matt fizzles. “The god Matthew will be watching to judge how we are treated. Now bring us horses and take us to the spy.”

They stare at us and do nothing. Not much of a surprise.

A soldier on foot emerges from the mounted troops. It’s the more sociable snake who hiked the desert with us. We don’t want the rest of them hearing his opinion of our godly tricks.

He faces the cavalry. “Iss best we obey their wishes.”

Troops shoulder their rifles. Some dismount and kneel.

He calls to others at the rear. Three horses are led through and the reins are passed to the one snake I had thought would betray us.

I approach him and privately say, “You helped us. Why?”

He gives us our horses and climbs into the saddle of his.

“Finish your task,” he says. “Then go.”

He snaps the reins and gallops away, onto the road leaving the city.

* * *

The gateway arch is constructed of welded steel silvery smooth, towering overhead as we pass beneath it, escorted by the Ophidian cavalry. Beyond the arch and into the city, metal buildings rise taller the farther we go. Bronze posts support flat steel awnings, gleaming afternoon sun. For some structures, every panel sits at an oblique angle, and the rooftops are a maze of welded triangles. Here, nothing is round, except the smooth green faces of snakes gawking from windows above and others moving past on foot.

Most citizens are clothed in threadbare tunics, colorless and faded, and some wear baggy trousers. Unlike the soldiers, the common folk do not wear the snug caps, rather expose their egg-shaped skulls, bald and green like the rest of their hairless skin. A few strut in better attire, black trousers, high boots, and lime-green cloth draped over their chest, decorated with an emblem of crossed swords. The citizens keep a safe distance, but close enough for me to study their faces. They are difficult to read, intent stares from dark eyes, and thin lips a straight line. A curious look that might be scornful.

Ahead is a commotion. As we draw near, music grows louder, a catchy rhythm produced by metal drums. Spectators gather to watch dancing snake-ladies who wear purple skirts that spin and twirl. They are otherwise naked, covered only by the blossoming wraps riding low on their hips, curvaceous as human females but not their chests, as flat as the males. Though skinned an alien green and lacking mammalian features, the suggestive rolling of their hips could arouse visitors from any world. They dance closer, studying me and Dave with great interest. Or they’re eager to perform for us. They are bald like the males though wear headbands of braided twine stringed with beads that slap as they dance. Armbands circle their biceps, bracelets hang from their wrists, and chains dangle from their necks, all gleaming silver. And rings on every finger, some with tiny cymbals they clack in time with the music.

More snakes approach, crowned by the same headbands but dressed in sleeveless gowns. Their foreheads are wrinkled, framing tired eyes. They shoo the younger ones and the dancers twirl away. Two of the older snake-ladies cradle steel tumblers in both hands. Their fingers are remarkably human, knuckled and nimble, yet a slender green version lacking any nails, just smooth nubs for fingertips. They offer the drinks and other snakes deliver an assortment of pastries on silver platters. We accept the beverages and select from the snacks, flat circles of soft bread glazed by cinnamon sugary butter that melts across my tongue. In contrast to the overwhelming sweetness, the cool drink is bitter like coffee, but with a strong bite of alcohol. One sip and I hand it back. Not the time for that sort of unwinder.

We move along, leaving the music to fade behind us. Next is an avenue of workshops, some tall with metal roofs supported by hefty columns, others little more than flimsy shacks. The front of one workshop is wide open, allowing a view of laborers inside. Snakes attend to large bellows, stoking a furnace that warms my face even at a distance. The air is stained by the odor of a skillet left forgotten on the burner, and forming on my tongue is the metallic twang of sucking on a coin.

Wielding heavy tongs, workers reach into the furnace and extract pasty ingots of red-hot metal, which they roll and fold, hammer and reheat, until reducing the slabs to oblong bars. Others stationed at anvils swing hammers and beat the cooling pieces into shape. Ringing out in disarray, the tinny strikes ricochet off buildings across the street and return a delayed, out-of-time clamor. Still more workers grind, sharpen, and polish the slender shafts, which when complete result in finely crafted broadswords. The next shop works in softer ores, lead, silver, and smelting copper and tin into bronze. A worker dips into a fire-heated cauldron, the handle of his ladle long and the end a cup much larger than the tiny portion it holds. He pours the lava-like fluid into various molds.

In an alley past the workshops, a group of younger snakes is gathered. I coax my horse to pause. A circle is drawn in the dirt, where the children take turns flicking stones into their opponent’s. A snake-boy knocks one out, then leaps up and squeals, celebrating victory.

Dave comes alongside. “Pretty weird seeing kids, eh?”

The youngsters are oblivious of the danger surrounding them. They hold no weapons, only a handful of pebbles, and somehow that makes them saner than all the rest. Play a game and enjoy life. It’s amazing, the joy produced by an activity so meaningless, without any real purpose or significant goal. Knock a stone out of the circle and you win. If only life could be that simple again.

* * *

The cats and snakes may have their differences, but they share equal feelings for the convicted and where to put them. Miles beyond the city, our caravan travels over a dry prairie, then rusty dunes begin to rise. Not the same desert from which we came. All morning and into the afternoon, I have tracked the sun across the sky for a crude bearing. We have yet to double back.

The prison stands alone in desolation. Two stories all metal, the structure doesn’t strive to impress anyone or win awards for architectural excellence. It’s just a big shiny box. To gain entrance we must wait as a series of bolts snap, locks twist, then finally, the steel slab creaks open. The door could serve as a bank vault.

Out of the bright sun and dumped into darkness, I can only wish my nose was as blind. The first wave smacks hard, something horrid, like a dead animal tossed in a dumpster and left to stew for months.

My eyes adjust. The silvery walls are stained by splotches of dark corrosion. From deeper in the prison comes the crack of a whip, the cries of tortured cats, and weak moans at the edge of death.

We move into a passage lined with bars from floor to ceiling, separating each cell from the next. The light is dim, and the corridor fades into darkness. Many prisoners hide in the shadows of their private cages, others lie on the single bunk or crumpled on the floor, and a few are at the bars reaching past, into the corridor. Not every prisoner is Felidian. Some of the outstretched arms are hairless and green.

From the darkened corridor, an Ophidian approaches, armed with a short whip and carrying a ring of keys.

Dave says, “We’re here to interrogate the spy.”

An arm reaches out from a cell and snatches hold of me. “Iss evil,” the prisoner says, a boney snake with weathered green skin.

I squirm free. “I’m not—”

“Not think of one thing,” the prisoner says, slithering out of darkness to press his face between the bars and stare at me. “Not focus. You focus, they read it and use it against you.”

“Ignore the fool. He iss delirious.” The jailor reaches past the bars to the prisoner’s bare chest and shoves hard.

The snake staggers back to become a voice from darkness. “Stay in sleep or you iss trapped. The light, do not go. I have, I know.”

The jailor flicks through his ring of keys and slides one into the lock.

“No,” I tell him, eyeing his whip. “He’s done no harm. Let him speak.” I call to the darkness, “What light?”

“Insane,” the jailor says and retracts his key.

A soldier asks, “Your spy?”

“No, but I—”

“This way, then.” The jailor continues into the corridor.

“Forget it,” Dave says. “We’re not here to interrogate a lunatic.”

“But he’s… He knows…”

“Nothing we need to know. Come on.” He pulls me along, following the jailor, and the soldiers trail behind. “What’s with you?” Dave asks. “I thought you were all hot to find your friend.”

“I am, I just… I don’t know. Something he said, it’s…”

“All crap. The freak’s a nutcase talking nonsense.”

From the past, Madison’s sly grin comes to mind, and her remark at my frustration with dreams. You know, it’s not always nonsense.

* * *

Deeper in the prison, the cells are no longer constructed of bars that divide a string of cages. The walls are solid steel, and the doors are marked only by a rectangular slot at eye level. We halt before a cell door and the jailor flips through his keys. He unlocks the door and pulls it open.

I step into darkness.

Growling.

“Physuro?”

A figure lunges and swings. I leap back and soldiers rush in to tackle him.

“No!” I say. “Don’t hurt him.”

Dave pulls me back to the corridor. “Watch it, this one’s a beast.”

Six snakes wrestle one cat. A blast brightens the cell, then it goes dark. The soldiers relax their weapons and step back, surrounding a lump crumpled on the floor.

I hurry in. “No!”

A soldier says, “One less spy.”

I whirl around, tear the rifle from his grasp, and plant the barrel to his neck. One hard shove, I pin him to the wall.

“This one’s dead,” Dave says.

The jailor steps in, holding out a lantern over Dave as he checks for a pulse. The soldier pinned to the wall seizes the rifle from me.

All I can do is stare at the floor, at… dark fur nowhere near orange and white.

“That’s not the spy.” Not Physuro, but still, a dead Felidian. I swing back to the snake and strike. “Stop killing each other!”

Dave springs up. “It’s not?” He looks delighted. “There must be more.”

“Iss many,” the jailor says.

“Don’t be so happy.” I force Dave’s attention to the dead cat at our feet. “This is insane.”

But I am happy, or something, or so jerked from anxiety to sorrow, then to rage and relieved, I’m the one insane. He’s not dead. Or he could be. But one of the them is, or he could have died yesterday. Or he’s not even here. I don’t know what to think.

Dave drags me out of the cell. “Cry about it later.”

* * *

We are led through the high-security area to the cells of more prisoners. Dozens more. Every Felidian is a spy according to the jailor. For each cell we visit, I proceed with caution, calling past the rectangular slot before entering and having to go on living with myself while knowing I’m the cause of someone’s death. No one replies to his name, a few growl, and the rest plead innocent and beg for release. Surely a god be merciful, they say.

