by Shebi D. Frostmable

-of course this means I have to add another character. I already have so many. I think that’s the part I like the best, creating characters for the stories. Heaven knows I don’t enjoy the discipline of writing them out and completing them.

-throwing weapons like Havoc. But it would have to be Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. The target already has one, catches it in midair. Audience conveniently does not see it fly through the air.

-super intelligence. Easy. Just like in Rain Man.

-Think about it. Star Wars: A New Hope. Of course I had to start with this one.

-I wrote down a lot more of these in my notebook. Anyway, what would happen if I juggled these four elements around in a story? Quentin Tarantino could do it. It worked for that Memento movie. Or, what if I used elements that just weren’t these four particles? It can be argued that these are absolutely essential for a story to be conveyed, but I don’t think so. If you want to sell it, sure. I dunno. More on that later.

-researching that paper for Indo-European class, I found the alphabet used in the Botorrita, a bronze inscription used for evidence of Hispano-Celtic. It has a, Ca, Pa, Ta, m, n, e, Ce, Pe, Te, I, F, i/y, Ci, Pi, Ti, s, S, o, Co, Po, To, u/w (which looks like an upward arrow), Cu, Pu, and Tu. I realized I couldn’t spell my name in Hispano-Celtic.

I mean yeah, of course it is important to me to keep from infringing on other people’s rights, from offending people. Of course i want to be liked. That is only natural. (And I am sick of being told otherwise. More on that later.) But people can ask too much of you. When they want me to give up the boundaries that make me me, they ask too much. When their whims require the removal of what foundations shape me and are important for a human to have in order to grow and live spiritually—then it is too much.

Sports

Every good scientist knows that the point of observation is to record data and results while causing as little interaction with their experiment as possible. Many scientists had been speaking into handheld tape recorders for years. At least, on earth.

Nicholas, however, got the implant.

It went in through his ear. At least, that’s what Asterisk told him. Nicholas insisted on being put asleep for it. He could handle some operations by resorting to Berkeley’s immaterialist views, and pretending he actually believed that matter did not exist. But not when some huge metal probe was going in through his ear. It put the "notepad" in his brain. This way, when Nicholas needed to make a mental note of something, he did so quite literally.

It was an ultimate frisbee game out on the quad. The weather of the day before had fooled him into believing he’d need to dress warmly. But no: Nicholas broke a sweat before the first point was scored. His team, 2-North, would be crushed.

Most of the team members had to be convinced to come play, he noted into the mental "notepad." He also noted, with some irony (although irony was not valued as important by the Asterisk’s people, nor was any other literary technique that he could think of offhand), that whenever people made a mistake, suddenly every team member effectively promoted himself to coach status and authority. So many people who were the first to yell criticism and the last to yell encouragement.

They forget so soon that they are only playing a game. The point of the game, or rather, sports events in general, is no longer apparent. At first I was almost certain it was this: to glean entertainment from filling one’s time with physical activity. Frisbee, it seemed, boiled down to simple running. At least, when they were playing it correctly.

The mental notepad was also a transmitter. It updated by relaying its latest information every five seconds to the main computer aboard Asterisk’s (via a number of orbiting relays). Nicholas was surprised to learn that Asterisk was listening. He outranked Nicholas, obviously, and was permitted to cut in whenever he pleased. Nicholas sensed the incoming transmission and put the notepad on standby.

"It reminds me of a blood-sport the High Psarians play in the wild lands of their home country. They strip naked and arm themselves with sharp disk-weapons. They separate into a number of teams, which they decide then and there on the spot, and then brand themselves with allegiances. They fight then to the death."

"Why?" Nicholas said out loud. He heard his name being shouted and saw a white disk descending at the end of a slightly arced throw. He leapt and caught the frisbee. The opponent in his orange shirt and a yellow headband was on him in no time. He waved his hands and tried to keep Nicholas from throwing the frisbee properly. Nicholas snapped his wrist and launched it downfield.

"Well why would anyone play sports? What’s the point?" asked his ever-Socratic employer.

"For bragging rights I suppose. Honor. To decide who is better, who is best."

"Exactly."

"But," Nicholas pushed, "why would they just give up their lives like that?"

"They lost. What good were they? They were not the best. They were dishonored."

"Does that discount all other merit they may have earned in their time?" He realized, even before the words had come from his mouth, that it was exactly what Asterisk wanted.

"Interesting," said Asterisk. His tone was so devoid of emotion and inflection that it could have been perceived as supreme condescension. In a way, Nicholas thought with the smile that a person reserved for the clever blow from lifelong rival, it was. "Maybe you should touch on that in your report." No matter how well Nicholas was doing his job, he was still human. At least it wasn’t personal. It was just that he was a tool of Asterisk’s research team.

A cheer went up among his team. A big, green-clad frisbee-player ran up and grabbed Nicholas and bear-hugged him. Nicholas wondered why. He could only assume that a point had been scored that was somehow traced back to his successful throw moments ago. He was confident in his ability to observe the situation and conclude what had happened, but he was slightly preoccupied with the groaning of his own ribs under the pressure of his teammate’s squeeze.

The game ended later, after more running around, and someone won.

Nicholas lay down in his bed after a cold shower. He was planning on continuing the Thursday-night tradition of Capture the Flag later on. He needed rest, though.

That was when another one of the dreams came. His dreams had been getting incredibly specific in some senses, and yet abstract to the point of madness. He dared not tell anyone about them, not even Dirk, who would probably just shrug it off and start talking about Anna Kournikova anyway. He only remembered a few of them, anyway. He forgot his dreams very quickly.

On waking up later, he thought he remembered, whether correctly or incorrectly, that his eyes seemed to be pulled shut and the dream began almost instantaneously. It was a tower, a fortress made of some strong color. It was a color he had never seen or known before, and was certain he would only know it again in some future dream, because it would not survive the eyes of waking man. The strong color was bright and proud, and at the top of the spire glowed a knight. The knight was armored in links of mail constructed from soap opera episodes and whiny white-trash people whom Nicholas had only encountered on those afternoon talk-shows when he was home sick and could find nothing better to do than watch TV and nothing better to watch than this. Nicholas approached the tower, and the colors roiled furiously and began to bubble at his infraction on their holy soil. Soon he could see that someone’s feet were protruding out from the foundation of the tower. They were marked with a five-pointed star, the sign of Asterisk, and soon curled back under the building (which apparently had been dropped on the person) like fruit roll-ups. The knight leapt down from the tower’s pinnacle. He stood proudly before Nicholas in his soap-opera chain mail, although at this distance Nicholas could tell that he was not very tall. Actually, he kept changing in size—tiny one moment, and enormous the next, but always the same in relation to Nicholas. It was a deception. He had a shield on his left arm. He held it forth, and Nicholas could see that it was made of id. It felt rubbery, but Nicholas was uncertain as to how he had felt it. There was a longbow slung from his back. At his right hip flung an expensive leather quiver trimmed with gold. In the quiver sat an endless number of words. All were foul, trite, senseless, self-worshipping, and barbaric. A man came running up to them, a naked man who was a friend to the knight. In one quick motion, the knight nocked an arrow and sent it zipping into the man’s face. He dropped onto the ground and disappeared. The knight turned back to Nicholas and strung another arrow. Nicholas knew he could not attack the id-shield. It was rubber—he would bounce right off. He tried to run but could not. He only willed the knight to death. The soap-opera armor split and an empty nothing came hissing out from inside. The shell of the knight dropped to the ground. The nothing rose up into the air and towered over Nicholas and even the tower. It closed in about itself and drew light upon its form. Two antennae and the bits of green from the light it could collect.

"Poshedon," said Nicholas, sitting up in bed.

That night at Capture the Flag, the usual group showed up. However, as the game had begun, another group from another dorm across campus also showed up with the same idea. It was heaven-sent—the two groups got a good look at each other and decided to compete. The Mayors dormitory students began to explain the way they played and the rules.

Suddenly, Nicholas recorded in his mind, the ones who have played a few more times are the experts. They decide their way is best and imperialize it upon the newcomers (if I may coin that word), who don’t complain.

Capture the Flag was every Thursday night at nine o’clock. It had been the perfect cure for the strange episodes of Thursday Night Syndrome of last year. Nicholas hadn’t been having TNS much this year. He wasn’t certain why. The CTF game was played on North Campus, which in daylight would be inhabited by frisbee-tossing jocks, hackey-sacking hippies, and diligent students cramming for midterms. At night, however, was a different world.

The players wore black or dark clothing, and a ski mask here and there. Whenever possible, a member or two of the CTF club would find a campus police officer and alert him or her before the game. On other occasions, the police were alerted to the CTF club’s presence during or after the game, by citizens who walked by a black-clad Mayors-teammate crouched in the bushes by the Library.

The playing field extended from the library to the Arch, with New College splitting the field into two parts. The flag was not really a flag at all—it was an artsy (but free) campus newspaper called the Flagpole. In fact, tonight, they split up into the two teams and almost started their game of Capture the Flagpole before anyone remembered to get hold of the free newspapers.

"I’ve found Utopia," said Dirk. "Nirvana. Perfection." In the middle of the 223 Cambodian Prison Cell, as people referred affectionately to Paul’s dorm room. The bunk bed served as a sort of Double-Decker Couch (DDC). Gringo was at his computer desk chair, from which he could easily reach a console controller. The room was full of guys. The essence of man baked slowly and raucously in the dorm room heat. Few were fully clothed. All faced the television. Only two at a time held controllers. Right now it was Hal Grumbert, standing, and Paul, on the upper-level makeshift couch. "And it doesn’t involve girls."

Two scantily-clad females fought each other on the television screen, each move coordinated by a flurry of thumbs tacking on controller buttons. One of them kicked the other, and the latter fell backward off the edge of the arena platform, into a seemingly endless pit. Hal spat out a curse word.

Sizer, seated, lower level couch, claimed next game. "Let me take Paul one."

Paul said, "If you really want that," with a grin.

"If I want to dishonor you for generations to come? Of course." A chorus of deep-voiced and almost drunken-sounding laughter bellowed forth from the room. The testosterone seemed almost corporeal, and was keeping members of the other gender from crossing the threshold like some kind of girl-proof wall.

"It’s like this," Dirk continued. "Guys sit around and…" he trailed off, and some slight yet common homophobia prevented him from saying the word bond.

"—relate," he continued. "There is unity in this room. We are united by common goals and needs. And also ignorance of certain social norms which serve us best."

Nicholas, sitting beside Dirk on Gringo’s cramped lower level of the DDC, fingered the luminescent green gem hung from his neck. He asked Dirk to please expound. "Well look at us." Nicholas looked at them. "We’re a bunch of guys sitting around playing video games. Between all of us, we are wearing significantly less clothing than is presentable in public. We are…oh shit!" He halted as Sizer’s character delivered a particularly painful-looking blow to Paul’s character. The room filled with astounded voices and exclamations. "…uh…swearing and grunting and doing manly things. The female species is the only thing that keeps us worrying and gets us down. Without them, there is only this Man-Utopia…Mantopia."

"Man…topia," repeated Gringo, who could identify the ridiculous nature of the comment, but could not formulate a good verbal bomb to drop on him in social retribution. Sizer was more prone to that, in the way that a cudgel was good for fighting. Hal had a talent though—he was more like a clever poison. However, he appreciated a good random idea here and there, and let Dirk go for now.

"Mantopia, that’s right. A world in which girls do not exist. We don’t need them. They only bring us down. They bind us to expectations which are unnecessary for our existence and our contentment."

"Actually," said Paul, who both metaphorically and literally pointed out facts as a sort of monitor of accuracy during conversations, his right index finger lifted, "we do need them. If we expect to perpetuate the human race." Paul had just beaten Sizer one round, and their SoulCalibur bout was now one to two, respectively.

"Yeah," said Ike, standing. "Who would we have sex with?"

"Overrated," said Dirk, smugly. That won him a number of bewildered looks, even from Gringo. "The perpetuating humanity part, that is. But that is a different story. It’s all ideal. And we can never really have what is ideal."

"I can ideally beat the living crap out of Paul when I do this…" The room erupted again with shouts of shock at the pixel-generated brutality.

"The point is, we can at least settle for a Round Table sort of thing. Ever read much Arthurian legend?"

No one seemed terribly interested, except for Nicholas, as always. "Well, Camelot, you see, was ruined by feminine influence. Who kills Arthur?"

"Umm, I think, Mordred," said Paul, searching his memory (a flawless record of everything that he had ever experienced in his life).

"Right. The son of Arthur who was begat when Arthur was seduced. Who captures Merlin? An enchantress. Even Arthur’s own wife causes Arthur and Launcelot to finally become enemies. But the idea of the Arthurian court was that it was a bunch of men having company with each other, sharing ideas, being themselves and being absolutely real."

"It can be seen that way in some interpretations, but there are lots of different kinds of Arthurian literature," said Paul, correcting.

"Doesn’t matter. It’s all fiction anyway. The point is that these people sat around in their metaphorical boxer shorts and competed in manly competitions and held manly discussions and put their manly minds together to solve problems, and entertain their manhood with manly entertainment. Woman only spoils this unity. She corrupts it and manipulates it, and twists it until it is against itself."

"Hey Sir Dirk," said Gringo, "when you say ‘manly,’ you sound so incredibly and flamboyantly gay." He got a pillow in the face from the top deck of the DDC.

"So Dirk says women are unnecessary," said Nicholas between sips of a cappuccino, walking down Broad Street downtown.

"They are," said Asterisk. After a toying moment, he justified his statement: "On some planets. Yours, however, is not one of them."

"So even you assume that the propagation of the species is a species’ most important goal?"

"That’s all relative, of course," said Asterisk. He leaned in close with a lifted brow in warning. "And take a mind to whom you’re speaking. I’ll thank you not to accuse me of assumptions."

"Sorry." Asterisk smiled, amused at humanity once more. They walked in silence. There were no words between them for some time.

Then, at length, Asterisk spoke. "Have the dreams slowed or halted?"

"Neither," said Nicholas. "Poshedon is in all of them."

"Interesting. Are you concerned?"

"Am I concerned? I was going to ask you just that, to gauge whether or not I should be."

"Do they frighten you?"

"No, not really. I really don’t know about this Poshedon character anyway. I’d really appreciate if you told me something."

"You’re the observer. You find out."

"Asterisk, I told you, I’m a person of this planet, and I just wouldn’t fit on any other. I’m as fascinated as ever with the people around me. And I’m doing a good job of it. Why would you want me to just stop to entertain some bloodthirsty alien populous? And risk my life in the process?"

"I told you that I competed on Da Gon Gai once, didn’t I?"

"No," said Nicholas. "No, you never told me."

"So I didn’t. Well—I competed on Da Gon Gai once."

"Tell me about it."

Asterisk lost himself in thought. It seemed to Nicholas that he was searching for a place to begin. However, he opened his mouth slightly, and said, in a quiet voice, "No, I don’t think so."

For a third time, they walked in silence. Nicholas broke it after a short while, as they turned onto Jackson street. "Last night it was a giant boulder the size of a mountain, but it was a face, and there were boulders in its eyes, and boulders in its mouth. They were shaped like gears and they were trying to turn in conjunction with one another, but they missed every time. Deep inside the head, I knew there were polished steel gears and pulleys moving in unison, calculating and solving problems. But only rocks came out of the mouth, and they flew up and hit me. They hurt, but not the way I imagine a sharp sword would hurt, but blunt and careless. But when I turned to have vengeance on the giant rock face, it cringed and became fragile and helpless. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt it. I could see inside, a green rubbery form with two antennae. It was him, inside the rock face."

Asterisk still pondered the dream. "Interesting."

"I suppose," said Nicholas.

It was late October and Nicholas found himself down at the 223 Cambodian Prison Cell again. Gringo was in the room making miniature jack-o-lanterns out of shelled acorns. He was talking to Liz on the phone, tucking her in long-distance. Out on the balcony across the hall were Turnipseed, E, and Drew. The three were collecting fodder for the process. They were trying, with much less result than equaled the effort put into the job, to crack open acorns without damaging the soft, delicate, orange meat inside. Every once in a while someone would throw an acorn and try to hit the big oak tree near Lumpkin Street.

Earlier that night had seen a commiseration of a larger group out on the balcony. Sizer, Mira, JP, Gringo, Drew, Ike, and so on. They’d noticed the clouds were low and appeared to be moving very fast north-westwards-ish across the dark sky. The crowd had since dissipated and so had the clouds.

Their project was interrupted by the sounds of Southern Inebriation. Nicholas looked toward Lumpkin Street. He saw the silhouette of a girl in a skirt and a backpack heading downtown on the sidewalk, on the side nearest the Mayors balcony. There was a discreet urgency in the flip-flop of her sandals. On the other side of the street were two white males who were not necessarily staggering drunk, but well on their way. One was even carrying a huge frosty mug, and by the looks of his attempts at balance, it was not empty. They had enough sense to remember that they were attracted to girls, or at least, attracted to skirts. They also had enough presence of mind (a cliché Nicholas disliked these days, what with teetering between belief in only mental substance, or in only material substance, he hadn’t decided which, but both philosophies had served him in certain situations) to work out a little bit of southern white male college student logic. It was an implied argument, though they never really argued it to Nicholas’s knowledge. It went as follows, and is recorded from the inebriated fellows’ vantage point:

1. I exist to fulfill my biological urges.
2. All I encounter is a tool I can use to fulfill my biological urges.
3. My most important biological urges are to become inebriated and to have sex.
4. I have beer in me and am satisfactorily inhibited.
5. /.: Thus, I must focus my efforts on my last remaining biological urge which is to get sexed.
6. I see a girl in a skirt.
7. /.: I must use what I consider to be charm to warm her up to the idea of having sex with me.

This was the argument Nicholas later outlined in a report to Asterisk. In truth, he gave them way too much credit. This particular file in the Earth Study was read by thousands of psychologists across the galaxy. One Hvarese psychologist, Dr. Khe Khezar, proposed that the logical thought process probably was outlined closer to this:

1. I am at a human center of higher learning.
2. However I have forgone all benefits thereof by decreasing my brain function.
3. Since I am thinking backwardly, I want some more beer.
4. I need sex.
5. This more beer which I am imbibing currently will assist that effort by making my words much more smooth and my sex appeal skyrocket (due to fragrant breath). However, if this is not the result I get, I will still be oblivious to that fact.
6. /.: Therefore, the more I drink, the more likely I am to have sex with a woman.

It might be noted that the logical addendum to the conclusion in the Khezaran could feasibly be "And if no woman will have sex with me, it doesn’t matter, because I’m also oblivious to that fact." Dr. Khezar explained that by that point the subject has most likely imbibed even more beer and finds that addendum circular, or too difficult to pronounce. A third take on the episode is that of socialist Ximbert McXav. Dr. McXav relates in an article of Pan-Galactic Sociology Standard-Weekly his suggested record of the workings inside those poor inhibited minds by boiling it simply down to the following: "Mmm, beer sure does taste like crap. And that is why you will now have sex with me." Dr. McXav states that contiguity is something that is present even in the thought processes of drunken beings of many species. Humans, however, are not one of these.

In any case, the moment showed all the wrong signs. They were keeping pace with the girl, albeit on the other side of Lumpkin Street. She was not acknowledging them. This appeared to fuel their hormonal problems even more. "Looks like we’re witnessing some harassment," said Nicholas, thinking out loud. It resembled the beginning of a superhero movie: a lone, innocent-looking, and invariably attractive young woman walks down a dark street. Enter thugs, who have some malicious and aggressive idea in mind. Harassment begins. Cue hero, who beats them up and takes woman away somewhere safe.

Drew thought a moment. "Wanna check it out?"

Nicholas glanced at Turnipseed and E. "Yeah, sure, let’s go." He grabbed his backpack and the four jogged down the hall and down the stairs and across the street. The eastern side of Lumpkin Street offered some tree cover between the street itself and the sidewalk. This allowed the four to jog up the street and gain ground on the girl without being seen. If the two guys even noticed them emerge at the end of the tree cover, they would seem ordinary pedestrians.

Drew and Turnipseed went in close. E and Nicholas stayed back, acting as if they didn’t even know the front two. At the intersection where Baxter Street dead ended against Lumpkin, the potential villains crossed over the street and approached her. One was noticeably more aggressive; Nicholas designated him Dude A, as opposed to Dude B, who was just zipping up his fly and emerging from some bushes.

Dude A got in the girl’s way. He put his arms out and blocked her path. It was all silhouettes from Nicholas’s vantage point, back-lit by street lights. Dude B caught up and they walked side by side with her, effectively surrounding her.

Drew and Turnipseed quickened their pace. Nicholas looked briefly around for effective places from which the Superhero could emerge, and then slowly began to realize that he and his friends might have to play that role. What if they started harassing her suddenly? What if they hit her or hurt her or something? What would the good guys do?

After the event, they analyzed that very question together, and came up with a number of options.

Option One: Approach Dude A or B. "Excuse me, but I was wondering if you—" Interrupt self with right hook to chin.

This was discussed at length. It was a frightening thought. The good guys were just college kids. With the exception of Drew, they were not built to fight. They were made to hang out and throw cheese doodles at one another. Combat was a foreign art.

Someone mentioned also that the enemy was inhibited somewhat and would feel very little to no pain if it came to blows. Drew suggested stealing the beer mug, and then in fact drinking some of it so that it would be even. There were a couple of objections to that idea: primarily, Nicholas didn’t drink, and secondarily, by the sickening and predictable sense of humor Fate has, it was certain to be Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Option Two: Pretend to know the girl. "Hey…um…Martha! Long time no see! You going downtown? Me too!"

Option Three, which was the most well-received: "You could have just run up to them and pantsed them," Travis later suggested. "And then push them over. Have you ever seen a drunk guy try to get up when his pants are around his ankles?"

In the end, nothing happened. The girl escaped them and went in a building downtown, without seeming too incredibly harassed or unsettled. She probably did know them. It was something of a letdown in a way, if only because it would have been interesting to see something completely different happen, and to be involved in it.

Turnipseed told the story some ten times before the night was over. Drew called his girlfriend to tell her how he had rescued a girl from certain disaster. Nicholas, however, got Asterisk on the line.

"I need you to set me up a coincidental encounter."

"Is that right." The way he said it wasn’t even a question, really. He

He sat at the table on College Avenue outside a coffee shop on a Tuesday evening: black clothes, hair gel, thick-ish rim glasses hanging folded from his shirt, green gem suspended from his neck. He tacked away at a laptop to blend in.

Nicholas clicked on a help file topic: how to adjust quickly to the NeuroVis glasses, what to expect.

The man appeared from around the corner: an old black man with a scruffy gray semblance of a beard, hobbling a little, his feet shuffling slowly and irregularly.

Well, thought Nicholas, here goes. He unfolded the glasses closed his eyes. He then slid them gently into place over his eyes. He opened his eyes. As the directions had instructed him, he looked at something inanimate first, then slowly turned his focus upon the man. It all opened out before him.

The primary thing Nicholas identified was the street. It was the reflection of College Avenue, as if a mirror, as the man was facing North and Nicholas South. Nicholas usually only thought of a couple blocks worth of College Avenue, although he was certain it extended farther. However, those few blocks appeared to go for miles and miles in the reflection. Squinting a little, Nicholas could see a modest-sized boat tied to a small dock, with a woman on the deck smiling sweetly and waving a welcome. He could see bottles of Jack Daniels littering a run-down duplex living room, and a tall shirtless man in shorts and sandals who didn’t just look angry, but rather for some reason full of an authoritative and unjust wrath. Nicholas could see a car wreck and as he looked downward, could see, almost feel, the hot metal of a crushed door bending and cutting into his left leg trapped in front of the drivers’ seat—

Nicholas yanked them back off. He waited a long time for the man to shuffle by, watching the clock change twice in the lower right hand corner of his laptop monitor. Nicholas knew he had to be more careful. Reading minds was not so easily done. There was more navigation involved than Nicholas had thought.

He slid them back on and watched a wall for a moment. Soon she came into view. She, her conscious and unconscious thought all rounded the corner and headed North, this time on the other side of the street, by Starbucks. He took it easy this time. She was full of facial piercings and half-covered tattoos. She was thinking about a painting she was working on in her apartment. Apparently she’d almost finished the upper-left corner, which had flowers and feathers and a serpent creeping through them. The lower third must have been blank, because it was at first a word in a different language which Nicholas could not read, then a building, then a skull, then a building shaped like a skull which was crying tears of hot wax, which sparked her interest, and she began working on ways she could use actual wax on the painting, but how to keep it warm? Nicholas couldn’t see the reflection of her path at first, and then found it somewhere past the painting. It was sketchy—she’d been down this street hundreds of times before. There were a great number of things whispering in the background of her thoughts, waiting to be thought about: a medical test for which she was waiting for results, the full garbage cans in her apartment waiting to be taken out, a book sitting by an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair.

Nicholas thought he would try something. He coughed, and adjusted his chair with a loud noise on the pavement. There he was, for just a split second. He couldn’t perceive his clothing or his appearance, but he could see his chair and the sound of his feigned cough. He felt momentarily like the people in the background on local news stations that always waved and shouted, "Hi, mom!"

Now, to try walking.

He folded up his laptop, put it in his backpack. Hands in his pockets and strolled southward, toward the Arch. He hadn’t been prepared for the street. The minds perpetually in physical motion, going different directions, and yet thinking about things consciously and subconsciously, made him dizzy. He looked down at the street until he sensed them stop at the red light. He crossed into Campus.