The next section must be for criminals insanely dangerous. The steel walls and vault-like doors are studded with massive rivets, and gigantic hinges run the height of each door. They’re not taking any chances with these prisoners. The jailor halts before one of the cells. Calling won’t work, there isn’t even a peephole. Only one way to greet the occupant.

I tell the trigger-happy troops, “This time you wait outside.”

“Iss unwise,” a soldier says.

Dave snatches the rifle from him. “I think us gods can handle it. You stay out here.”

The snake bows and the others shoulder their weapons. A wonder they don’t question why us gods would need a blast rifle to handle it. Divinity is a miracle, Dave’s anyway.

The jailor unlocks the door and leaps back like a stampede is waiting on the other side.

Dave nudges the door and it creaks open.

Ahead is a black void, into a cell without windows. We step in and Dave pulls the door shut, sealing out all light.

Growling.

Oh shit. I crouch fast.

Click—a flash brightens the cell. No!

My leaping heart whirls me around to deflect Dave’s rifle, but my reach swipes at nothing. On his knees, Dave is setting down a slender glowing cylinder. The harsh light casts a fiendish green hue up to the ceiling, leaving stark shadows in disheveled fur, sunken face scowling, and one arm cocked back, aiming to rip my throat out.

Physuro’s eyes go wide. “Adam! I thought you be dead.” He hoists me up like a rag doll and squeezes tight.

I strain for breath. “Take it easy, Physuro. I’m barely in one piece as it is.”

He releases me and my feet hit the floor, not all that steady with a feather brain.

“Forgive me,” he says, beaming a wide smile. “I cannot contain myself. Your presence pleases me beyond compare.”

“Yeah, me too.” I check for broken bones, a ruptured spleen, anything else out of place.

Dave runs his lantern over Physuro, brightening soiled fur and patches of dried blood.

“Another god joins us,” Physuro says.

“My friend, Dave. And don’t worry, he’s with me. I mean, us.”

Physuro gets that sparkle in his eye. “Ah, the God of Laughter.”

“Of what?” Dave asks. “No, it’s Jovial, Jester to—”

“Stick with Laughter,” I suggest.

Physuro turns with arms out, indicating his metallic quarters, dim in the limey glow. “It appears I own a bad habit of finding a cell in which to rest.” He grins.

“Yep, you’re one bad cat.”

He was about to laugh, before noticing my outfit. “You wear the uniform of the enemy.”

BANG at the door, bang bang. From beyond comes the jailor’s muffled voice. “Iss all well?”

“It’s fine,” I holler past the steel slab. “Leave us alone. We’re interrogating the spy.”

Physuro scowls. “I be not a spy.” He studies me from head to toe. “And what be you? You have changed sides.”

“I’m not on any side.”

“What be your meaning?”

“Ophidians aren’t the enemy. It’s someone else.”

“Who?” he asks.

“Keep it down, they’re right outside.”

He looks at the door, then speaks quieter. “Who? Who be the enemy?”

“Your gods.”

He leans away. “Their intent be questionable, yet I would not have imagined…”

“There’s no question about it, Physuro. The gods intend to kill you and the Ophidians.”

“A blasphemous suggestion.”

“Label an idea blasphemy and subjects avoid it for fear of reprisal. Don’t you see? The real enemy has defined what is blasphemous and what is not, all of it. They not only control you, they control your opinion of truth.”

He studies me for a moment. “Your bold conclusions be met by fierce argument, I believe, from Felidians and Ophidians alike.”

“The objective, I believe.”

“Can we have the reunion elsewhere?” Dave says. “We found him, now let’s get out of here. So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” I ask.

“You did have a plan. You know, for once you found him. Right?”

My silence is the answer, which only sparks his eruption. “Why do you do this to me? I was perfectly happy in the desert. Now what?” He turns and turns, holding out his little green lantern. “You drag me all this way for what? No plan, that’s what. Now I’m stuck here with you two, penned in by four walls. Very thick steel walls.”

Physuro says, “Your god-friend appears upset. He be not a danger, I pray.”

Dave points his finger like a pistol aimed at Physuro. “We’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Dave!” I slap his arm down. “Physuro is my friend, the same as you, the same as all the Felidians. They’re not evil, and they’re not the enemy, I thought you understood by now. Besides, he has to go with us. He knows where to find Christina.”

“Not what I mean.” Dave turns to indicate the door. “They think he’s a spy. What do you expect? Say he’s coming with us and they let him go, just like that? Was that your plan?”

Physuro hangs his head. “Not a probable conclusion. Beyond the door, death be my only destination.”

I latch hold of his arm. “Not while you’re with me it’s not.”

His whiskers angle up as his smile grows.

“What plans are for,” Dave says. “You know, like how to exit this cell alive. That might be handy, maybe. Now’s the time.”

“And what of Stu?” Physuro asks.

Regret is useless, yet it thrives as if a life force all its own, feasting on the past and what I’ve let happen. If only I had saved him.

Dave matches my moment of silence.

Physuro says, “As it shall be.”

The lantern surges a sick green flicker. Dave knocks it against one palm, fighting to keep it alive. The light fades dimmer, dimmer, like a candle gasping for breath, smothered by another shovelful of dirt, and another, burying us in darkness.

The cell door bursts open and light pours in. An Ophidian stands in the doorway, but he is unlike the others. The same bodysuit uniform, but instead of the snug cap, his stiff hat has a shiny brim. He wears his long jacket as a cape, held in place by a chain at the neckline, and he holds a riding crop, smacking it in his open palm.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He plants the crop to my chest. “Iss a question for you.”

Physuro turns away and grumbles under his breath, “Major Smeck, intolerable.”

“Silence!” The Ophidian swings his crop and smacks Physuro.

I grab his little whip. “Hey! Knock it off.”

He wrestles against my hold of his crop.

“Major,” Dave says, “this is Adam, God of Truth, here to help.” Dave pries my fingers loose and the snake yanks his crop free.

“We’re here to interrogate the spy,” I say.

“By order of the Mighty One,” Dave adds.

Smeck twists to face Dave. “Our Mighty One sends a god of jokes to interrogate a spy?”

“Yes,” Dave says. “Through the power of amusing stories, I extract information by coaxing the subject to laugh until honesty prevails.”

We’ll be torched by the charge of stupidity.

The major circles us. “Your torture iss humor?”

Completely serious, I don’t know how he does it, Dave says, “Exactly.”

Except no one is laughing.

Major Smeck stops pacing. “Lies.” He whacks the crop in his open palm. “You have learned no secrets.”

“Oh, but we have,” Dave says. “Many secrets, including the true source of the nightmares.”

If he would just shut up—a great plan—keep quiet like me, except for my glare locked on him and screaming it, shut up!

The major falls silent, and the crop hangs limp at his side. Something Dave said.

“Indeed,” Physuro says. “And I shall reveal the goddess.”

That piques the major’s curiosity. And mine. And Dave’s.

“Reveal who?” Dave asks.

“The Goddess of Dreams,” Physuro says, then to me, “Why you have come to interrogate, no?”

“Right,” Dave says, then asks me, “Who’s the goddess?”

“Christina.”

Major Smeck can’t decide which of us deserves his confused stare.

“Chris?” Dave asks. “When did she become a goddess?”

“About the same time you…” Then I realize Smeck absorbing all this. “Like all the gods, when we created the heavens.”

Dave laughs. “No, I mean for real, not—”

“Shut up.” Then to Smeck I say, “Sir, you need to understand what is happening here.”

“Iss perfectly clear,” he says. “You and Jovial iss not what you portray, perhaps spies yourselves.” He motions to soldiers waiting in the corridor.

“It’s a joke,” I say.

Soldiers start into the cell, but Smeck has them halt. He turns back to me and listens.

I point to Dave. “He’s a god of jokes, right? But of course it isn’t working, you know that. And the Mighty One knew as well, no joke would ever work, not to extract information from any spy so crafty as this.” I indicate Physuro.

“It’s not a joke,” Dave says like I’ve ruined all his fun. “We have to save the goddess or all dreams will turn to nightmares.” Waving his arms, he throws himself at the soldiers in the corridor. “Nightmares forever!”

The troops retreat a step.

I blast Dave, “Will you shut up already.”

Physuro says, “I too be sincere, not a humorous tale. The goddess be held captive, and I shall guide the way as promised.” He chuckles. “The laughing god’s power has already tickled the secret from me.”

“You too, shut up, both of you.” I turn to Smeck. “Major, don’t be fooled by this nonsense. The Mighty One has sent the only god capable, the God of Truth, to interrogate the spy and learn secrets vital to winning your battle. You must trust me, the fate of all Ophidians hangs in the balance, and I appear before you now to ensure total victory.”

He might be bored, pleased or enraged, his empty expression would never tell. “Iss better,” he says, and I resume breathing. He indicates Physuro. “Proceed with the interrogation.”

“Oh no, Major, the feats of divinity I shall perform are not for mere mortals to witness.” I usher him toward the door. “You must leave us for a time, a time in which I will bring the power of the heavens to bear, and this spy will never again speak any lie.” I push Smeck out the door and seal the cell.

Dave gets his lantern working again. “That nonsense your plan?”

“Until I think of something better.”

“I already did,” he says. “And if you’d stop telling me to shut up, it might work. Dreams, you know. It fits. She knows about dreams, right?”

“That won’t get us out of here.”

“Sure it will, they’re—”

“Shut up and let me think.”

“Your friend is right,” Physuro says.

“Yeah,” Dave says, “I got an idea here.”

“Me too. Like get the hell out of here before that asshole comes back.”

“Why we need a good fairy tale. About dreams.”

“What’s this crap you’re hung up on?”

BANG at the door, bang bang.

Dave speaks quieter. “It’s what you don’t know about them, and I do. The snakes are terrified of nightmares. And Chris is the Goddess of Dreams. Don’t you get it?”

Physuro says, “We must rescue her, be that not true?”

“It’s not going to work. That bastard won’t let us go just because of some nightmare.”

“Sure he will,” Dave says. “I’ll scare them into letting us go. And Physuro too, it’s perfect. He knows where to find her, right? I’ll even convince them to help. We’ll all save the goddess together.” He starts for the door.

“No.” I hold him back. “They can’t be that gullible, come on. We need something real, not a dream, even a nightmare. We need something concrete.”

“If you would’ve had a plan to begin with…”

“I’m working on it!”

How do we fool these snakes? We’re gods with clever devices, not mystical power. But I don’t have anything. Where are all the clever devices? In the arsenal. The Felidians had one, the snakes must have one as well. Clever devices, some kind of device, but what? Flying away from here would be the perfect gift. And just what we will have.

“Dave, you taught them to operate tanks. So you know about the arsenal.”

“Sure, but I didn’t—”

“You can take us there.” I go for the door and swing it open.

Major Smeck is on the other side. “Enough time for interrogation,” he says. “Provide the secrets learned, then we finish the spy.”

“Our efforts are delayed.” I indicate Physuro. “One of their finest, this spy displays superior resistance to techniques even gods employ.”

“Then you iss fake,” Smeck says. “You have learned no secrets.”

“Only because we lack the necessary device, stored where the gifts are located.”

“Device?” Dave asks.

I motion for Physuro to follow me into the corridor.

Smeck blocks the way. “The spy iss not to leave. We will dispatch a unit to retrieve your device.”

“Oh no, Major, you don’t understand. The device is extremely delicate and cannot be transported. Even to move it across the room could risk irreparable damage, and we may never learn the secrets.”

“What device?” Dave asks.

“The Neurotransenactor. Surely, you’re familiar with the transenactor.” I wink. “Even a god of jokes knows about the enactor.”

“The… Oh, the actor, I see. The enactor, of course, to act on his neuros. Quite an instrument of deception. Are such extreme measures necessary?” He puts on a grave face and looks at Physuro like the poor cat is heading for his last supper.

“Will it hurt?” Physuro asks, his concern perhaps sincere, or he’s a good actor, too.

“That depends,” I explain, “on the degree you resist telling the truth.”

Smeck seems to enjoy this detail, as if thirsting to watch a lying spy scream in agony.

“He’ll have no choice,” Dave says. “The enactor pries all secrets, and the most important, the kidnapper’s hideout where the Goddess of Dreams is held captive. The spy knows! We must free the goddess before all dreams turn to nightmares. Forever!”

If he were any closer, I’d kick him. Enough already. Then, waving his arms, he storms into the troops standing in the corridor. They scatter, somehow intimidated by his overacted performance, bellowing over and over, nightmares forever, forever. I work so hard at this and the jackass works as hard to unravel it, clinging to a ridiculous fairy tale that only makes us look like fools.

“Don’t mind Jovial,” I tell Smeck. “Embellishment is an ingredient of humor, all the god knows. Trust me, Major, what we have in store for the spy is no laughing matter.”

* * *

Outside the prison, the fresh air is resuscitating. We’re out, but not exactly free. Dave and I are, at least free to move about. Soldiers offer each of us a horse, but the snakes don’t trust their spy one slithering inch. Physuro’s wrists and ankles are bound by shackles. Chains joining them keep him from raising his arms much and force him to crouch, shuffling his steps. Makes it tough to walk any distance, even ride a horse, but the Ophidians never intended that he would do either. A horse-drawn wagon carries a steel cage into which Physuro is placed. I didn’t anticipate prison becoming portable, and the challenge still remains, how to free my friend from his cell. And now, from shackles as well.

The complement of soldiers escorting us is double or more the number that delivered us here, reinforced by a regiment under Smeck’s command. He barks orders and leads the troops, which divide to cover us front and rear, and we follow the wagon carrying Physuro’s cage. Our caravan takes the road leading back to the Ophidian city, but not to return there. At a crossroads, we come to a stop. The city is in sight, but still a distance to go. Smeck instructs a pair of soldiers who ride off at a strong gallop, heading for the city. The rest of us turn at the crossroads.

By late afternoon, clouds gather at the horizon, preparing for demon time once the sun goes down. All we’ve discovered is more wasteland, a landscape laid out flat forever, marked only by the thin strip of road ahead, an endless straight line.

We’re not near enough to Physuro to speak unless we shout. Anything I’d like to say is better not shared with all, so it won’t be shared with anyone, not until we find a more private situation. Crouched in his cage, he faces us and doesn’t show much despair. He might even appear a mite cheery, looking on with a faith in me I cannot match, confident that I’ll fix this mess. The God of Truth should be honest for once.

“You know,” Dave says, riding alongside, “before you showed up, they trusted me.” He scans the troops ahead and twists in his saddle to glance at those behind. “I feel like a prisoner.”

“Don’t worry. I know what I want, and we’ll have it soon.”

“Did it include your friend in a cage?”

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

“Most plans have a few more details. Care to share?”

“Be happy I have one. And it’s not weak. Just follow my lead.”

After some miles of travel, a structure rises from the desert. Could be that reinforced bunker we’ll need once the sun goes down. It doesn’t look Ophidian, not metal this time, and not Felidian stone either. The exterior walls are poured concrete, three stories tall and no windows. The creatures of this planet had nothing to do with the construction of this monument.

The only use of metal is the tall outer doors, just like the Felidian arsenal. Once we arrive, Smeck barks orders and troops pull the doors open. Dave and I tether our horses with the rest, then step inside. Bright lights shine down on a variety of shapes hidden beneath dusty tarpaulins. This time the contents are not a mystery, which sparks a new idea—it would take all of ten seconds to flip the cloth, load the rifle, and cut down these wormy creeps. But given their greater number, armed as well or better, that sort of rash thinking needs a vacation. We have the means—if we proceed carefully—to free ourselves from the snakes. Without, I hope, anyone getting hurt.

The troops move in deeper to reach more lights, and the room glows brighter. The arsenal extends back some distance and could serve as a hanger tall enough to fly around in, if you’re careful and know what you’re doing.

I step outside and approach the wagon carrying Physuro’s cage. “Get him out and bring him inside.”

Smeck puts his horse between me and the wagon. “He stays. Bring your device.”

“I already told you, it’s too delicate. He must be brought to it, then we can proceed.”

“Show your device,” he says.

I point into the warehouse. “Over there, in the back.” He doesn’t even try to look. I step closer to him. “Relax, Major, we’re not up to anything. Why would we? Look, you have the only exit covered. What do you expect us to do?”

He looks into the arsenal and sees that there are no other exits. But he might have noticed the great number of weapons. He couldn’t possibly believe we’d try fighting his small army. But the real risk—what I cannot know for sure—is whether he has any clue of what I really intend. Like all of them, he’s difficult to read.

Smeck instructs soldiers to form a defensive line near the open doors. He summons those manning the wagon to let Physuro from his cage, but also orders another six soldiers to circle him with blast rifles point-blank.

Still shackled, Physuro’s shuffling pace is agonizingly slow baby steps. I want to run and have him run with me. This detail complicates matters. Timing will be crucial.

The troops deliver him to my side but don’t back off much.

“Look,” I tell them, “give us a little space. He’s restrained, and we’re not armed. Lighten up, okay?” They look to Smeck and he nods. The soldiers loosen the gauntlet though remain well within deadly range.

We move into the warehouse, and with Physuro at my side, it’s about the most private situation we’re going to get. “Listen, I didn’t count on the chains and can’t ditch them just yet, but we’ll find a way.” I glance at the troops, rifles at the ready, then back to Physuro. “We have a ladder to climb, and I need to know if you can.”

“A ladder to freedom,” he says, “I will hop as a bunny if needed.”

“However works best, on my signal.”

Physuro waddles more like a duck. We reach Dave, waiting for us near a line of untarped vehicles that appear recently used, coated with desert sand. Armored vehicles boxy and tan, each with a single turret. Tanks, perfect for shelling a defenseless observatory. Thanks, Dave, for teaching the snakes all about tanks.

Dave heads for one of the tanks.

“We’re not driving out of here,” I say.

He turns back and I point over his shoulder to the line of larger tarps along the back wall, the same as those in the Felidian arsenal—more black triangle craft. He glances at the tarps, then back to me. This time, the big white grin is all I had hoped for.

On each side of Physuro, Dave and I help him toward our escape.

“Halt,” Smeck calls. “No further. Present your device.”

Dave takes the initiative. “Right here, Major.” He steps toward one of the craft and tugs on the tarp.

“No!” I leave Physuro and lunge at Dave. “Careful.” I pull him back before the tarp slides off. “Smeck will figure it out when he sees it.”

The major walks his horse closer, flanked by a full regiment.

I call to him, “We must all be careful, for the delicate instrument is easily damaged. And if mishandled, the device may cause serious injury to anyone near.”

The troops retreat a step. Smeck nudges his horse back.

“First we shall activate the device,” I explain, then quietly tell Dave, “Get up there and get it started, but keep the tarp.”

“Makes it kind of hard to fly.”

“Shhh! Shut up and do it.”

He slips under the tarp, climbs the ladder, and reaches the top. The cockpit cover pops up and yanks the tarp higher, revealing the bottom few rungs of ladder. Smeck coaxes his horse closer, straining for a better view.

It’s now or never.

I haul Physuro, his feet dragging, and pitch him at the ladder.