On the steps of one building on North Campus, he saw a girl scribbling into a composition notebook, attempting to get her ideas down before the light was too dim in which to write. He squinted a little and read them in the soft clay of the creative process, as she put them into the stone of a letter to a boyfriend. You’ll never realize what it means to me, Alex. I am empty of words. All I have is my Self. I have nothing else. The last sentence was a lie. Another lover, an athlete, peeked around the last sentence, with a concerned look on his face. She was cheating on Alex.

Near the library a well-dressed and made-up young man flipped out a cell phone. He looked like he’d been torn out of some boy band. "Hello? Hello, Todd? Yeah, are you coming? Okay, well, we’ll be down there by ten…." He’d been doing this for some time, Nicholas gathered, because the ruse of a person on the other end almost fooled him. The poor guy was walking on a thousand made-up eggshells. He didn’t want people to know that the girl he was calling didn’t pick up. He really believed they would think less of him, and that had the power to crush him utterly. It was one corner of a maze in his mind; all the twisting and confused walls were made of social aptitude and its many faces. Dancing, drinking, but not too much, well sometimes maybe, no you have to be careful? Shoes and matching belts and clothes, dark colors in the evening, unless you were going to be seen with friends, untuck a shirt halfway through a party to add that partying look….

Passing him and heading into the Library was a girl wearing dark clothing. She was heavyset, far more than was generally held to be attractive. She had a round, pudgy face full of freckles. She held tight to the books in her hands. She was considering suicide. Not really thinking about doing it. Or maybe she was? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t have a reason to live, but neither did she have a reason to die. Suddenly she wondered when her books were due, and remembered she had left one of them in her single dorm room. She thought a swear word, and Nicholas caught the beginning of it as she and her mind disappeared into the Library.

He began thinking out the preface for this report. The human mind is a contrary and unpredictable thing. That was a good introductory sentence. For hundreds of years humanity has entertained thoughts of "mind-reading." People have assumed that minds can be read like text in a book. He remembered that his audience was not human. Maybe that wouldn’t seem quite so groundbreaking when presented to a highly advanced scientific community. Oh well.

There was a sparkle of recognition. He could see it out of the corner of his eye, and it startled him. Dirk called his name even before he saw him.

"Nick," said Dirk.

"—olas," corrected Nicholas, thus completing a greeting they’d sustained for years. "How goes?"

"Not so bad. I was just researching a paper," he said, holding up a green floppy disc.

"And I bet you didn’t visit the Anna Kournikova web page in the process," said Nicholas with an accusatory grin.

Dirk smiled back. "Guilty." They turned the corner and headed back toward their part of campus. "So what’s with the getup? Are we artsy-fartsy today?"

"Disguise. I had to blend in at the coffee shop."

"Do you even wear glasses?"

"Well," said Nicholas, mentally preparing his next sentence. To ask if Nicholas wore them in the present tense was a silly way to present a question, and the distinction between perfective and imperfective aspect in English could trip a person up.

Dirk, ironically, read his mind. "I know what you’re about to say. You know what I mean. I didn’t ever know you to have anything wrong with your eyes."

"No, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes."

"Some sort of alien gig?" he asked. He lifted an eyebrow which said "Hey it’s me, and I know you" to ensure Nicholas would tell the truth.

"Alright," admitted Nicholas. "It’s the newest equipment from up top."

"What’s it do, exactly?"

Nicholas gave him a reluctant eye. He didn’t want to tell, but he knew Dirk would get it out of him one way or the other. At least he didn’t know about the mental transceiver/recorder implant Nicholas had in his brain. "Reading glasses."

"Reading glasses? For what?"

"Minds."

Even without the glasses, he would have known what Dirk was thinking. His face was such a direct representation of the thoughts inside. Nicholas saw him try to stifle amazement with skepticism. "Okay then. There’s only one way to find out."

Nicholas watched closely, concentrating. "And don’t make it Anna Kournikova. That’s too easy."

"Fair enough." In the silvery bubble hovering around his mind a form began to take shape, as if rising out of boiling liquid mercury. "Okay, Nicky-boy," he asked, simply for display and because it seemed like appropriate protocol, "What am I thinking about?"

"Well, I can tell you that you’re not thinking about prepositions at the ends of your sentences," said Nicholas. An image of Nicholas formed from the conscious thought. At first, Nicholas thought he was seeing himself as unconscious perception, so he waved. His reflection did not wave back. A giant foot came from out of nowhere and crushed him in a cartoonlike fashion into the ground.

"Very funny."

"Wow," said Dirk, who was amazed, but not as amazed as a human being ought to be at the scientific breakthrough. Nicholas judged this by his next statement. "That’s really neat."

"Yeah…I guess it is. Sorta dangerous though."

"Well yeah. Think about what kind of spy you could become. Think about the espionage purposes that thing could serve."

"No, I mean to me."

Dirk thought a minute. "Why do you say that?"

"How much do you really want to know about people?" They walked in silence for a minute, crossing Baldwin street and heading down Sanford.

"But don’t you think the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages?"

"Hmm. That’s debatable."

Dirk grinned again. "I knew you’d say that. It was a question. Of opinion." He thought about punching his friend in the shoulder. Nicholas saw it coming, and dodged. "So debate it. I say yes."

"Fine. Look at it this way. Humans fear what they don’t know. And rightly so, I say. It is impossible to determine the magnitude of the cons, and so I choose to err on the side of safety. It’s like some cosmic-sized apple in the garden. If I bite too much, I might be inundated with knowledges and entire intelligences that I don’t need or want. That could change everything."

"But what if the advantages were infinitely worth it? They certainly have a potential to be."

Gringo was laying on his bed with the lights on in the 223 Cambodian Prison Cell. The door hadn’t been closed all the way, which, in college dormitory etiquette, means either it is alright for visitors to enter, or that the subject was merely too lazy to get up and close it. A little of both in this case.

"Feeling alright?" asked Nicholas, rapping lightly on the door to announce his presence. Gringo looked up, his head toward the door and feet toward the wall with the two meat-windows. Gringo and Paul called them Meat Windows because they were uncharacteristically high up on the wall and the first time Gringo saw them he said, "They just say, ‘Please, throw us some meat down here!’"

"Tired," said Gringo. "Work sucked last night. Then I stayed up late to study for something I ended up not needing to study for." He squinted a little. "Studied for that which I did not need. Studied for something for which I needn’t-ed. Whatever. You know what I mean anyway."

"I think so," said Nicholas. "Why did work suck so bad?" He paused, then added, "…badly?"

"It was weird," said Gringo, his eyes rolling upward to think back. "I was just getting really worked up about dealing with people and stuff. I was sick of everyone. The Eastern dude who kept throwing questions down my throat the second I’m opening my mouth to say what the answer to them is in the first place. Two of my least favorite managers working also. It was weird—they weren’t scheduled to be there. Fisk was there. I rode with him for crying out loud…."

Nicholas got his reading glasses out and put them on his face. What opened before him was a mind that seemed somehow very different. It was flawed and wounded, and bound for some years in what looked like unquestioned tradition, but Nicholas wasn’t sure. He knew Gringo had grown up in the church.

But half-freed from the bonds was a squirming, writhing thing, struggling for some blurred goal which Nicholas could not resolve, nor, he ventured, had Gringo. It struggled vaguely toward the goal, distracted almost constantly with other things, fleeting daily thoughts, routines, new ideas, people, numbers, dates, things he needed to know for tests which were holding on only temporarily, and not very tightly. It didn’t take long for Nicholas to find last night.

"I remember Scott asked me to do a phone sale, but I was busy with a line and said ‘It’ll be a minute, I’ve got a line.’ I meant no, he heard yes. He just didn’t want to get off his lazy butt and do something. I didn’t get to it, of course. Fisk came to relieve me so I could go on break. I passed Scott on the way in. He’d gotten a haircut since I last saw him." Nicholas could see the former and current Scott, with the image saved like a photograph. He was short and clean-cut, or was now at least, and his eyes were steely and intent with an overused and underdeveloped sense of sarcasm. His eyes were gray. They may not have been in reality, but the way Gringo saw them, they were. They were like steel, locked onto the viewer, as Gringo was passing by him. "I hate his guts. I figured, it would do me some good to compliment him on the haircut since I only speak ill of him. ‘Nice haircut, Scott.’"

"Thanks for doing that phone sale," the image spat condescendingly. It looked very perturbed that some task had roused it from its idling in the managerial office. Nicholas caught a passing, critical thought, that explained this: it probably missed part of some football game to come do what it was paid to do.

"’Thanks for doing the that phone sale’," said Gringo, imitating as best he could. "It was the simplest form of sarcasm. You see, I didn’t do the phone sale, and so he was highlighting that by thanking me for doing it. See? It’s all very clever. Like he was doing anything in the first place! He always elicits the same response from me every time though. Angry fast reason. But not last night. I just smiled sarcastically and went to clock out."

Nicholas could sense what was next: respite, outlet. In the faces of Gringo’s loving parents.

"It’s a good thing my parents took me out to eat during break. It was such a release to get to talk with them, to complain about stuff. I apologized that I just complained the whole time, but mom said it was okay. It was so needed. I also thanked them for raising me to be a person who holds his tongue. If not for them, I would be so fired. I mean, what if I told Scott what I thought of him?"

A cluster of surprisingly innovative combinations of vulgarisms rose delicately to the back of Gringo’s mind, but did not touch down. These were words he would never use, unless he really meant them, and often not even then.

"So like, I think people who are really dislike-able don’t want to be liked," said Dirk.

"What makes you say that?" asked Nicholas. They were out on the quad, sitting on the grass, sandals off. Greener than the grass around them was the gem in his chain, which seemed to pollute the sunlight, but was fascinating to Nicholas nonetheless. He couldn’t remember where he’d gotten it.

"I’ve been thinking about quirks and eccentricities in people. These things develop for reasons, as effects which are caused by some experience or pattern of experiences. Name an annoying person."

"Name one? I dunno. You mean here, among our friends, or some well-known personality?"

"Doesn’t matter."

"Okay…Beardo."

"Beardo?"

"Yeah, you know," said Nicholas, "that guy Gringo always talks about. He’s in all his Linguistics classes. Always talks about Hittite, you know. Has a huge nasty beard."

"Oh, right. Beardo? I always wanted to call him Socrates."

"Socrates?"

"Don’t ask me why." Dirk snapped up a blade of grass and twiddled it between his fingers. "He just reminds me of one of those ancient Greek or Roman busts. If they were kinda chubby."

"So you have your example. I believe you were going to outline for me exactly why Beardo is not only conscious of his irritating mannerisms, but has does them voluntarily."

"Right…okay. What are the weird things he does again? I know I’ve heard Gringo talk about him with Paul."

Nicholas searched his memory. "He walks super-fast, swinging his arms. When he gets to class he lets out a huge sigh to announce that he has been walking really fast and it’s been a difficult trek. He then complains about something silly and obscure, such as the difficulty of conjugation in Sanskrit, and then announces to everyone what is going to be on his next Sanskrit quiz. He talks about Hittite almost non-stop, for seemingly nothing more than the happiness it gives him to perpetuate discussion on Hittite, to which no one can contribute, because no one speaks Hittite."

"Oh and he’s loud," said Dirk.

"Right, that."

"Okay, so let’s see," he said, counting on his fingers, "we have, number one—speedwalking, a common and almost trite dork trait. Number two…"

"The sigh."

"Right. Hmm, I think we can conserve space on my hand by speculating a common denominator which causes some of these symptoms. Let’s say he has an obnoxious need for attention, which covers, a number of them that you said, and the volume. So for number two: demanding attention."

"It sounds almost like you’re already getting into the diagnosis."

"Au contraire. Remember, Beardo’s father is a big-time Classicist. Remember that story?"

"Hmm, yeah, but I don’t see—"

"Well, of course he would want attention from everyone else. Of course he would want to work hard. He wants to please his father. That’s the diagnosis. But the conscious, or at least the once-conscious part of it is this: he’s decided that he must have others’ attention because he cannot get his father’s. You never see him walking with people, either, since he’s always speed-walking. Maybe that’s to ward off friends. In fact, I’ll wager it is."

"Would similarity be a more efficient reference to that idea?" asked Nicholas, without any accusatory tone at all. He was merely asking.

"Sameness?" said Gringo. "I dunno. I don’t plan to write an award-winning paper on it. For all intents and purposes, I think sameness does the job."

"So let me get this straight. Sameness is wrong because it goes against the nature of things, which is change. And that’s why you think Scott is immoral, or at least wrong. Because he is and always has been a huge jerk?"

"That’s pretty close. It’s not just him of course. But think of it. Scott has a personality, buried somewhere beneath his pretext. However, it was raped and pillaged by the nineties pop culture. Let’s call it the 90PC for short. The 90PC culture taught him to first off worship himself as his own god."

"I think," interjected Dirk, "that that is stronger terminology than may be necessary." Nicholas lay down on the quad.

"The terminology is strong, yes, but it’s true. But since I care to share this with others, I’ll concede that much. It taught him that he must strike back at the world, shooting down everyone else with sarcastic remarks, and elevate himself above everyone else. I even remember him saying once over the radio at work: ‘Um, I am above you!’ He believes it! Of course, I know what he meant—it was a remark that meant, ‘I hold higher rank in this workplace and can tell you what to do.’ I think it was a Freudian slip of sorts. He actually revealed something huge to us.

"Anyway, as far as the sarcasm goes, he never did master it. He gleaned what he could from sitcoms like Friends or Seinfeld. Two excellent examples, I might add—the sarcasm in both makes for witty banter, and it generally isn’t clever, per se, with the exception of Matthew Perry of course."

"You don’t think," Dirk inquired, "that Seinfeld was clever?"

"Well, the sarcasm wasn’t. But that wasn’t the point of that show. But," he lifted a finger into the air, "I digress. I also failed to mention his family situation. He is the oldest of three brothers, the younger two who are considerably irritating. Maddeningly so at times, to some people. Of course he would develop a controlling sense of quasi-sarcasm. And one other factor: his work situation. He is the 22-year old manager over a number of high school age kids. He thinks they are all stupid, and he’s partially right in a way. So of course he has to control them as well.

"What this all leads to is a something similar to a victim of self-hate. He’s just been in the same situation for a long time. Aye, but here’s the rub: he has learned nothing from his experiences. No lessons have been stressful enough to shake his compact world. He continues to stay the same old jerk.

"And I suppose a little has to do with me. I would say he is only really like fifty-five or sixty percent jerk. It’s just that he hits all the jerk qualities that set me off. But really, what has that come to, except a better study?"

Nicholas nodded and exchanged a knowing glance with Dirk, who broke the silence of the brief pause.

"So explain how things are always changing. You didn’t get to that part."

"It’s not much to explain. But you state my theory a bit erroneously. I didn’t say that things are always in a state of change. I said it is the nature of things to undergo change."

"What’s the difference?"

"To say that a Mr. Goodbar is always in a state of, ah, let’s say, the state of mmmmsooogoooooood." He allowed them a moment to stop laughing. "Okay, that means that Mr. Goodbar is in this state forever. To parallel this with the erroneous version of my theory, that things are always in a state of change, is something of a paradox. That means they hold that state forever, which directly conflicts with what change actually is.

"That’s why I prefer to say that the nature, the primary quality which partially defines nature, or at least wholly characterizes it, of all things is change. It means essentially the same thing, but without the paradoxical presentation of it, which is only in the grammar, really."

"So Scott needs to get with it if he wants to join the flow of nature?"

"Yeah, something like that, I dunno. Really, he needs to just stop being a jerk because I say so, but when does that argument ever work?"

"It caught me really bad today," said Gringo, on the sundeck. He picked up an acorn from the grungy cement floor. "Badly, that is. I see so many things and I think, geez, don’t they know they just need to change? Beer cans littering Sanford Drive, and most of campus for that matter, after game days. People know that they’re simply perpetuating a stereotype and destroying themselves. Do they change? Nope. It’s all madness and it’s beginning to make me really, really angry. I want to walk into a bar and find a guy getting drunk. I want to punch him in the face and say, ‘Stupid! You know what you’re doing to yourself! Get over it! Find something new!’"

"That’s a pretty harsh way to enforce an ideal," said Nicholas, with a grin. The green stone on his chain felt warm for some reason, as if it burned with something to say.

"Of course it is." He threw the acorn at the oak tree, as hard as he could. He heard the snap of dry leaves—a miss. "And I wouldn’t do that. It’s way less Christ-like than I attempt to be. But seriously, don’t you ever get really fed up with something old?"

"I guess."

Gringo laughed in some exasperation. "I knew better than to ask." He threw an acorn at the tree again. Snap. Miss.

"So what else needs to join the flow of nature? What else are you fed up with?"

"Lots of things, really." He picked up another acorn. "It’s sort of depressing. I don’t think I was like this in high school. I first started noticing it my freshman year of college. Definitely some last year. Hmmm…" He stroked the soul hair-tuft under his lip, hoping it would help him think. It did.

"People thinking they can just walk all over me like a mat. Y’know?"

"Who walks all over you like a mat?"

"I dunno, people. It’s not as bad as I make it out to be, really. This is what really gets to me, though—when people say little side comments that are intended to rudely blow me off. I hate feeling like I’ve been blown off and forgotten. In our smack-talking group of friends, this is a hard affliction to live with. Because we pop machismo around like a beach ball, back and forth, and it’s funny, y’know? Like Sizer, he did it a couple of times. I know this is so petty, but here’s one. When Sizer complained about falling at CTF and I was like, well, don’t fall, and then he was like, I didn’t do it on purpose, dumbass. That really did it for me. I was really pissed. He’s forgotten about it, I’m sure. It was just another sentence to him. But I just don’t take that kind of thing well. It does the same thing as if he’d just walked up to me in a group of friends, slapped me in the face, and walked off. It’s something I’ll never forget. It’s up there with the Scott thing—I will never forget images and things they say to me like that. But Sizer is different. He has this bizarre ability to skyrocket back up to even above normal with you. He can make you almost hate him, and then turn around and suddenly just be the total opposite. It’s so weird. It’s really admirable. I think." Gringo’s eyes drifted back to Nicholas, and he was reminded of what he was talking about.

"Oh yeah. But anyway, another thing is like when…hmm…well, I guess it’s all in things people say to me, really. I mean yeah, I get worked up about ideologies and lifestyles with which I totally disagree. But the things that hurt me and set me off are things that are said. Always that." He threw the acorn. There was a long pause. So long, Nicholas thought the acorn had landed somewhere and he just missed the sound. But no—snap. In the leaves again.

It was on the way back from his Regents class that Nicholas noticed the centipede. It was dead, thirty or forty pairs of legs skyward which seemed as if they ought to be twitching or undulating, but of course were not.

The Regents class was to prepare college students for the Regents Test, which was an elementary examination to make sure that you were able to compose an essay. People generally did not fail the Regents test. However, they often forgot to sign up for it, or slept through it on the actual test day, and these were the ones that ended up having to go to the Regents Test class.

He was walking back down the east-side sidewalk on Lumpkin Street, heading southward toward Mayors. His hand was sore. His mind was a little fried, but it got that way from writing practice essays. The good news was that he would have his three good essays completed soon enough. Another down today, probably. He was not as alert as usual. And this was when he saw the centipede. It slid into his view, as if the sidewalk were scrolling downward to show it to him.

Nicholas did not stop for it. It shook him up inside though. It was just a centipede, right? Why did it freak him out? His verdant stone hummed on the chain, humming some dark tune.

It was on the way back from his Russian class that Nicholas noticed the spider. It was dead, four pairs of legs skyward which seemed as if they ought to be twitching or working at diligent threading or at a lunch of grasshopper, but of course were not.

Russian was getting easier. The case system could not be memorized, he was convinced. But the tests were coming back with A’s now. It had taken a while to get used to. But he did it. He was lacking in vocabulary, quite a bit. But that was explicable—every verb in Russian is two verbs divided by aspect.

He was walking back down the east-side sidewalk on Lumpkin Street, heading southward toward Mayors. His hand was sore. His mind was a little fried, but it got that way from working intensely during class, with only two students in the class. The good news was that the Fall semIštar would be over soon enough. Another class period down. He was not as alert as usual. And this was when he saw the spider. It slid into his view, as if the sidewalk were scrolling downward to show it to him.

Nicholas did not stop for it. It shook him up inside though. It was just a spider, right? Why did it freak him out? His verdant stone hummed on the chain, humming some dark tune

It was during a fierce episode of Thursday Night Syndrome when Nicholas encountered the slug. More accurately, he was just getting over a fierce episode of TNS when he noticed the slug. It was stuck to his pants. There was slime staining a small portion of his sheets. It then struck him that he had sat on the slug outside, during the time that he was writing in a sketchpad to relieve the buildup of unexplainable emotion. He had sat on his bed with the vile creature still stuck to his backside.

He shuddered, a wave of insect phobia shivering through his body.

Nicholas looked around for a paper towel, but there were none to be found in his room. He lifted a half-crumpled paper from one of his trash cans. It was a discarded essay test printout from one of Paul’s classes. Nicholas used it to peel the thing off of his jeans. He then took the jeans off and changed pants. He tried to wipe up the stain of slug-juice in the sheets, but it would not come up.

He felt wretched.

Nicholas considered taking a shower to make him at least feel a little cleaner. But no. He had to contact Asterisk.

"What is it?" said Asterisk, his image choppy over Nicholas’s computer screen.

"Poshedon. I think he’s tainted me."

It was something like watching the laser/fireworks show, without the psychedelic section with "Classical Gas" and the finale ending with Elvis singing "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah." It also was devoid of rednecks.

It was about ten college students in a place called Bogart. The town consisted of an intersection and a deer-crossing sign. Nicholas huddled under the blanket with everyone else, trying to keep warm. It wasn’t that cold at first, but it got that way after a while of not moving.

They would have looked pretty funny to uninformed passersby. Ten college kids lined up like sardines, trying to refrain from moving and thus letting in cold air. Ike of course strolled around without his coat that he had generously given to an unblanketed female. Those that didn’t know him would believe his pretense of enjoying nature’s wonders. He polished it off with a quiet comment about how he could hear owls in the woods to the left.

Nicholas simply sat and watched the meteors burn up trying to clear Earth’s atmosphere. Meteorologists said that this meteor shower would be unequaled for ninety-nine years. They averaged at least one per minute, every once in a while a startlingly bright streak of light fading fast, even less often, two at once. Sometimes they went the same direction, appearing to race each other through the heavens. Nicholas could imagine the heavenly beings skimming stones across the outer layer of a giant lake of breathable air.

At first they were all reverently quiet as they stared into space. It was as if they were afraid that a comment or word might drown out the fleeting sight of the fire from the heavens. Gringo at some point began calling out a number rating, from one to ten, after each one. "Six point five…three…whoa, nine point nine for real." After the nines or tens, a deferential chorus of "ooh" arose from most of them.

Two of them got into a semi-argument about fates being destined by the stars. Neither party was making much sense, and in the end it was halted by the flash of a particularly brilliant streak of light in the sky.

Paul realized halfway through the night that they had begun taking some of the smaller ones as something simple and unentertaining. "We’re dismissing the demise of this matter which has floated in space since time immemorial like a car commercial or something."

Later that night, Nicholas found a notebook laying beside Gringo’s backpack. It was a collection of quotes scribbled in by Gringo. A lot of them were from Paul.

Just in case you’re ever in the situation, the first one read, don’t eat the plastic part. –Paul, on Mrs. Freshly’s Jumbo Honey Buns.

Scanning ahead, he found song lyrics.

The cat was designed like a cow, white with brown shapes. It was dead in the road. At least, Nicholas was pretty sure it was a cat. He couldn’t tell—the species-specific features were turned the other direction. It balanced on the broken white line in the middle of the lane. Not far after it was someone’s fast food trash: a cup and some wadded up foil.

It couldn’t even rightly be called a deer at this point. The last time it could have claimed that quality was when it was still hypnotized by the (presumably) two white lights that would soon collide with it. As Nicholas saw it, he slowed and became abruptly alert, searching for the features of the gored mass, making absolutely certain he saw nothing human about it. If not for the fur and hooves he caught a glimpse of, a person could have told him it was an awful hit and run and he would have believed it. Judging by the sheer amount of asphalt that had been covered in red, and the unclassifiable shape which the corpse had taken, he imagined that it did some serious damage to someone’s car.

It was hideous. And it wasn’t removed for at least a week.

Gringo worked at AMC, and he had a few things to say about it.

"It messes up your view of people. Nicholas, there are a lot of nice, interesting, fun people out there. But working in a box office warps your perception. It’s just person after person. Each one expects something of you, and you have to do it their way or they think badly of you. Not that I really care what they think of me. But…well, yes I do. To a degree. But that’s not the point. The point is, I try to be nice to them, to smile at them. I try to maybe make them reconsider cashier workers, or clerk-type job people, people working registers. But they just won’t let me. First off, that won’t really work if I’m good at what I do, because I just try to be of polite service to them and they are like, ‘About time. That’s how it oughtta be.’ If I do a bad job, they are disgusted but not surprised.

"But it isn’t as if customers are not at any fault. Oh no. First off, suppose you’re buying tickets from me. What would you say?"

"Ah…can I have a ticket?"

Gringo nodded, but looked on expectantly at him.

"For…Space Deathmatch Part II…" Another nod. "At five o’clock?"