“Go!”

He ducks under the tarp and starts his bunny hop. The engines grow louder, the ladder begins to quake, and the tarp flutters. I’m stuck behind Physuro and he’s having trouble. He snags the tarp and it slides off.

Barely up three rungs, I twist in search of Smeck’s reaction. Troops gawk at the strange craft, but the major knows about this. He’s no longer difficult to read, now clearly pissed off. He barks orders and troops flock to his command. He is animated, bouncing in his saddle having a tantrum as he points to their idle rifles.

The troops don’t know what to think, stepping closer with their empty stares glued to the mysterious craft. Beyond the troops, Smeck issues orders and points to us. Soldiers pass the command along and begin pulling rifles from their shoulders. Outside the arsenal, clouds of dust rise from the road that brought us here. Five times as many soldiers are arriving to reinforce the major’s unit.

I shove Physuro past the last rung, over the edge and into the cockpit. Over my shoulder, a legion of blast rifles is demanding an explanation. No great story springs to mind.

Up the rungs pedaling frantic steps, I’m not fast enough. The snap, odor and scorching air—a sizzling electrobeam whines. I’m just in time to witness my own demise.

The beam explodes supernova, green and orange at the edges, and a swirling rainbow of plasma spreads outward. The concussion smacks hard and sounds a booming thunder, but the blast is repelled by the craft’s bubble of protection, in which I am contained. I’m thankful that someone knows about shields and when to use them. Dave is forgiven in advance for every bad joke I’ll ever have to endure.

I hurry up the ladder and pull the cover shut. Bang, boom, scattering sparks hang suspended at the edge of our invisible barrier as the troops unleash a full assault that’s useless. However, we’re not airborne, and shield energy is dropping fast.

Dave hits the power and the craft shoots up, rocking as he adjusts attitude. Soldiers empty their rifles like a thousand beestings, pop, pang, thwack. The craft lurches higher and Dave whips us around to face the doors, which troops below are swinging closed.

“Go! Hurry!”

We hover steady, aimed at the narrowing escape. Dave gauges the challenge, then glances my way. “About like Menadint Gorge back home, eh?”

A winding chasm run is one thing, maybe some tight turns and lots of fun, but you can always pull up. Gorges don’t have ceilings or end at closed doors.

“This is no time to show off. Go!”

“This is nuthin’.” He flips the craft sideways, wingtips vertical. Full power hurls us at the evaporating sliver of daylight. Our belly scrapes the closing doors, arcs spray from our protective bubble, and shield energy drops to zilch. We soar out of the arsenal, Dave yanks the pitch, and we rocket skyward.

“Ah, Dave, that was great fun and all, but you know, now we’re out of shields. What if we engage enemy?”

“No big deal.” He reaches for a panel at knee level and throws a switch. “One’s used up, activate bank two.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, number two. These things have eight.”

“They do?”

“Sure,” he says. “Otherwise some missile might crawl up our ass and make one quick end to this ride.”

And one smoldering wreck at the bottom of a ravine, with seven unused banks of shield energy. And to think I criticized their ignorance of shields. Am I humbled? Not when feeling like such a fool.

* * *

High in the empty sky, I’m drawn to vapor streaming across the wing, a swirling mist that dances over the glossy black, curls around and ripples, then is blasted away and stretched flat in the wake of our craft. A reminder of that miserable long ago, the sidewalk, water running down the many drains, and watery bullets of cold rain. Another night of endless nights, walking the street, hungry for a meal. Watching water pour into the drains was a mindless experience, an escape from a troubled reality, and today, watching vapor wash over the wing is the same. But which is more troubling? Today or that long ago? If only I had known then… how many events might be otherwise? Now I escape again, leaving behind another troubled reality. Except this time, the real trouble is not behind.

“Where to?” Dave asks.

Far below, rusty desert creeps past. A river winds across the land toward distant mountains at the horizon, beginning to emerge from a veil of dingy haze. Jagged black peaks shoot up like blades of fractured obsidian. Our original goal.

“Home of the Gods,” I say.

Seated behind us, Physuro says, “I beg, let us turn back from—”

I twist to face him. “I told you, it’s not a wish.”

Dave says, “What the heck is that?” He cranes his neck for a view straight down, then banks the craft into a descending spiral. Below, a lone mound rises from a sea of sand. Something big, carved out of rock. Late sun casts long shadows across what is clearly a nose, darkened eye sockets, and a mouth.

They have got to be kidding.

This is too much. A statue is bad enough, but this I cannot believe. They’ve carved his face from a mountain of rock, forever staring up into the heavens.

“What be it?” Physuro asks.

“Your almighty one,” I say.

“So he is both,” Dave says.

“Sure looks that way. The Ophidians have erected a monument to him, nearly half the size of his ego.”

“The same god?” Physuro asks.

“He’s no god. He’s a big, giant piece of shit!” Staring up at me, smug grin as he gloats, having beaten me once again.

Physuro says, “I have seen the giant piece of shit.”

Dave breaks out laughing. I don’t know what to think.

“What be funny?” Physuro asks. “You do not believe me?”

“You’re just…” Dave fights his chuckles. “Just so damned literal.” He pulls the craft out of the spiraling pattern and higher, back on course for the mountains.

“More figures in speech,” I explain. “I’m not too fond of Jared, so I call him names.”

“Not fond?” Dave teases.

“A battle of words,” Physuro suggests.

“Trust me,” I say, “once I find him, it’ll be plenty more than words.”

“It be true,” Physuro says. “I have seen him.”

“You mean recently?”

“Outside the prison when I arrived. He be talking with Ophidians.”

I shift to Dave. “We have to go back.”

Or do we? Is he there? With Christina?

“Settle down,” Dave says. “Remember, finish what we start.”

“But he could be… She could…”

“Knock it off,” he says. “She’s not there, think about it. You know where she is. Stick with thought one.”

Christina would say the same, even I would if not driven insane by Jared and all he has done, is doing, and will do. I just don’t know. I hate not knowing, why, when, where. I want to find her, but raging inside me is the screaming urge to track down Jared, end his torturing, taunting, imagined superiority, I’m so feeble, he’s so grand.

“Let’s find Chris,” Dave says. “Worry about Jared later.”

I’m torn—find my love, kill my hatred.

Love first.

* * *

Soaring high above the desert, our journey is calm, so unturbulent the passing of time is monotonous. The craggy black peaks stand like a fortress wall stretched across the darkening horizon. The towering summits resist approach, creeping closer by the smallest measure, and it feels as though we’ll never arrive. The whine of engines is a soothing lullaby, almost hypnotic. Slouched lower in the seat, I get comfortable, and my eyelids grow heavy.

A tap on my shoulder ends that. Leaning forward between our seats, Physuro waits for my attention. Some rest might have been good. On second thought, I should thank him. He probably saved me from another nightmare in which Jared slices my belly wide open.

“What?” I ask.

He raises his arms and rattles the chains of his restraint. I had almost forgotten.

I ask Dave, “You got a torch?”

“I wouldn’t fire a torch in a cockpit if we were docked, everything powered off. Use your head.”

“Oh, yeah, bad idea. What else you got?”

“It’s not like I’ve been cruising this ride to work every day. I’m as green as you. Check the back for something.”

I unbuckle and climb in back with Physuro. Behind him is a shallow footlocker. I get him to scoot some, get it open, and find a small toolkit with pliers and screwdrivers. Behind a flap is a saw, but more like a large file, not very toothy. But the finer pitch should work well enough for metal, eventually.

I hold it up for Dave to see. “Awful wimpy.”

“Be determined,” he says. “You’re good at that.”

Smart-ass.

I tell Physuro, “Sit still,” and get to work.

“No,” Dave says, glancing over his shoulder. “Not the chain, dumb-ass. What are you going to do? Cut every link? Cut the lock and the whole thing falls apart. See?” He reaches out to show how the chain is threaded through the shackles and holds it all together.

“Sorry I didn’t notice, Master of all Brains.”

Not bothering to fire back, Dave faces forward and keeps piloting.

Physuro asks, “You be friends, no?”

“The initial moment of freedom has a funny effect.”

“Yeah,” Dave says without looking back. “Fix all you have to bitch about, we only have ourselves to bitch out.”

“Crude,” I say, “but close.” Then to Physuro, “It’s a kind of release. Harmless, just between friends. You get the drift.”

All he gets is that contrasting brow, one tall, the other down. “Indeed, both of you be quite strange.”

Dave shrugs. He’s probably heard that plenty of times. I get busy sawing the lock, and at this rate, it’s going to take a week.

“Tell me, Adam,” Physuro says, “about you and David.”

“What about us?”

“I wish to learn the way of the gods.”

I stop sawing. “I told you, I’m not a god, and neither is Dave. I’ll pretend if it helps, but really, we’re not gods.”

“I comprehend your insistence that others regard you as mortal. However, if that be so, and those we regard as gods be otherwise, then I must ask—what be the truth of the gods?”

Acceptance of our mortal status is welcome news, though I might wish that he continue thinking of us as gods, for now we face bigger questions I wasn’t prepared to discuss. How do I say this?

“To start, Physuro, you have to understand the truth about truth. There is no absolute truth. Truth is personal. My truth, your truth, everybody else’s truth.”

“You suggest that truth be opinion.”

“No, just that it’s a product of individual perception. Authority doesn’t decide, we decide. Truth only appears absolute if we insist an idea is exclusive and we agree, when really, there are as many ideas as there are living things, each with their own truth. And that includes the truth about god.”

“You say it as one. We have many, no?”

“We’ll get to that, but first I want to stress that I’m telling you my truth. Call it opinion if you like. Yours may differ, and I invite that.”