"Close enough." Nicholas began recording the exchange with his mental transceiver. "You would be a good customer. Movie tickets are specific to certain factors. We don’t just rip them off from a big raffle-type roll. It’s essential for customers to provide a certain amount of information to us before we can print out a ticket. I will present them in the proper order as per our system of organization in our computers. Not that the order counts as much, as long as you got the information. I don’t ask much, you see.

"First: movie. We have got to know what movie you want to see. You wouldn’t believe how many people ask for a number of tickets and don’t tell me what it is for. Also, there is something about a box office window that makes people forget, even when I prompt them. ‘Eh, what wuzzah gonna see?’" he added, with a beautiful impression of the Appalachian accent. This was priceless research data. Nicholas could sense the potential popularity of this one among the pan-galactic psychology readers.

"Second: time. We can’t just sell you one to Titanic for all day long.

"Third: number of tickets. For the love of sweet Mahatma Gandhi, how many tickets do you want?!" Gringo could get pretty worked up about this. "Seriously. Are we supposed to take a wild guess? Usually, when there’s just one person, and they don’t say how many they want, you can assume it’s one. But half the time they want two or more, whether or not there is anyone with them, and half of that time they get mad because you didn’t read their minds." Nicholas briefly, and almost seriously, considered lending Gringo his NeuroVis glasses. It would really help with work.

"Fourth: you have got to tell us if you’re an adult, a student, a child, military, or senior citizen. We give discounts for those, except adult. During peak hours, after six in the evening, we go back to regular prices, which are high. And you know what? I’m white. When I see a white kid who’s fourteen, I can usually tell. When I see a Venezuelan kid who’s fourteen, sometimes I just don’t know. Especially with older Hispanic or Asian people who are just short. I don’t have a clue whether or not I should card them for an R-rated movie. I have no idea whether they’re expecting a student discount. And it’s always the same reactions. ‘How much? That’s a student discount?’ No, crap-for-brains! Of course it’s not! Again, mind-reading is expected. Recently, they ask that, and I just say that no, it’s not, and let the awkward silence ensue. Awkward silence has become a weapon for me. I have learned to survive it. People are like: ‘I’d like two tickets, please.’ And I say, ‘Okay.’ And then I just stare at them staring back at me and wait for them to figure it out. When they make an inquiring face at me, like ‘What are you waiting for?’ kind of face, I just raise an eyebrow back at them and wait expectantly. Some of these exchanges turn out to be real gems. Like one time this guy came up and just handed me a ticket. That’s all. No words. He just stood there staring—and of course I did the same. He nodded at me to go ahead and do whatever it was I needed to do. I nodded back. Finally, he broke, and just yelled, ‘Man, refund!’ And I was like ‘Retarded piss-ant! Get a clue!’ Of course that’s not what I said.

"Actually, it probably was what I said, only not into the microphone. Working box office, you learn the art of the mute button for the microphone. Clicking it on and off becomes internalized and subconscious so that it’s not your mind taking care of it, it’s your body.

"It’s sort of bad though. Recently it gets to where you can’t do a transaction without saying something mean about someone under your breath. I end up feeling kind of bad whenever I remember that these aren’t movie-theater-fodder, these are people. But sometimes they just won’t let you remember.

"You’ve got a few different stereotypes of customers, and they earn these by repetitively proving them to me. I’m not a bigot or anything, but I know what I have seen. First you have rednecks. They never speak the entirety of the movie title, only what shows on the showtimes list. I call this the Law of Diminution Redneckia. Then when you tell them how much it is, they wig out. They can’t believe that I would charge them that much, and yet they don’t see how that very comment reflects their own hypocritical stupidity. It is a comment on themselves. It says: ‘I am a monumental dimwit for paying you this much!’ And twice over, since they pay it.

"You’ve got your ghetto dudes. This of course is not limited to a particular race. Oh no—ghetto surpasses racial boundaries. Ghetto imbues every race, and often coincides with low-income families. Which is why people that wear Abercrombie and say things like ‘shawty’ really makes me want to punch them in the face, if that would be what it takes to let them know that they are putting on an idiotic pointless show. These are the people that come in groups, sometimes with little sisters, sometimes with just friends. Their communication effort comes in short sonorant bursts, expecting me to fill in the consonants and trace the diphthongs back to what the real word is. These people are difficult to communicate with.

"You’ve got foreign dudes. Most of the time people speak enough English to half-pronounce the name of the movie, or the showtime list diminutive. They can hold up fingers and point. That can tell me how many, and the ticket class, you know, adult, student, etc. Still, Hispanic non-English speakers had a tough time with movie titles like Hannibal and Jurassic Park.

"Asian people are a delight to do a transaction with. Even when they don’t speak terribly good English, they are certain to have not only the drivers license (if not the presence) of each person for whom they are buying tickets, but also the student ID for everyone who is coming. They have a higher probability to give you exact change, I might add.

"Romanians are just rude, though. I know that’s awful to say. But I have had so much trouble with Romanian customers. They’ve just been discourteous and as vulgar as my unfavorite white-trash customers.

"You know, with the values I’ve grown up with, I have a little something to say about homosexuality. But let me tell you this—gay guys are so prepared when they buy movie tickets. It isn’t often that your stereotypical gay person comes to our movie theater. But when he or she does, they aren’t rude, they provide the Big Four points that I need to know, and they say thank-you for Pete’s sake."

It was two in the morning. Nicholas entered the 223 Cambodian Prison Cell and found Paul and Hal playing Tony Hawk 2 on the DreamCast. Gringo was on his bed, the bottom level of the Double Decker Couch. He waved to acknowledge Nicholas’s presence, and turned back over.

"This would be a good time," came Asterisk’s voice, "to begin that dreams documentary we talked about."

Nicholas agreed silently, and leapt nimbly up onto the top level of the DDC, trying to disturb Gringo as little as possible. He produced his NeuroVis glasses and leaned back against the wall, facing the video game console. Paul worked at a DreamCast controller, making a recreation of Bucky Lasek flip and kick nose-grind on things in Philadelphia. Hal watched, rapt.

"Nicholas, you want a shot at Marseilles?" asked Hal, without removing his eyes from the television screen.

"No, thanks."

"Cool."

Gringo’s rapid eye movement visions spilled out of his bed and wandered about the room. They crept up through the spaces between the DDC and the wall, they twisted around the cable modem wire hanging from the external modem in the wall. They were visions of work. He could see a plexiglass window, and a face. The face was blurred with indiscrimination. It didn’t matter who it was. It was a thousand people, and almost literally. It was a stocky white man, a tall thin black woman, and, with some flicker of respite, an Asian student. To the right was a touchscreen terminal with movie listings that Nicholas could not read. The person was at the front of a line that went on past the building, stretching to infinity, never ending.

"Could I get two tickets to… monsters incorporated the one star wars episode one the phantom menace star wars bandits episode two attack of the clones lost souls soul survivor the mummy the mummy returns windtalkers from hell hannibal domestic disturbance a beautiful mind black knight a knight’s tale tigger the captain corelli’s mandolin the heist the score fight club glass house iron monkey k-pax hardball the affair of the necklace from hell musketeer behind enemy lines atlantis hearts in atlantis outlaws american pie ali thirteen ghosts bones bubble boy american pie 2 are you preselling tickets in advance for Friday Saturday Sunday for harry potter…."

Gringo shifted uncomfortably for a few minutes. Every time he did, the tendrils of the vision would back off for a moment, and then attempt to entwine his mind in their grasp again. At some point Gringo realized that he was dreaming, and leapt up on the box office counter, removed his pants, and began to dance in front of them. He shook his butt in the security camera. Anvils began to rain down upon the customers, not destroying them as they would in real life, but flattening them as if in a cartoon.

Defeated, the vision gradually dissolved, and gave way to a few minutes of dreamless descent into a deeper subconscious state. When he got there, the dreams began.

At first he dreamt of release. His troubles were undefined, but he was conscious of them, and Nicholas sensed that they were tragic and heart-wrenching. Anyhow, he dreamed that he was at home, and the problems were over. He felt free. He cried with his girlfriend and hugged his enemies, and everyone in the dream was content on their newfound peace. This was for eternity—it, like all things, would not pass away.

He shifted and began another dream. He was at war. Only it wasn’t a real war, it was some sort of game. It smacked suspiciously of LARPing (live action role playing), which Gringo denounced vocally in public. Soon, however, though he felt everyone was only playing their part, he felt that the danger was real. He was in a restaurant watching dinosaurs spar like samurai outside. Only that was a late-night infomercial for some video tape. He was on a dock with a weapon and an ally at night. They could see where they needed to go—a tower across the way, to convince a princess that they needed her help. He was walking English-looking grassy hills, trying to blend into a strange procession taking place which was some arcane mockery of baptism. It involved a king’s royal court standing lakeside and watching some man with long black hair immerse a pale, naked woman into the water, imbuing her with some unholy spirit. Weak, she was lead from the water. Someone there threatened Gringo discreetly that they knew who he was and they gladly take his life if he didn’t move along. He and the ally were in the princess’s tower, finding her intoxicated. She had inhaled some beauty product, a hair spray or something, and was hallucinating that a fairy flew around her and made for good conversation.

He shifted positions and into another dream. This one was too abstract for Nicholas to even grasp, but he watched anyway.

His windshield wipers screeched back and forth and tried desperately to keep up with the pace of the falling water. He remembered waking up and looking out the windows that day. Gringo touched the windshield, as if somehow it would get his fingers wet.

"When I woke up at like ten and saw the gray light outside, I was relieved to get a little rain. But I was sorta bummed, because you know, it seems they never last long enough. When I woke up again at like noon, I saw the gray light still holding up, and heard the rain still pouring. I was like…." He put his finger horizontally across his lips and flipped it up and down, and began to sing the Hallelujah Chorus.

Nicholas laughed out loud, but didn’t take his eyes off the road for long. The wind was blowing hard. Gringo sighed. "This is the kind of weather I relish for real. It’s strange the way we believe that somehow the physical ablution can purge us of our immaterial stresses."

"You certainly are somber," said Dirk from the back seat, without looking up from his newspaper.

"Sometimes my mood simply follows the weather. It’s odd. Common, but odd. You’d think humanity would have thought of something else to attach its emotions to, rather than the weather."

"Like the stock market," said Dirk. "Score! Intel is up!"

"You don’t own any Intel stock. You don’t even like Intel."

"As a matter of fact, I happen to own plenty of Intel stock." The sound of blankets of rain dropping gracelessly on the windshield permeated the silence. "Okay, that’s a filthy lie. I’m broke as Gringo’s computer. But if I did, I’d be all, score! Intel is up!"

"You are a fruitcake," said Gringo. They passed a car on the side of the road. Its driver, a now-drenched man with long black hair in a pony tail behind a baseball cap, leaned into the open hood. "Did I tell you guys about Fisk and I last Monday?"

"Don’t think so."

"You know that turn from East Campus onto College Station? It’s got two left turn lanes. We were in the left one. This huge…I don’t even know what to call it. It was bigger than a truck, wider than any normal vehicle. It looked like an SUV on mad roids. It was like a covered mobile fortress. Maybe it was an APC or something. Anyway they were beside us at the light, on the lefternmost turn lane."

"You did not just say lefternmost."

"You know what I mean. Anyway, the green arrows light up, we turn, only the mobile fortress is all coming in our lane. I was like, Fisk! You got to brake the car, man! And he did at the last second, as the back end flung past us, and they continued taking their half of the road out of the middle. They drifted back into their lane eventually, realizing what the dotted line in the middle of the road was for. We past them giving them this look like, What is wrong with you freako?! But we couldn’t see anyone in the car. So our first assumption was that it was one of those—"

"Oh no," groaned Dirk, foreseeing the coming explication.

"—those Transformers, right? You know, Autobots, Decepticons, more than meets the eye?"

"Yes, thank you, we’ve heard of them," said Dirk. But then he had a second thought. "Hmm…Transformers…that will be necessary for Mantopia." He scribbled it down in his miniature notebook that he’d reserved for Mantopia ideas. And phone numbers.

"Anyway, so later on we were driving down 316, although I wouldn’t necessarily say down 316, since that implies south and we were going east—"

"Just…argh!" Dirk made strangling motions with his hands.

"—anyway but we were going down it, or on it, and we smelled this fragrance, no, this odor, it was like dusty and melted-rubbery, and there was all this smoke coming from a car, and some people running from it. Also there was a cop car, sorry, a police car, and he was throwing open the trunk of his Crown Victoria, presumably getting a fire extinguisher. Farther up was the jeep, and it was smoking like crazy from the hood and there was fire burning on the ground underneath the front section.

"Well as we were passing it, Fisk was like, wouldn’t that be crazy if I saw it explode in the rear-view mirror? And suddenly there’s this shockwave and a bright flash of yellow light, and shrapnel, oh the shrapnel, and a twisted piece of burning metal crashed through the back of Fisk’s car, reflected off of his rear-view mirror, and stabbed him in the arm, instantly cauterizing the wound. He screamed in terror, but kept driving. He kept saying he must get us to work on time."