“Very well. Tell your opinion of god.” He raises his arms to call attention to his restraint, the one he’d like me to continue sawing. I keep at it while we talk.

“I don’t know what god is for sure, and I’m not even sure that knowing makes any difference. But I am certain of what god is not. It’s not an identity, like a supreme being or any sort of sentient creature. And it’s not happy or sad, or wishing to judge or punish anyone. It’s more a force, forever with me, and every other living thing.”

“The creator. A giver of life.”

“That’s not how I see it. Source maybe, but not creator. That’s a physical concept that suggests a beginning. A beginning and end are both defined by time, and time is physical. To label god a creator suggests that god is physical, and that’s absurd. Whatever god may be, the greatness far exceeds anything physical, ever. Besides, if we have a creator, do we also have a destroyer? More nonsense. Another physical idea—the end of time, and a demon assigned the duty of making it happen. It’s all silly, nowhere near how it really works.”

“And how be it that it really works?”

“It’s not that simple, or easy to explain.” Neither is sawing this lock. I give my arm a rest. “I’ll try giving you an example. Suppose you see someone, a person you like, and they do something that pleases you. Maybe they say hi, or give you a kiss, or they make something and want to show you. Or you haven’t seen them in a while, and you’re fond of them, and you miss them. Now, with all that in mind, think about what happens when you see them. When you take a moment to really see them, and they become the object of your attention. Something definitely happens. Even thinking about it something happens, but even more when you catch their gaze. A force of admiration flows from you, into them. You can feel it if you pay attention. And the reverse, when you please someone and receive their admiration, the force flows from them to you, something that cannot be measured, but it is very real.”

His eyes sparkle. “This example I comprehend.”

“Good. That is god.”

He frowns. “Perhaps I do not comprehend. Your words begin to enlighten yet end at a struggle to believe.”

“That’s good too. That you struggle means you have desire, a good thing. In this case a desire to understand, to believe, and make the idea your own. Desire has many forms, physical, emotional, and others. A desire to know, to have, to accomplish, a desire to give that flow of admiration, to receive it, to feel that love. Desire is life. If we had no desire we’d be truly dead, and I’m not talking body dead. Having no desire whatsoever would be a complete absence of god.”

“You be saying the gods dictate our desires.”

“No. But more important, I’m not saying what anyone desires. I’m telling you my truth, what’s real to me. Hear what I have to say, but draw your own conclusions. Your truth. Only from you. Not me, not any god, no one else.”

“I comprehend your wish that I form my own thoughts. Yet still, I do not comprehend your example. Gods be desire?”

I lift the restraint binding him and rattle the chains across his view. “You want out of this, right? That’s a desire. Now you tell me—whose desire is that?”

He has no answer. I get back to sawing the lock.

“Your point be made,” he says. “Yet still, it be difficult to relate desire to the subject of gods.”

“Maybe I’m using the wrong word. Look, we all have something that drives us forward. At a minimum, we hope to survive another day. The best word I have to express that is desire. And that we have this quality, whatever you want to call it, suggests that a force exists within us. I’m not saying that force dictates our desire, only that it provides a means to have desire, and to bring about what we each desire, whatever that desire may be. I call that force god.”

“You be heathen or a god indeed.”

I stop sawing. “How’s that?”

“It be not the gods, rather we, who steer destiny, you suggest.”

“Ours, yes. And sometimes others if they’re not taking charge of their own.”

“You do not believe in fate.”

“Like a deity decides? God isn’t the decider of any fate or destiny, only an enabler. Our source awards us a gift—the capacity to hold a fate or destiny the same as we hold desire, and to guide all as we choose, not by what any deity decides.”

“Yet if desire be the source of what we become, why be many ill or seeking to hurt others?”

“It’s their choice.”

“Though we wish all be well and peaceful.”

“It’s not our place to decide. And even if we want all well and peaceful, the only way that’ll ever happen is to offer divine admiration.”

“Love alone cannot heal the sick and insane.”

“Yes it can. The force of god views all as they are and allows them to be as they choose. Sick, healthy, beautiful or deformed. Admiration without conditions. A troubled individual faces a world that looks at him and says, You are wrong to be what you are and to act as you do. When we instead view the person as they are—their choice—and acknowledge that choice, they receive a gift of admiration of their intent, the true source of that choice. We say, You have chosen and there you are. We see you as you choose to be. Validation is powerful, it can heal, but only when the person makes a new choice—to change, we hope, for the better. Perception, armed with the power of choice, creates the universe.”

“You suggest that we all be gods.”

“Honestly, I don’t know for sure. Maybe we are. If that’s the case, I’ll say this much—I’m no greater a god than any other person, cat, snake, or any other living thing. Each of us is equally capable of making the universe what it is.”

The saw breaks past the last of the lock. Links clack as the chain runs through the restraint like water pouring down a drain, then out of the shackles so they may hinge open.

“You’re free.”

Physuro smiles and rubs the ache from his wrists. “Thank you. Now I wish for David to express his views on the subject.”

Dave remains focused on skies ahead. “Hey, leave me out of it. I talk about religion and next it’s a fist-fight.”

One of the three all-time greatest subjects—religion, politics, and sex. Stuck sitting next to a stranger, choose any one, or better yet mix all three, and you won’t be strangers for long. Can’t promise friend or foe, but there will be conversation. Over much time, Dave and I have generated plenty of heat, very near punches. But having respect for each other, testing our opinions has led to greater understanding of ourselves and the worlds we have shared.

Dave says, “Let’s just say I agree mostly with Adam. Not completely, but close enough.” He glances over his shoulder at Physuro. “But the truth thing, he’s right about that, find your own. Don’t listen to us, we’re just a couple of crazy spacemen from some planet halfway across the galaxy. Who knows, maybe it’s all different over there.”

“Even so,” Physuro says, “I still wish to hear your view of the gods.”

“Gods?” Dave stares out at the darkening sky. “Them, him, what a load, like it’s a somebody. Well, I’ll say one thing, why he has any power over us…”

Haven’t heard this one before. I half expect another lousy joke.

No grin, no chuckles, Dave says, “We let him.”

* * *

By twilight, the destination that never arrives only becomes more elusive, now a jagged edge of black horizon. The earlier discussion passed some time, as good conversations always do. Especially topics of deep significance that seldom cross idle thoughts, but when asked for opinions, the feelings buried deep inside come alive, ready to stand and fight. Except voicing those opinions has another effect—they are brought into reality. Once outside the realm of thought, I am forced to look at them from another perspective.

I truly wish that everyone be as they choose. But I might be deceiving myself, clinging to truth I cannot apply to all. Everyone else, just not Jared. Adhering to truth or belief is so far from living those ideals.

But I’m not to blame. If Jared didn’t do what he does, to me, to others dear to me—anyone—he could be whatever he chooses. Except he chooses to be what he is and do what he does, which by my own truth I’ve agreed to allow—each their own choice. Expressing opinions has only hatched a greater struggle within myself.

Some time vanished. The destination that never arrives finally has. Down below, rugged terrain flows past. Dave switches on searchlights that sweep across the summits, the tallest powdery snow gleaming white, blending lower into darker icy coatings that plunge into deep ravines. Aglow in emerging moonlight, a thick blanket of fog fills the gorges below, concealing whatever lies beneath.

“Do we fly over them?” Dave asks. “Or is it somewhere around here.”

Physuro studies the landscape, his ears falling limp as he scratches one cheek. Snowy peaks skim past, it seems only inches below the belly of our craft, emblazoned as our searchlights wash over them. Beyond the reach of the narrow beams, the peaks fade into darkness.

“The ring of twelve,” Physuro says.

“Twelve what?” I ask.

“Find the ring, you shall find your gods.”

In a mountain range so vast, finding anything would be difficult, even in daylight. Difficult even with precise landmarks to guide the way. Masked by darkness, the objective could elude us well after all fuel runs empty.

“What are we looking for?” I ask. “Twelve…”

“I cannot say, only the number.”

“You say a ring?” Dave focuses on something ahead. He targets the sight and swoops the craft lower.

Nestled between higher mountain ridges, a circular arrangement of slender rock formations tower into twilight. A work of nature, though its symmetry is remarkable. And at this elevation, it makes a stronghold virtually impregnable by land forces. The soldier in me is impressed—good use of ground.

“Home of the Gods?” I ask.

“As I be told,” Physuro says.

“But you’d have to be airborne to find it.”

“Only gods may travel through the heavens.”

“Right, so how could…” Of course—the natives are kept ignorant of flight for a reason. Which still begs the question, “How could you know?”

“The legend of the lights.” He points at the rugged terrain below.

In darkness, atop each peak of rising rock, a red light flickers. One, two… twelve in all, arranged in a giant ring.

“Navigational beacons,” Dave says.

“But you’d have to be on top of it to see them.”

“Right, so we don’t crash into one. Good thing they’re on.”

I twist around to Physuro. “But how? What legend?”

He grins. “Those of scientific endeavor observed more than just the heavens.”

* * *

Diving into the ring of twelve is like falling into a bottomless pit, opening wider as the glittering beacons spread out to an area miles across. The slender peaks rise into moonlit sky, and the darkness below is blacker than any night. Our searchlights evaporate and never find ground.

On the tactical display, flickering green lines begin drawing surface contours. Flat and featureless, the bottom is a high plateau surrounded by the ring of slender peaks. Featureless except for a lot of something neatly aligned. Not sure just what, but I can guess.

Dave accelerates the craft to attack speed. I watch tactical for signs of opposition and prepare weapons. We reach bottom, our searchlights brighten the ground, and low mounds whiz past. Not random terrain. Each oblong dirt mound is the same size and evenly spaced one to the next. At the short end of each mound is a concrete wall with a single door.

Dave asks, “How many we got to deal with?”

The tactical display is empty. No troops flowing out, no craft preparing for launch. Not a single missile in flight, nothing locked on target. I don’t understand.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You sure it’s working?” he asks.

“I think so. Everything looks right, but it’s blank.”

“Bake a few brain cells back in the desert?”

“I hope not.”

Holding the craft steady, Dave leans toward my side and studies the display. “Maybe you’re right. The place looks deserted.”

“I doubt it.”

“Doubt all you like, I’ll trust it.” Dave eases our speed. We skim over an airfield full of black triangle craft, an endless squadron that stretches into darkness beyond our searchlights. At the edge of the airfield is a control tower rising above a windowed compound. The lights are on, someone is home.

“Over there.” I point out what Dave already sees and we’re already approaching. He does a fly-by, swings the craft around, and checks the backside. Still no movement but lots more light. He selects an open area at a safe distance, slows the craft, and sets us down.

The engines wind down as we sit facing their doorstep. Dave and I know well—too quiet. We’re in for a surprise. An ambush, something.

The cockpit cover pops open and I nearly leap from my skin. I grab my rifle and take aim. Physuro crawls out and hops down to the ground below.

“What are you doing?” I ask, wanting to scream but I keep it down.

Physuro turns back. “Getting out,” he says. “Be that not obvious? What purpose does travel serve if one does not exit the vehicle upon arrival?”

I should be the one to shoot the smart-ass.

He stretches his limbs and soaks up the locale, oblivious of the danger. He’s going to get his head blown off, I can just see it now.

He waves for us to join him. “Come along.”

“Get back here. It’s not safe.”

“Sure it be,” he says. “See for yourself. They be gone.” He spreads his arms and swings side to side, embracing the open space.

This is the classic moment when a sniper would cut him down.

Dave says, “If something was going to happen, I think it would have by now.”

Outside, Physuro chuckles. “Relax, they be gone.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

He taps his nose. “I do not smell them.”

“We smell?”

“Of course,” he says. “All creatures have scent, and your kind, a very strong odor.”

* * *

Armed with a blast rifle, two pistols and a dozen grenades, I sneak closer to the entrance. Weapons enough, I hope. What I really need is an arsenal of courage. Dave is just behind, rifle drawn. Physuro follows last, more curious than alert to any danger, armed with the single rifle I insisted he bring, except it hangs idle, slung over his shoulder.

Small windows tile the building’s flat face, the glass milky opaque, brightened by interior light. A door at ground level is ajar—a warning sign. Textbook ambush begins with easy access. I halt and gesture for Dave to take aim, then creep to the hinge side, seize the knob, and hurl it open. Dave charges in, swinging his barrel in a wide spread. I follow, targeting every corner of the room. Deserted. A reception counter and chairs make a waiting area like a doctor’s office, uncluttered other than a need for dusting. The stale air is chilly and the counter is cold, the space unheated for some time. Flickering fluorescent tubes bathe the room in cold, blue light. Behind the counter is an open door that leads to a darkened hallway.

Along the hallway are countless identical offices, visible past walls that are solid below, the top half glass. Inside each office is a metal desk, filing cabinet, chair and wastebasket, everything gray, even the carpet. Other than light dust, the offices appear in order, pens in penholders and notepads full, like the offices were constructed, furniture and supplies delivered, but never used.

The hallway ends at a larger room, empty other than an elevator straight ahead and a door in the corner. Dave tests the far door, looks through a window in it, then rejoins us and hits the call button. The elevator doors pop open.

I peer in. Frosted panels above cast a dim glow across the empty compartment.

“You sure about this?” I ask.

“Stairwell’s locked,” Dave says. “Not much choice.”

Physuro studies the elevator car. “What be the purpose of this box? There be no exit.” Stepping in, his eyes flash surprise when the box sways on its cables.

Dave hauls me in. “Magic portal to a higher place.”

Physuro asks, “The heavens?”

“Not quite.” Dave selects a floor and the doors slide shut. “Save that ride for the dead.”

* * *

As the elevator climbs, Dave indicates the panel, calling attention to the one button glowing amber, our destination. The panel has more than a dozen buttons. Most are levels below, reaching underground. Many are labeled only by level number, but some have specifics. Administration, Planning and Engineering, Finance and Material. Six is the highest floor, which Dave has selected—Command.

Dave and I prepare for battle, rifles aimed at the doors. Level two passes, three, four. I tell Physuro to get the rifle off his shoulder and get ready.

“You lay a spread,” Dave says. “Then take left, I’ll go right. Find cover and work the center, I’ll clean up the edges.”

Level five passes, the car halts at six. Cables sway, some clanking, then quiet. The doors open.

We brighten the room with blasts, aiming to slash their ranks before many can react. I dart in, rifle blazing, scramble left, up and over a console and take cover. Beams ricochet off the walls and fizzle, more pass overhead, fewer, then none. The echoes of battle soften to an eerie quiet, broken by a cluster of quick steps, then a painful stretch of silence. I spy over the console, eager to gauge the carnage but hoping it doesn’t include Dave or Physuro.

Dave stands with the rifle stock planted on his hip, barrel angled up and out. “Are we supposed to find something here?”

The room is deserted. But not inactive. Past Dave are large windows slanting outward as they rise, which stretch across the room and look down on the airfield outside. A console runs the full length, jammed packed with display screens, levers, knobs, and blinking lights.

Dave shoulders his rifle and heads for the console.

“What is it?” I ask.

He studies a panel. “Some kind of control center.”

“Controlling what?”

“Gimme a minute, eh?” He fiddles with knobs and tries a few levers.

Physuro steps out of the elevator, marveling at the long console and many lights.

Dave studies a screen while testing a dial, then tries a lever. “Check it out, this controls an entire squadron.” He shifts to the next screen. “And this one, a full battalion of tanks.”

I join him at the console. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Look for yourself.” He points out the windows, then presses a few buttons. Across the airfield outside, black triangle craft respond with running lights that brighten the ground. He nudges a lever, a few craft rise to hovering, then back down. “Believe me now?”

Physuro comes closer and leans over the console to study the familiar menace beyond the glass. “Our enemy.”

“Remotes,” Dave says, then pulls Physuro back. “Easy, pal, nothing to fear. Trust me, every cockpit’s empty.”

The enemy ignorant of shields—no person, no shield, no problem. No sense wasting energy on a shield. But even with every cockpit empty, an enemy still exists. Someone had to be in control.

On down the line, screen after screen shows a different scene. Many are nighttime, others daylight, they couldn’t all be live feeds. Ophidian settlements, the desert, mountains. Both prisons, the cat’s and the snake’s. The observatory, now in ruins. A bird’s-eye view of the Felidian city, and lower, in the street outside the Council chambers.

A screen even shows the craft that brought us here, parked just outside. Another shows the offices downstairs. If someone was here, they knew we were coming, able to track our movements as we penetrated the building. Another display is this very room in real time, Dave at the console, my back as I look down at the screen, and behind us, Physuro scratching one ear.

Another screen shows a tall space, some kind of industrial complex with machinery and catwalks, maybe a power plant. Smaller screens show a series of bland rooms with a table and two chairs, no windows, and concrete walls. Each looks like a place to conduct an interrogation, though odd there would be so many. Above the smaller screens is a string of digits glowing red, stick figure numbers like a clock, except counting backward. On the smaller screens below, one room is different—no table and chairs.

One dark lump crumpled on the floor.

I’m at the elevator striking the button.

“Hey,” Dave calls. “Where you going?”

His voice is surreal, ghostlike, too thin to reach the universe I soar across or match the accelerated time. She is here, somewhere, in one of these rooms.

The elevator can’t arrive fast enough. I take the stairwell down some levels. The hallway stretches into darkness, lined with identical doors. The first, the second, the next and more, I kick down door after door and charge into bland rooms with table and chairs, no windows, concrete walls. All the same, not a soul.

Ahead is a dead end. I sprint back to the stairs and down one level. Another hall, more identical doors, I bash down all. Nothing, no one, another dead end, back to the stairs and down another level, I’ll bust down every door if I have to but it’s useless. All are the wrong room. I may have lost her. I could be lost myself. What level is this? Underground by now, and every floor, every corridor and every door, all are duplicates of every other. I’m lost in a maze of identical passages, no carpet red or blue, everything’s gone gray, the walls, the floor, but the stairs, where are the stairs?

This hallway is different—a lone door at the end. I race to the door, aiming to crash through, but I halt. Easy, the knob turns, and the opening doorway grows wider.

My earlier vision whooshes into reality and unleashes the energy stored within it. The observatory, enemy silhouettes and burning flesh, frigid singe leaking past a shell of skin, and tortured by a vision of Christina bound and beaten—the vision I now witness.

I throw myself into the room. With each step, reality follows the picture, this vision from the past of a future now present, which follows reality like tracers from a drug-induced hallucination. What could be has become what is real. Overlapping each but refusing to align, the pictures begin melding into one, of her here and now, one dark lump crumpled on the floor. At her side, I drop to my knees and see it all with chilling clarity. My lifeless darling, wrists and ankles bound by thin cord. I knew this would happen.

I reach for her shoulder and nudge softly. Nothing.

A cracked whisper pushes past my swelling throat. “Christina?”

No response. I loosen the cords restraining her. She wears barely a shred to keep her warm, a tattered dress only to her knees, leaving her shins and feet cold. The torn fabric shows bruised skin, and grotesque purple bands mark her wrists and ankles. Her skin is dry and dirty, and her scent is unbathed, but hers, always her scent. I steady myself, one palm flat to the floor, and the concrete sucks away all warmth. I lean over and kiss her cool cheek, leaving my tears to trickle down her neck, cradled in my hand.