Dirk looked up from his newspaper. "Huh?"

"Nah, I was just kidding about the shrapnel. And the explosion." Raindrops again. After a few minutes: "This sure beats the heck out of Paul’s car. I swear, every spare second he plays techno in that room, and if we drive somewhere, guess what he’s burned for us to listen to? Techno. It’s not bad techno or anything, it’s good techno. But there’s only so much techno one man can take, you know?"

"What about Paul? He can certainly take a lot of techno."

"I said one man. Paul is no man—he is machine."

"Oh, right. My bad."

Look at you, it said.

It didn’t even speak, really. Not speaking as humans knew it. It just sort of used vibrations in its awful outer covering, which was not skin, not flesh, to manipulate sound waves and form English sounds, or close kin to them. When it spoke Human, little mouth- and throat-shaped caverns appeared in the gelatinous outer covering. It was a hideous and clever mockery of Man. It had a real mouth, with a jeering smile, but it said it didn’t want to profane its mouth with Human-speak.

Weighed down with equipment. Having to depend on someone else, even many someone elses, for your survival. That shouldn’t be allowed. You should go into this naked as I am.

"I’m afraid I wouldn’t last long. That would provide no sport for the viewers."

The dropcraft hit a thermal draft, which caused a nasty-looking wave to travel the length of Poshedon’s outer gelatin. Nicholas clicked the button suspended over his left shoulder, which de-materialized the Tvarinian mining arm. The alloy plates clanked as they folded upward and back into the ionization pocket. Compacted, the mining arm looked like one of those long-range door-unlockers for cars, attached to his left shoulder. The green override light flashed on it, indicating Nicholas’s control for the moment. He imagined Asterisk would not override it. Not for the Game.

In his right hand, Nicholas held the Zeinesian multi-function officers’ sidearm. He had a holster for it, but he didn’t feel like utilizing that holster right now. He was coming into a new world, a new environment, and this Poshedon character made him feel ill at ease. There was a gray bandana tied around his head, almost gangsta-style. It was a psionic damper, and protected the transceiver implant. In his shirt pocket, encased in a Lenscrafters hard-case, were the NeuroVis reading glasses. He wasn’t sure how they were going to work here. It would probably take some getting used to for each species to learn how to read their thoughts. Asterisk had told him that thought for some species was exponentially more abstract and far-reaching than in humans.

"Humans think in their minds, on a good day," he had said. Nicholas could still remember the exasperation on Asterisk’s face as he tried to put it into human thoughts and, worse yet, English words. "Jazerine Priests think with planets and solar systems."

Nicholas had lost sleep over those cryptic words. But sleep wasn’t anything he was going to worry about or get anytime soon. It was going to be a long haul. And he was less optimistic with every second near Poshedon.

How about this, ape-cub. You can stick around with me for a few days. We’ll work together. Wear down the numbers and increase our chances. But when I’m tired of you, I kill you. Sound good?

"Sounds erroneous." His friends would have gasped in shock had they heard him say something like that. They didn’t know he had any badass in him. He hadn’t known, either. "But I’ll take it." Or was this the effect of this slug-being’s corrupting presence?

Time would tell. Now, to the surface.

Crazy Tex stood on the top of a hill. Attached to his back was a sword the size of a large scaffolding, forming a silhouette X-shape against the artificial sunset. Crazy Tex was Zeinesian knight. He stood waving a flag from the top of the hill. Little bulbous automatons flittered about him, cameras documenting his every move. Closeby was Baron Abscondeo, a man of a little more Zeinesian nobility than his counterpart the knight. Both looked something like humans, except for the glowing orange phosphorous rings in their eyes.

There’s our man. We’re going to stick close to them for a while. But when it goes down, the baron is mine.

Nicholas could see shapes in the dim light of the false evening approaching the hill from all directions. There was a gathering crowd at the base of the hill. All looked tense and nervous. This was most certainly due to the fact that once the call went out, any of them might turn on anyone else.

The knight and the baron founded a coalition even before the official Competition had begun. After a few minutes, Crazy Tex had stopped waving his flag and appeared to be speaking into a camera bot. Nicholas channeled his mental transceiver to listen in on the pre-Competition interview.

The camera bot relayed the interviewer’s voice in a distorted buzz. "The viewers logged in their votes a few minutes ago. It was no surprise to the LMS audiences galaxy-wide that you and the baron would form a team first thing. What are you calling yourself?"

"The Lancers Royale," announced Crazy Tex, a cheer rising up from those nearby who had heard him. "Baron Abscondeo has a great talent for leadership. We’re fully prepared to take on the first round of threats."

"Who represents the biggest threats for you and your group right now?" buzzed the camera bot.

"Well, with the file-down tactics we employ—that is, starting a coalition first, and helping to fight others until numbers are small enough to hold a simple deathmatch—we expect very little violence for at least a local day. We’re going to unify and lay down some rules here, sending scouts around the area for bonus crates and supplies. Our goal for now is to head west and reach the coast, and find some way to cross the sea to Consummatus."

"Anything you would like to say to the viewers and judges?"

"Watch and see. There is fire in me and my baron, and we will inspire it in these warriors. No one under our banner shall die without glory."

Another camera bot flitted around Poshedon, attempting a pre-Competition interview. He swatted it with a one of his temporary pseudopodia.

Jet.

It tried with Nicholas. "What is your name, sir?"

"Nicholas Kirk Evans. I’m here for Asterisk."

"Interesting. How do you plan to use this coalition to your benefit?"

"Well," said Nicholas, the chill in the air matching his bitter statement, "I’m just going to hang in here until the last possible second. If nothing else, I’m going to go down fighting."

"Viewers like that, Mr. Kirk Evans. And…it seems that your overall life expectancy has just increased to two and a half local days, logged in by pan-galactic viewers. As a human, of course, they probably won’t go much farther than that. Anything you’d like to tell viewers and judges?"

"Not right now. How about checking back in with me in two and a half local days?"

The sky suddenly flashed golden. It was blinding. It was the signal. The Third Standard-Annual Last Man Standing Competition of Da Gon Gai had begun.

Nicholas had been chosen for scouting that night, probably because he was a human and expendable. He wasn’t even given a partner, even though Crazy Tex had established that as proper protocol for the Lancer Royale coalition.

Nicholas thought he could hear a river not far away. Even over that, he could hear a noise, quiet as a shiver among the reeds. He caught the slightest fluctuation in the tall grassy environment. He drew out his sidearm and set it to "Startling Prod."

Another movement. Nicholas squeezed the trigger and sent a flash of blue-white light into the tall grass. There was a yelp. A creature leapt up out of them into the air. This was Nicholas’s first contact with an Astartan. During the split second that he could make out its shape, he gathered in all the physical details. It was a small creature, the size and general shape of one of those things that turned into gremlins when you put water on it or fed it after midnight. It wasn’t furry or cute, though. It was made out of some brittle white mineral. Its texture was smooth with hard angles that had been worn by the ages. It reminded Nicholas of something carved by ancient peoples who had long since died and been forgotten. Like some miniature sphinx or something. Its blue eyes were gems which did not focus on anything, but observed much.

But soon it had hidden back in the reeds. A zig-zagging shuffle indicated it was scampering away. "Stop or I’ll open fire!" shouted Nicholas. It did not; but neither did he. The chase was on. There was a crackle of golden warp energy, and a camera bot appeared, its white lights glaring. The producers of this show were not going to let any possible action slip by their notice.

It was heading toward the river. Nicholas could hear the gentle, distant rush gradually grow into a constant roar of current breaking angrily into foam against rocks. And suddenly, the escapee ran out of tall grass in which to hide. Nicholas noticed now that it had a long tail, and moved with a sort of hopping motion. The camera bot had stayed respectfully behind Nicholas for the chase. It multiplied somehow, or sent an auxiliary miniature bot hovering about the Astartan to document the exchange from both angles.

"I represent the Lancers Royale," called Nicholas, the taste of representation foreign on his tongue. "Stop where you are!"

It was apparent that the Astartan wasn’t going to cross the river. It turned, dragging its long white tale, and flash of anger crossed its blue eyes. Nicholas wasn’t sure how he could perceive that, as its stony facial features did not change. It turned, and suddenly looked pathetic and helpless, a tiny creature cornered. Nicholas wondered if he could muster the coldhearted confidence to follow orders and destroy it once he was done questioning it.

"What affiliation have you taken?"

Its eyes flashed as words emanated from its being. He wasn’t certain where they were coming from, but he heard them as well as any other person. "None and all, like you. Please. I beg of you, let me go. If you spare me, it will come back to you." The mini-bot zoomed in on the Astartan’s face, catching some drama that was one of the high points of watching the Last Man Standing show for billions of viewers across the galaxy.

Nicholas lifted his blaster for only a moment to click the button over his left shoulder. The Tvarinian mining materialized with a series of armor clanks. Nicholas flexed the three massive, metal fingers, hearing the hum and feeling the vibrations of a hundred gears and sensors at work in those powered mechanized joints. He didn’t do this for show or threat, but more because he was nervous about taking someone’s life from them in such a predatory situation.

But certainly, the Astartan had some sort of powers of combat, or it would have never entered or been entered.

And now he was presented with the dilemma. Should he let the Astartan go, and make another ally? Or should he decrease his chances, albeit by a slim margin? And if he did let the Astartan go, how could he trust it?

"I’m going to let you go," he said. "But under one condition. You give me information. And I want you to meet me in Consummatus two days from now. There we can exchange information again. Is it a deal?"

"Of course," said the relieved Astartan, bowing in gratitude. "What would you know from me?" The camera bots went into dialogue mode, where in each focused on one person, moving slightly for effect. When their limited AI decided that their person was saying something important, they would zoom in slowly.

"Have you made any allegiances yet?"

"None, sir. None and all, like you, like all of us. None so permanent and temporary as your Lancers."

"Cut the voodoo-talk, got it? Or I’ll be tempted to break my little promise. Now. Do you seen any bonus crates or rations nearby?"

"I found one ration, but I gave it away."

"To whom?" said Nicholas.

"To me," came a voice accompanied by a hard impact to Nicholas’s right side. He fell to the ground, sprawling uncomfortably over his mining arm. He got a moment’s view of the attacker. He wore black pants and no shirt. He swung a large chained mace around, which was a conduit for some staticky-feeling electric energy. It spasmed in his body a moment and caused the gyros in his mining arm to go dead. His skin was a light blue color, and he had a strange marking tattooed in a ring along the diagonal circumference of his head, intersecting one eye socket. His ears were pointed.

The camera count was two and a half now—two camera bots and a mini-bot which was reluctant to leave the Astartan. Nicholas struggled to one knee, realizing that his mining arm was completely dead. Without the control, it was more weight than he could drag around unaided. He also could not use his fingers to change to a deadlier setting on the sidearm.

He lifted it anyway, and fired two shots. The first the opponent caught with the static flail weapon. But the second caught him in the gut. "Ow!" he yelled, and fell to the ground.

Nicholas pushed the dial against one of the mechanized fingers, attempting to change it. When that didn’t work, he tried pushing it against the ground and twisting the weapon. No luck. He needed some way to actually grip it. The attacker was approaching again. Charging was a better word for it. Nicholas hit him with another volley of sidearm fire. He was catching most of them with his electricity flail, and the few hitting him were causing him nothing more than the pain of a large needle jab, which was over quickly. He adapted quickly, and kept up his approach. Nicholas knew he was only a human, but he really wanted to see this thing a little farther than the first night.

Suddenly Nicholas’s left ear was deafened by some massive staticky noise, the high-frequency sound of a television that wasn’t quite receiving any particular channel. The attacker stumbled backward and fell to the ground.

The Astartan leapt across the roaring river from rock to rock. Nicholas realized that it could have done so at any time it wished. It had set him up on a larger scale than he’d imagined at first.

The blue-skinned opponent never moved again. He did not appear to bleed too profusely, but he was quite certainly dead. Nicholas looked around, helpless. His mining arm weighted him in place in the grass.

Some of the reeds stood up. At first, he thought it was some great moss being, and then he realized that it was camouflage, just like snipers on earth used. It covered all of his back, and the long rolled up tube that Nicholas assumed was the weapon. It had been recently crafted, too, since they’d only been here on Da Gon Gai since that morning.

"And you must be the human." She pulled back the facial coverings and grassy hood. Her skin was a dark green, and her hair almost white. Nicholas knew that somehow, even a human could be attracted to her, but the danger kept him from finding any attractiveness in her. The danger, and some other factor, which he could not yet decide. "You know, you almost didn’t make your projected life span. They’ve marked you for mid-Tuesday, max."