“Baby, I’m here. Please, talk to me. Please, don’t leave me like this. I’m scared, baby, please.” My head drops to her chest, and my sobbing rattles her cold body. “I—can’t—live—with—out—yooou…”

“Adam?” she whispers.

My heart stops. I angle back to gaze down at her.

Her eyes are hazy, lids heavy. She reaches out a staggering finger and touches my tears.

“Adam, why do you cry?”

“I… I am… afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Between sobbing gasps, I push out, “I… I’m scared… scared beyond death… I might lose you… and—and… never find you… ever again!”

I can’t hold back, I can’t stop, I can’t even slow down.

She reaches for my neck and her weak fingers touch softly. “We’ll always find each other,” she says. “Don’t worry. You’re a keeper.”

All I can think of is kissing her. The one magic remedy, all I need—one kiss. I move closer but she turns a cheek and presses fingers to my lips. “No, Adam.”

Her touch falls from my lips when I shift back. “I don’t understand.”

Physuro is in the doorway. “Adam, I will help.” He hurries in, wedges between us, and helps her stand. Her gaze wanders, then she focuses on him.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “Physuro’s our friend, and no, you’re not seeing things. He really is a cat-man.”

Her wide-eyed stare stays with him. “I missed a few things.”

Beaming a warm smile, Physuro says, “And be certain, dear goddess, someone has missed you.” He cocks his head toward me, and she follows the gesture. She stares at me, but hollow, like she’s not even there. Then her eyes clamp shut and she turns away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Holding her steady, Physuro puts himself between us, as if protecting her from me. “Allow the goddess a time of rest.”

“But, I don’t—”

“Cease,” he says, then guides her to the door. “Let us be away.”

* * *

Under a moonless night, the cold blackness between the complex and our craft stretches out to become a thousand dark nights. Physuro leads the way, holding Christina steady. She moves slowly, feet unsure and shuffling. Following them, I am no faster. Her weakness drains me.

When I catch up, Physuro is helping her aboard the craft. She climbs the edge and into the passenger seat, next to the empty pilot seat.

“Where’s Dave?” I ask.

“He be…” Physuro looks back to the path from the complex to our craft.

I shout to the darkness, “Dave! Let’s go!”

“Over here,” he shouts from somewhere in the night. He calls again, and I follow his voice. Off some distance, I find him in an open stretch past the airfield, shining a flashlight across the ground.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Adam, do you realize what these are?”

“I don’t care. We need to get Christina somewhere safe. We’re done, let’s go.”

“She’s safe enough for now.” He points to the ground at our feet. “But none of us are for long.”

“What’s your problem?”

He shines his flashlight on the mystery. Flush with the ground is a smooth metal disk, yards in diameter, divided in two by a seam straight down the center.

“A manhole?” I ask.

“For giant men?” He crouches to tug at a smaller hatch near the split metal disk. The lid opens to a hole more the size for a man. He hands me the flashlight and points down. “Take a look.”

“Then can we go?”

“Don’t be so goddamned stubborn. Look down there.”

I aim the flashlight into an abyss. The beam strikes a catwalk and some machinery. It reminds me of the cargo transport and getting sucked to the bottom of an endless void.

I ease back. “Okay, so it’s the sewer, just fancy. Let’s get going.”

“Look!” He grabs the scruff of my neck and forces me into the hole. “If that’s the sewer, that’s one big rat.”

On my knees and the flashlight before me, the beam brightens a ladder.

“Crawl down there,” he says. “And look!”

Down a few rungs, I swing the light around. The underground cavern is deep, the bottom well beyond the flashlight’s beam. Something is standing upright, but so large around it’s difficult to identify. A tall black cylinder, positioned directly below the split metal disk.

A missile. I’m in a fucking silo.

I scramble up the ladder.

“It gets worse.” Dave snatches the flashlight and shines it across the distance.

Not far is another silo hatch, another, and another, and…

“How many?” I ask.

“My guess? Somewhere in the thousands.”

“The delivery. The Spears of the Gods.”

“And let’s not piss them off,” he says. “It gets even worse.” He crouches near the open hatch and shines the light in. “These aren’t just any missiles.” Bending lower, I strain to see. He swings around and blinds me with the flashlight. “They’re nuclear.”

“What? Thousands? On one planet? That many will…”

At the edge of darkness, the craft waits. Christina. Us. Everyone.

“Looks like everyone dead isn’t good enough,” he says. “More like the planet dead. Launch this arsenal and poof, the atmosphere burns off like flash paper.”

“Why would they? They need planets, places to put rebels. The whole reason for the Restricted Zone.”

“One planet, Sol-3. So our friends have nowhere else to go, not even hope that other worlds exist. Look any direction, what do you see? Nothing but dead rocks. Marooned on a lone planet far from anything else, for all they’ll know, the rest of the universe could be dead rocks.”

“There’s Sol-5.”

“Sure,” he says, “if it still exists.”

* * *

In flight, we argue over where to get medical attention. The Ophidians would help, after all, she is their Goddess of Dreams, and they have their problem with nightmares. But I don’t trust the snakes. Physuro would likely end up back in prison, or worse. Hell, we’d probably all get locked up after our last rude departure. We could’ve at least waved good-bye.

Physuro is sure the Felidians will help and urges that we return to his homeland. He further claims that those of medical endeavor be exceptionally skilled, and it goes on so long that it begins to stink of bragging. Let’s hope it’s not exaggeration aimed at scoring a ride home.

That’s what I need, a ride home. Enough of this crazy planet. Back home—our home—Christina will heal and she’ll be safe. Orn sparkles in the night, a system that becomes one tiny speck at this incredible distance, and here we are, clinging to this ball of rock hurling around the edge of the galaxy. No cargo transport, no interstellar craft, and nowhere near enough fuel. We’re stuck here.

Even if I had a vessel, the fuel, and could reach home, I couldn’t leave. I can’t abandon these creatures while knowing their fate. All this destructive power strapped to one globe. Light the fuse, one big flash and life is gone, just like that. I can’t.

Home is where you are, in the now. So this planet becomes my home, and duty demands that I protect it the same as any other. In this now, Marsea is the only home we know.

* * *

Below twinkling starlight, sky and land become a single dark mass, no telling where one ends and the other begins. The engines whine, our speed intense, but there is little turbulence at this high altitude. Charging into darkness, we can only trust that every minute forward is another away from that nightmare and one step closer to medical care.

Christina’s unresponsiveness has me worried. She has slept most of the way, curled up in the passenger seat under a blanket that Physuro offered. I offered a canteen and she didn’t even notice. But when Physuro took it from me and passed it to her, she sipped, handed it back, then snuggled under the blanket and fell asleep. Like I’m not even here.

In the distance, the horizon begins to glow amber. Fire-lit watchtowers spread flickering warmth, giving shape to the buildings, and the Felidian city rises out of the night. Physuro gets his bearings and gives directions. Dave brings the craft lower and navigates the maze of masonry, following the path of darkened streets lit only by mellow firelight leaking from passing windows. Our final descent kicks up dust and we set down near a stone building that Physuro describes as a Felidian house of medicine. He’s home. Now his pals had better make her well.

I reach around the seat and nudge her. “Christina, we’re here.” I open the cockpit cover. “Let me help you.”

“No,” she says. “I can manage.” She climbs out, not all that quick. I am quicker, out and offering to assist, but she waves me off. With the blanket clutched over her head, her face is lost in shadows of a cloth hood. She starts for the building but staggers. She needs my help. Physuro beats me to it. Holding her steady, he puts himself between us and guides her up the steps.

From behind, Dave plants a hand to my shoulder. “Hold up, buddy.”

I whirl on him “What now? Some new crisis more important than her?”

He joins me on the first step. “No, you’re right, she’s important. But come on, this is tough on us all. Give her some space, eh?”

“She needs me.”

Head cocked, he pulls his lips tight, a sort of childish scolding.

“Doesn’t she?” I ask, then realize I’m whining.

He brings a brotherly arm around my shoulder and guides me up the steps. “You need her, she needs you, right, always.” He gives me a good ol’ buddy shake. “But come on, you did great, we found her. Now back off some, okay? They’ll take care of her, don’t worry. You and me, let’s go find something to eat. I’m starved.”

I pull free of him. “Go find your food. You’ll find me at her side.”

* * *

Outside the house of medicine, the higher steps and threshold are coated with the dust of unpaved streets, but past the great doors, inside is scrubbed to disinfected, not a grain of stray anything invades. Soft candlelight spreads a flickering glow across pale walls and the gleaming floor. Repeating portals are open to the starry night, each framed by flowering vines that emit a lively scent, competing against the reek of antiseptic elixirs pushing back the edge of death.

I catch up with Physuro and Christina when they reach the end of the first hallway. Physuro speaks with an older Felidian. After an argument over providing medical attention to gods—which gods shouldn’t need just because they’re gods—the doctor agrees to have her examined. Divinity has its downsides—medical discrimination. I can’t even find that funny.

The doctor calls to others and Christina is whisked away to the next chamber. The doctor wants to know what happened to her, to which I can only answer in truth, I don’t know, I wasn’t there. A grim reminder of all I can’t face—I wasn’t there.

The next chamber is larger with a taller ceiling, countless beds aligned head to toe, and aisles between them barely enough to move through. Not a single bed is empty, all occupied by Felidians wounded in the earlier attack. Many look reasonably well, just weary and resting, but others I must shun—bloody wounds, hideous faces, and severed limbs now bandaged stumps.

Conversation is absent. An eerie quiet in the wake of noisy battle, all that blasting, exploding and screaming, now the survivors retreat into themselves, to a grave silence stirred only by faint whimpers and occasional moans.

I step slowly through an aisle, past gazes begging that I end their misery. I should have tried harder and kept these wounded from harm. I could have saved countless others. I can imagine the mass graves, but won’t let the image stay. Go somewhere else inside myself, run and hide, away from that measure of failure. I should have acted sooner. Then these victims would be at home with their families, cozy by a fire with the little ones, enjoying a feast while papa tells stories of the good life. Nothing good about this. But these wounded who suffer, at least they have survived, and I imagine, have families awaiting their return home. They have that much.

Christina is ushered through another doorway to a smaller chamber with fewer beds. The back wall is shelved from floor to ceiling, stocked with glass jars square and squat, round and slender, some pale green, blue, others clear, holding varying degrees of their medicinal potions.

She drops onto an empty bed. A committee of doctors converges on their patient and obscures any view.

“I beg,” one doctor says, pushing me back. “You request our aid, be willing to allow it.”

I retreat and watch. They scurry around, poking, prodding, or something. I can’t see past all the white robes.

The same doctor turns to see that I’m still here. He leaves the bedside and approaches. “I beg that you comprehend, and let it be no disgrace. Your presence here offers little in the interest of her recovery.”

“You want me to go?”

“We seek to heal all we be able. Trust in that.”

Trust is a stranger. I can’t even remember its face.

* * *

Outside, I plop down on the steps. The sharp edges press against my back like a bed of nails, just puncture me, let what’s left leak out, down the stairs and puddle in the dirt. The night is clear, sprinkled with dots of starlight. I reach up, fingers brushing the void, as though I could touch one and feel its fire. One of those is home.

“I found sandwiches.”

I sit up. Dave emerges from darkness, coming this way from across the street. In each hand he holds a round loaf. Half round, like a melon sliced in two, with something in the center where the seeds would go, a creamy liquid yellow and chunky, from which vapor rises. He sits beside me and I catch a whiff. Not bad. Onions, maybe potato, something vegetable.

He hands one over and digs into the other. “At her side, eh?”

“This isn’t a sandwich.” Cupping it in one hand, I twist the thing around, taking in all sides. “It’s a bowl of soup, except, in bread.”

Tapping one fingernail confirms it—more of that hard-shelled crouton stuff. Seems the cats use kilns for more than just pottery.

“Close enough,” he says, slurping up the creamy mess. “Something between bread’s a sandwich.”

I’m too exhausted for any idiotic argument. But he’s right about us lacking nourishment. Some brain food might improve his stellar conclusions. I down a few loads of the steamy slop, not bad, tasty even with a spicy edge, and warm food in my belly chases off the exhaustion, like waking from a deep sleep. After a few minutes for the meal to settle, the mind sharpens, more alert, and more willing to joust.

“Only a sandwich if the bread’s edible.”

He tips back the snack and sucks out the last drop, then tries to bite what’s left. End of that argument.

A silence passes while I scarf down the rest of mine.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Don’t know, they haven’t said.”

I pitch my empty bread bowl into the street, rolling off into darkness.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t litter like that, not cool.”

I lie back on the steps and stare up into the night. “Like it really matters. It’ll be dust soon anyway, like all the rest.”

“Don’t talk like that. We’ll fix things, you always do.”

“I don’t know this time. I just don’t know.”

“You always know,” he says. “You just don’t remember.”

I sit up. “What’s to remember? Getting nuked sucks? Sure, easy to say, but how do we get off this rock before it happens?”

“Run away? Doesn’t sound like the Adam I know.”

“And who is this Adam you know? What’s he like?”

“He fixes things.”

“How? How could anyone possibly fix this mess?”

“Remember how. You’ve done it before plenty of times.”

“What have I done?”

He points out the stone buildings across the street, then turns where he sits and looks up the steps, to the house of medicine behind us, where a warm glow flows out from the entrance.

“Saved places like this,” he says. “Saved them from being destroyed.”

I stare out at the street, the dirt and dark and empty shadows. “You’re right, I don’t remember. Guess we’re all doomed, thanks to that guy you know who’s clearly absent. What was his name?”

“Adam,” he says. “The one and only you. Get over it, man, you’re bringing me down.”

Stars, stars, so many stars. So many other places I could be. I should just leave this body, float away to somewhere else, anywhere but here. I never should have made that promise to myself. What a foolish vow, sticking to one body. I may be drained, but one last scrap of personal integrity tugs hard—don’t do it, you promised. This body and myself.

He says, “Why not ask Chris? Maybe she has an idea.”

I fall back, back to staring into the night. “Sure. Her idea is for me to leave her alone. What did I do?”

“Maybe it’s what you haven’t. What you haven’t fixed.”

“This mess?”

“To start with, and I’m sure she’d agree, she knows you can. Disappoint me all you like, I’ll get over it. You gonna do the same to her?”

“No.”

“Really?” he says. “And why is that?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Fix things?”

“No. I can’t let her down.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Can’t answer a simple question.”

“A promise! Okay? I can’t go back on a promise.”

“You promised her?”

“Her, me, everyone. My duly appointed fucking job, Mister Fix-it. You don’t have to rub it in.”

Here comes that big white grin. “Now I’m interested to hear what you have in mind.”

How does he do this to me? I was thinking I had won, but somehow he twists an argument over bread and sandwiches into saving an entire population.

“Fine, you win, I’ll fix it. Fix it all, just like always. But don’t think for one minute you get to kick back and watch Adam do it all by himself.”

“You know I always help. You know, once you figure it out. So what’ll it be this time?”

“You’ll be the second to know.”

* * *

In a broken universe and all there is to fix, the challenge begins with mending the single most important bond. Approaching the chamber where Christina rests, I meet the doctor who suggested that I wait outside.

“Will she be okay?” I ask.

Heading out of her room, he pauses in the doorway. “A rough time she had, though be hopeful.” He puts on a smile. “With proper meals and hydration, her physical constitution shall recover, certainly.”

“Thank you. For all you’ve done, and your kindness.”

He steps aside with arm extended, inviting that I enter. “Thank a goddess wielding the fire of life. In her place, another may have perished. Truly, the gods be powerful.”

I advance into the room. She lies flat on her back, asleep with arms folded atop the blanket. I step gently and lower to the bed’s edge. My fingers creep toward hers and touch lightly.

I whisper, “How are you doing?”

Her eyes flutter open and she focuses on me. “I’ll get there,” she says.

“Good. I need you well.”

“Oh?” She withdraws her hand. “You have plans for me?”

“I can’t do this alone.”

“Don’t be silly.” She looks away. “You’re capable of anything, with or without me.”

I try getting in her line of sight. “Christina, there’s only one way, and that’s you with me. You’re everything to me.”

Her gaze returns, but her eyes are a dreamy void. “Adam, there’s something you have to remember.” She points a finger, wavering between us. “You are the most important thing to you. If I become more important, then I have lost the very part of you I cherish most.”

I lean back, it feels a mile. “I don’t understand. You want me to love myself before you? I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Of course it is,” she says. “That’s true love, and you already know it. Lovers must love themselves first, then share it. I want to make sure you never forget. It’s sad, I know, but the day you stop loving yourself is the day I stop loving you.”

I rise from the bed. “I love myself just fine, that doesn’t change what we’re facing. And it doesn’t change how I feel. I need you at my side. I can’t do this without you.”

“Do what?” she asks.

“End this war. These creatures have no reason to fight.”

Her eyes flash. “Oh, there’s a reason.” She turns away, staring across the room.

I lower to the bed’s edge and lean over, angling to catch her gaze. “What reason? What do you know?”

She swings back to me. “A certain someone invented it.”

“The Association.”

“Not them,” she says. “They’re gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Back home, don’t you know? They’re done here. All we have now is our one supreme god.”

“Jared.”

Her piercing stare boils contempt. “He’s crazy. You know that, right? He thinks he’s god.”

“That’s just an act to fool these creatures and stir up a fight. I’m not much better, doing it myself, just not for reasons so evil.”

“No, Adam, the real thing.” She pushes it past her clenched teeth, each word lifting her from the bed a notch closer to sitting up. “He’s gone mad. He actually believes it—believes it—he’s a god. And thinks it gets him whatever he wants!”

Red, raging, ready to burst, her explosion is tears. She falls back and rolls onto her side, crying.

I hesitate asking, “What did he do?”

Her voice is distant, monotone. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

She pulls the blanket over her head, and beneath the covers she sobs. The outpour may never end, then one long gasp, she reloads and spills it all again.

I reach for her side, moved by her tremors, but think twice and keep from touching her.

“What happened?” I ask. “Tell me.”

She scoots away. “No, Adam, I know how you will become.”

“Christina, I will be any way you ask. Please, tell me what happened.”

She rolls over to face me, peering over the blanket clutched tight to her chin. “Promise you will be clear of thought, no matter what.”

“Okay, I promise.”

Her fearful stare holds steady. “Promise again.”

“All right, I promise. I’ll promise a thousand times if I have to. Just tell me.”

Sadness deadens her gaze. Her eyes gloss over, ready to spill tears. “He hurt me.”

I study her bruises. “He’ll be hurting ten times as much when I’m done with the bastard.”

“No, Adam, you don’t understand. He hurt me.”

“What are you saying?”

Her lips quiver, eyes pooling with sorrow. I am the lone target of her unwavering stare. A tear crests one eyelid and trickles down her cheek. Her brow twists with pain, mouth contorting as she strains to speak.

“Adam, he violated me.”

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