"So I hear." She looked him up and down, but mostly down, as he could not stand with the mining arm gyros dead. The camera bots buzzed around them. Nicholas could only imagine the excitement of the sting that had just gone down.

"You were using me to get them, weren’t you?"

"Afraid so. I really wanted the Astartan—you get ten times normal score for Astartans."

"Why did you choose to save me, then?"

"Makes for a better show, don’t you think?"

"You are nuts."

"Not as crazy as someone who joins up with the baron," she said, motioning smoothly to the red lance emblem attached crudely to his left breast pocket.

"So are you going to put me out of my misery? That would make for a good show too, wouldn’t it? Especially if you said something dramatic and cruelly sardonic?"

"Actually," she said, reaching into her grassy cloak and producing a small sidearm, "this would make an even better show." Nicholas closed his eyes. He would not cower, but he could not bring himself to watch it happen.

But she did not turn it on him. She turned to the camera-bot, and in the split-second yellow flash, plugged a Tiranium-alloy ball through the lens. She popped the other nearby camera bot as well. Both dropped to the ground, fizzled with electric death throes, and stilled.

"They are going to be pissed at you for real now."

"Actually, they’re going to be pissed at you. I don’t show up on cameras. It’s a long story, and it might be cheating. But I just like to keep it that way. And now, we have about a minute, if that much, before they send twice as many cameras your way. That, or disciplinary action. That’s how long it takes for the information to reach the judges, and for them to decide what to do."

Her sidearm disappeared back into the camouflage of her cloak, and in her hand appeared a small repair kit. She’d done this before. Her hands worked quickly and dexterously with her delicate instruments. There were two arcing snaps of electricity, and the mining arm hummed to life again. He stood up, the arm providing its own artificial strength now. He flexed the fingers. He clicked the shoulder-button and retracted the thing. Then, relieved, he flexed his own fingers and wrist.

"But why did—"

"You’ll pay me back. Trust me. Or more realistically, don’t forget."

She trotted off eastward. Nicholas had the sense not to follow.

He was late returning to camp. His superior, Gheron, a big-faced jerk of a Candaran office-worker, hounded him about it. The power he had assumed in this free-for-all went straight to his enormous head. Nicholas couldn’t imagine that any of his fellow workers were rooting for him. Maybe one day soon he would do them a favor and make certain they never had to deal with him again.

Nicholas would have, and maybe should have, been shocked at the thought coming from his own mind. But right now he was in disciplinary danger. He didn’t know any Candaran, but was beginning to pick up a couple of words here and there, from the constant yelling that Gheron supplied for the ten people in his squad. He was furious that Nicholas had come back ten minutes late from his rounds. And, since Nicholas swore he encountered no one during the circuit, was infinitely suspicious. It didn’t seem to matter that only one other scout had encountered someone, and even that was completely unrelated.

Gheron miraculously closed his mouth during the nightly review. Crazy Tex made it clear that this was how every day would end. A review of all tactically important information, and disciplinary action if necessary.

There was only one other person undergoing the disciplinary review, which resembled a court martial. He was first, Nicholas would be second. The Lancers Royale were gathered around a large campfire. Crazy Tex stood on a large rock. Someone Nicholas couldn’t see read out the charges of the first subject as he was lead out into the center of the circle. It was in a language Nicholas could not comprehend no matter how hard he tried.

Asterisk evidently noticed that. Halfway through one of the defendant’s sentences, Asterisk’s voice began translating it in Nicholas’s mind via the transceiver. "Sorry about the delay," he said, during the pause, and without taking a breath, continued translating.

Tex knew many languages, part of why he was a natural leader. "It is true that we all must die, but we are all under a covenant. You are all bound to me and my direction by your own oaths, as I am bound to lead you until we take the Central Hold in Consummatus. I have sworn not to turn on any of you. We will hold a proper deathmatch there in the hold, once we have crushed all others. Those who die under my banner will die with great honor."

"No! You are not to be trusted! We will all die, and if others do not kill us, then you must. You use us for your expendable weapons, so that you may weaken your enemies and potential enemies!" The defendant reached for the patch on his left breast.

"No! Do not!" shouted Crazy Tex. "As long as you bear the emblem of the Lancers, you are under the protection of our order. If you keep it, you may go in peace as far as you wear it. But please understand—"

He made a gesture with one hand that must have equaled the American middle finger. He tore the red-on-white lance emblem off and spat on it."

Crazy Tex’s movement was lightning-fast. He retrieved his enormous sword, which roared to fiery life, emanating a shell of flame in his hands. He leapt from the rock and swept it past the defendant-turned-enemy’s body. He had divided and immolated the enemy in one swipe. The two halves charred in front of all of the other Lancers Royale. Even the green blood was consumed by flames before it could soak into the ground.

Crazy Tex looked around. Nicholas almost choked, and suppressed the need to run like mad. There was a mad flurry of droning camera-bots around the remains.

"We can talk out our disagreements," said Crazy Tex. His voice was quiet and menacingly low. But no one missed a single syllable. There was silence for miles around them, save the crackle of the campfire and the newly-formed pyres for the traitor’s halves. "But we will not have disorder. Trust my character, and I will trust your loyalty. This will not happen again." It didn’t even seem like an order, it seemed more like a promise. And Nicholas believed him, though he took no comfort in it.

Nicholas was brought forth into the circle. He was made to stand nearby the two parts of the first defendant.

Gheron explained the charges against Nicholas to Crazy Tex, who did not take his terrible gaze from off of the boy.

"So, the human. Why am I not surprised you’ve gotten into trouble already?" The fire of his pyrokinetic blade was dying down, and he resheathed it.

"It is none of my fault," said Nicholas. "I am wrongly accused."

"So you say. Tell me: did you encounter anything odd during your scouting trip?"

"Look him," said Asterisk, sharply, "in the eye, boy, if you want to live. Show him why I chose you."

Nicholas obeyed. He found Crazy Tex’s gaze. He also saw the baron, standing a little ways back, and looked cockily at him as well.

"I saw nothing. Only the reeds and the river. I took longer because I had an electrical malfunction in one of my weapons systems. This mining arm."

There was a moment of the two gazes clashing as loud as eyes can. The Zeinesian knight did not believe him. "Deceit can undo you. There is no reason for me to believe you are lying, and so I must follow the logic I trust." Crazy Tex knew how to play his cards. Gheron was furious.

Nicholas got to sleep for a couple hours in a depression after the gathering was dismissed. When he awoke, the wind was blowing so hard that they could not keep a fire going. Gheron appeared and yelled in his barbaric tongue at Nicholas, flailing and pointing to a gathering of other scouts.

"He says," came Asterisk’s voice, "you’re going to join the westward scout team, because he hates you and hopes you die in the process. But don’t obey right away. You’re not supposed to have me helping, I think. Don’t let him know you understand all of the sudden."

Nicholas could play dumb enough. When he finally did join the scout team, they were already departing. "Come on," hissed one short, squat leathery-skinned being with a thin sword strapped to his back, and a number of small, cylindrical grenades attached tightly to his belt. The scout team was seven in all. None were very tall or strong-looking—more proof of Crazy Tex’s excellent tactical organization.

Only one camera bot whirred along with them. The campfire, they determined, was in Central Igron. Working their way west saw them walking for hours. The wind was still blowing pretty mightily.

"How much longer we have to go west till we hit the coast?" complained a dark-clad warrior with a scythe and a skull emblem where its face ought to be. There wasn’t a name for it, but apparently all advanced societies had it. Nicholas didn’t know what to call it. But he had it, the way that those "wrestlers" had it. Dressing up to look intimidating, and coming across as just plain fruity.

"Dhermano, actually," Asterisk said, cutting in. "That’s what they call it."

"Quit yer complainin’," snapped the short, leathery one, a Sarese postal worker. "Ya wouldn’t be half as tired if ya didn’t dress up like a nancy."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" said the one with the scythe. Asterisk identified him as a Timbrian accountant named Jolasaan.

The group ground to a halt. "Calm down," someone rasped. "We’ve got work to do."

"I mean exactly what I say," spat back the Sarese, oblivious. "And I’m ready to decrease the odds of my losing."

"Stop this," said the raspy voice of reason. "Not while you bear the emblem."

The camera bot was more than happy to film the exchange. Another camera warped in, the wise judges foreseeing what was about to take place.

"Decrease this," lashed Jolasaan, lunging with his scythe. He ran the Sarese through the chest. However, as he did, the Sarese’s thin blade erupted from the back parts of his rib cage. They claimed each other. The camera bots filmed for a few moments, and then one disappeared.

Five scouts left. "This is madness," rasped Chara, a thin, ragged humanoid. He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well, let’s keep on." Falgar, a hairy squat brute with tusks and a mane, took the Sarese postal worker’s grenade straps.

"Well look at it this way," Falgar grunted. "We’re rid of them, and we’re a little closer to winning."

"Unless," said Chara, "we run into an enemy scout vanguard seven strong."

They continued until they reached the Terrace. The ground was delved like two enormous stairs made for and by giants, creating a formidable defense against invaders from the ocean. As Chara documented their situation on camera, Nicholas hailed Asterisk.

"Tell me a little about this place."

"Da Gon Gai, as you may have figured, is an artificial planetling. Take a land area about half the size of the nation in which you lived on Earth, wrap it around a ball, with, oh say, Texas left over, and you have Da Gon Gai. It was made specifically for the Last Man Standing Competition. Just large enough to feel like a world. Small enough to have a miniature world war. Down past that giant Terrace is the coast. West across the sea is Consummatus, a hook-shaped continent. In the center of Consummatus is the Hold, and Crazy Tex wants it.

"By the way, if I might add. Your escapade with the Astartan last night. You’ve already got something of a reputation on the show. You’re gaining popularity with the viewers. That might be good. It might, however, be unimaginably dangerous. In fact, there’s a chap about two miles west of you. He’s not done anything interesting yet. Go watch, and quickly."

Nicholas trotted to the rocky edge of the Terrace, the wind whipping precariously toward the fall. He tried to hasten there, but not gain any attention. In the distance, near the coast, there lumbered a waddling, corpulent Xedronian. "Ey," said Chara. "Look over down th—"

The sky opened up in a ring of crimson. A jagged bolt lashed downward, incinerating the dark figure. It was bright enough to hurt their eyes, but the lightning was blood red. The ground vibrated around them.

Nicholas felt ill. The camera bot was panning across the line of them, catching their reaction. "I think," Nicholas suggested, within the bot’s audio range, "that we had better do something interesting soon."

Farther north was a larger, darker shape. The port. There were already a couple of rowboats not far out to sea. It had to be inhabited by now.

"I guess," said someone, "that means we ought to go check that out."

There was not much in the way of cover other than the crags and crevices allowed by the rocky decline. However, with their decreased numbers, they were able to keep fairly close together and, they could only hope, somewhat invisible. They took the rocky paths when they had to, scaled downward when necessary. Nicholas’s mining arm came in handy. Finally, when they were some 200 yards away, and still a good fifty foot decline, they gathered behind a large rock, from which they could peer out at the port.

"Crazy Tex will want a full report by the time he gets here," one of the scouts muttered. "He’ll be chafed if we don’t have any information on the insides of the port."

"We can’t just go in there," Chara spat. "It’s suicide to all of us. We are scouts, but we’re not invisible."

There was a crackling of golden energy. With a rushing noise, and a wave of air pressure shift, a metal crate appeared not far from them, along with two more camera bots. The crate was about two by two feet.

"A gift from above," muttered one of them, making little effort to hide the suspicion.

"It might be a booby-trap. Viewers like to mess with us that way."

"Well," Chara said, "I’ll bet there’s a special running on us right now." He shuffled up to it, and pulled on the lid. With the snap of a latch, it gave and swung outward. It didn’t explode and vaporize him, allowing a collective sigh of relief. Arcing it around and down into position, he reached down. Chara lifted a small device from it, black, with a flashing blue light.

A faintly azure-tinted hologram appeared, projected from an attached messaging device in the crate. It showed the device, and a woman’s voice spoke quickly and to the point. "Alpha-model Seterian Personal Cloaking Device. Good for one hour of use." It then pointed out the important buttons, which numbered one in totality—the on/off switch.

"Looks like they want one of us to infiltrate. And Crazy Tex will want the information for certain." The question hung in the air. Eyes began to look around one to another, some staring at the ground.

"I’ll do it," said Nicholas. The camera bots zoomed in on him. "I need to get back in good with Crazy Tex anyway." But is that the effect it would have? Or maybe, it would only prove Nicholas’s ability, and mark him a tougher enemy. But Crazy Tex was more than that. The second he started letting down on his strict rules and order, his people would destroy him.

Chara handed him the device. He attached it neatly to his belt.

"Well," he said, with a sigh and the look of ambition, "good luck, everyone."

The guard was a tall, bulky humanoid. His face was painted blue, or maybe it was just like that. His eyes glowed white, and a partial hood hung from his back. He held a big, mean looking gun, and bore a strange emblem on his chest of a green star. A communication device hung from his belt. The entrance behind him had no door or gate—certainly the architects had taken that into account.

The camera bot, which had kept low but refused to go away, flashed a red light. It meant that the directors required some sort of monologue now. They certainly were squeezing all they could out of participants who were risking their lives. No, even worse—almost certainly giving up their lives.

"I’m pretty tired from the walk. I didn’t sleep much. I’m sort of hungry. But if there’s one strong point in man, it’s endurance. I can go for a while yet. Also, I really need to raise Crazy Tex’s opinion of me." He sat there and sighed. Nicholas thought to extend the mining arm. He decided against it to avoid being heard by the guard.

"So here goes," he said into the camera bot. He clicked the button, and slipped from the hold of light.

The camera bot lost sight of him and floated away. He was glad to be rid of the attention. However, the white-eyed sentry took note of it. He raised the gun to a ready position, and trotted toward Nicholas’s area. Nicholas dared not move. The white-eyed brute scanned the area with his weapon, the barrel passing briefly across Nicholas, only feet away.

At the moment he thought was his last, the brute turned and left.

Nicholas knew he must act. He leapt up nimbly and padded along behind the sentry as he returned thumping to his place, letting the pounding hustle cover his own shuffling noises. Suddenly the sentry halted and turned. Nicholas hadn’t seen it coming, and he stumbled and almost fell. Mercifully, it made no noise on the rock surface.

He was in.

It was dimly lit and mostly unfurnished. It had been constructed for short-term use for certain. He saw a number of different species walking around inside. One was tall and orange and had tall ears and a laser blaster. Another carried a pair of metal hooks as its weaponry, and had flesh conjoining the sides of its torso, and arms, like bat wings. The fleshy wings hung like a cape. Nicholas noted that they all bore the same green star, and most had the comm device. They cast glances toward doorway as they passed by, some going out to check in with the white-eyed sentry. Nicholas could not gather the feeling of an organized enemy here. He knew that no stronger organization could be bound together among the contestants on Da Gon Gai.

It wasn’t that they were held together strongly by the valor and virtue of Crazy Tex. It was that they knew he was strong, and rather than make him an enemy, they latched onto him. They didn’t love him. They just wanted to keep on his side for as long as possible, and hope that maybe someone would kill him, though none was ready to accept that task.

Nicholas found some crude metallic stair-work. He ascended them quietly.

And the second floor was where he found the supply hoard.

It was guarded by three green star-bearing contestants. They were arguing amongst themselves. Nicholas leaned against a wall and listened in. They were gesturing pretty wildly and making sharp barking and clicking noises. Asterisk’s disembodied voice did not appear as he expected. He seemed to prefer to communicate only when Nicholas was somewhat alone. Nicholas would have to play fair for a few minutes. Or at least, a little closer to fair.

Nicholas reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved the NeuroVis glasses. He made certain to close the hard case while one of them made a particularly loud sound consisting of a succession of clicks, so much so that it was almost a screech.

Nicholas had his first look at the minds of aliens.

At first only one of them showed up. It seemed a fairly humanoid mind to Nicholas. There were memories—friends saying goodbye, someone crying, then a cold gray dropship like the one on which Nicholas had descended to Da Gon Gai. There was a new leader, and blind trust. There was suspicion, and now some anger at his colleagues, which was mixed strangely and possibly superficially with fear.

Nicholas kept looking at the second guard, whose mind did eventually show up. Nicholas could not discern images or complete thoughts, though, only a continuum of silver lines floating in blackness, twisting and turning with past events, shivering at the clicks and barks of the other two guards. Nicholas could make no sense of it. Either this was a much simpler being than he, or more complex than Nicholas could comprehend.

The third one showed even less. He did not seem to be participating in the argument quite as vigorously, only offering his opinions every minute or so. He kept opening his mouth to begin to speak, but was cut off as the other two asserted themselves. Every time he was about to speak, Nicholas felt the air around him redden with heat, and then the flash of a would-be pulse of something beyond him. Nicholas did not know what to make of it. A camera bot, filming a short on the eastern port structure, whizzed through the room and almost collided with Nicholas.

Nicholas concentrated on the one being he could understand. He scanned for information regarding the supplies they’d gathered. Weaponry and communication devices. At that moment a voice buzzed from the comm hanging from the creature’s belt. Nicholas could not understand it, but he watched as his subject understood it and processed the information.

From what he could interpret, there were enemies nearby. Nicholas thought, without any great loss, that they’d discovered his fellow scouts. Although he would miss Chara if he never saw him again.

But no, it was someone else, someone unseen. There was suspicion that it wasn’t even a competitor, but rather some disciplinary force set up by the directors and judges. It killed with the winds. Out the window, Nicholas could see the coast, and the waves were shivering under some sudden and widespread tempest.

Could it be coming for me? he wondered. He remembered that sniper woman who capped the camera bots mentioned something about disciplinary action, and he hadn’t seen it yet.

Were the judges after him?

It was one thing to be on a planet full of people that were out to kill you. It was another to be in trouble with the game’s authorities. And another still for a good majority of the entire galaxy voting against you.

If it came to that for certain, he decided, he was going to give them all a damn show. As soon as the thought came and passed, he wondered where in the world he’d gotten it.

Two guards nodded, one saying something back into the comm. They trotted out of the room and down the stairway. Nicholas knew he had to act fast. He hoped the camera would get this because it was going to be good.

The first guard, the one whose mind he could read, stayed behind. He went to the window port, and leaned out to survey the boats. Nicholas toed up to the crates. Gently, Nicholas released a latch on the first crate. He pushed the lid upward. Inside it were grenades and ammunition. He lowered it back down, this time with a small noise. Not loud enough though, it seemed, to catch the guard’s attention. The second crate was full of high-powered laser weaponry and attachable scopes. Nicholas reached out and took one which already had one of the sights attached. Lifting it, he realized that it appeared to be a floating laser gun. After a moment, the cloaking device recognized it as part of its subject, and invisibility crept along the weapon as well.

Nicholas could see his own self, in a sense, even without the glasses (which he had restored to his pocket case). He was not solid, nor invisible, but he saw himself as a faint translucent image of what he knew. Sometimes, when the device underwent a fluctuation or glitch, or when he moved suddenly, he could see his leg under his pants or his intestines somewhere beneath his shirt. Strangely, it did not surprise or disgust him at all.

As he was lowering the second crate lid, the hinges released a squeak that, under normal circumstances was nothing more than an annoyance, but now resembled a beacon call sounding across the planetling. He winced at the noise that was signaling his fate. The green star guard spun around, and opened fire on instinct. A red photon burst sizzled against the lid, bubbles actually forming in the metal. Nicholas yelped and let the thing slam closed. He flipped on the weapon he’d retrieved, which let out a high-pitched squealing noise raising to supersonic over the course of a second, much like the noise old camera flashes made when charging.

He squeezed the trigger, and hit the guard in the gun arm. There was a storm cloud of bright orange pain in the guard’s mind, and nothing else mattered to him. Nicholas took an extra second to burn a hole through the enemy’s communication device. He left him coughing and writhing in pain against the wall, under the window.

Nicholas leapt down the stairs, and in his haste crashed into two dumbfounded port guards did not know what to think. They drew their weapons, though. Nicholas put laser holes in both of them and ran out the entry. The pale-eyed guard was still manning his post, though looking inward, and appearing uneasy. Nicholas knelt down and put a laser through his knee. He did not want pursuers. Nicholas ran back up the gigantic Terrace walls.

Soon he was alone, and he did not see anyone for miles around, not even any signs of his scout party. Nicholas still had twenty-five minutes of juice left in the cloaking device, and so he used it running eastward and hoping to find the rest of the Lancers Royale.

"They’re heading your direction," came Asterisk’s voice. "You might want to conserve some of that cloaking device energy. And I must congratulate you—whatever you just did was actually not documented in any way. Crazy Tex was right to trust in your abilities as a scout."

"I figure he’ll trust me a little more this way. I’ve got to restore his trust if I want his protection."

"Do you?" Nicholas rolled his eyes, predicting the coming rhetoric. "Should you glorify and lift up one person so much in this game? He is only a pawn like you, Nicholas—and he chances are, he will die as well. In fact, his power makes him an obstacle to you."

"He is an obstacle if I choose him to be one. From one point of view, he is a tool."

"Only temporarily."

"And an obstacle permanently?"

"Feasibly." Asterisk sighed, audible even over the mental transceiver. "I expected a little more thought from you, Nicholas. Remember, you are going to be put through a long haul. You can’t forego your intellect for games and survival." There was a long silence.

"Disappointed? You were hoping I was going to play your games, and I ended up playing mine. I see how frustrating that could be."

"Nicholas, listen to me. We can turn this thing into something huge for both of us. Make a stand for humanity. Leave the mark of Mankind. Defy your reputation and scar the races forever with your pride, Nicholas."

The young man sighed. "So when do the rest of my people get here?"

"Soon. Get some rest. I’ll wake you up if you’re in any danger."

Nicholas found a large crag where there was some shade. He pulled out a ration bar, which resembled a granola bar but tasted more like a stale rice cake, and ate. He also retrieved from his backpack some paper and a pen.

Dirk, he began. Things are going well so far.

He hadn’t dreamt since he’d been on Da Gon Gai. But then, he hadn’t slept much at all. What little sleep he’d gotten was forced by his body.

This time it was about a serpent. Not the scaly green kind of serpent one imagines convinced Eve to bite the apple. A long, pale snake, soft and helpless. It curved and twisted around rocks and sticks and classes and girls and religion and some sort of fountain, creativity spewing thoughts and ideas that had the full potential to catch. A rain of sadness erupted with enormous bombshell drops of tragic events, loss loved ones, family changes, friends adopting psychoses, and the sprinkling premonitions of not-so-distant-future events, that were certain to change things and hurt people. The snake tried to learn to bend itself in the right ways, to change into the right colors, but was having some considerable difficulty adjusting. It sulked under the intermittent shade of half-closed blinds in the evening, waiting for someone to tell, someone who would listen. People came, but they were not that someone.

It was pushed out of the way by Asterisk. Asterisk looked Nicholas in the eye with his ever-penetrating gaze. "Nicholas. You probably won’t remember this when you awaken, but I must say it. Do not lose faith. You know who and what are your anchors of sanity and reality. So stick with them. Like I said, you will probably forget this the moment you awaken. But maybe this will come to help you know. I know you always have the dreams. And right now, we both know how this dream will end. But you can fight it. You can withstand it and conquer it. I didn’t put you here thinking you couldn’t handle it. But I didn’t imply that it was a leisure cruise, nor that people here would serve you with silver platters hand and foot. There are still enemies. There is danger. But you have what you need. Not within yourself, but it’s there." He kept speaking, in words and strange languages, and it seemed to make sense, but gradually Nicholas realized it was fading into obscurity and soon oblivion.

So what’s it gonna be? You gonna off crazy Tex?

No. Not this. Not now. Just let me rest.

Yeah, that’s right kiddo. Remember? I’m here. Always have been. I exist with hands and substance, and in thought and spirit.

Then you exist in all?

You think that’s all there is to it? You think there is only body and mind?

Sometimes I only believe in one at a time.

Then I suppose you wouldn’t quite understand when I tell you I’m everywhere. I’m not just in your friends, in your family, in your life, on this planet. I’m not just in your dreams. Those are only two existences. Berkeley was wrong. There is matter. And I’ve almost got control of it. You think I’m here just to play duck-duck-goose with your pathetic schoolmates? I’m more than that. I conquest existences. I make thoughts mine. I eat realities for breakfast, and lunch and dinner, for that matter.

What other…?

There’s no good way to describe it to you human types. There was this one a couple of centuries ago. It was shaped like one of those nautilus shells you have on your beaches. Compartments leading to compartments, and so on, ad infinitum. Took me less than a week to learn it. I started the first compartment, it reminded me of your loves and your friendships. The next was color and design. The next religion.

And you just swallowed it? Just like that?

Close. It took a while. In a way, it’s still taking me a while. Time, or that version of it, was the fifth compartment. But once I’d gotten a few down, munching them down became a lot easier. Social sciences seriously needed salt, though.

Come to think of it, the one right before that one was pretty good. Tasted like an orange. It was a universe based on the concept of pain. So of course I savored every moment. It was like those chocolate truffle packages. I remember one of the truffles—crunchy trauma shell. The inside was a gooey, creamy depression, the kind that leaks from mind-wounds after personal tragedies. He shuddered with the delightful memory. You could never know how tasty.

Will I remember you when I wake up?

Who says I’m letting you wake up?

Well…you always did before.

A mistake I’ll remedy soon enough. I’m working on this dream business, and soon it’s going to make a nice course. I’ll probably liquefy your dreams and ambitions, use them to cleanse the palate, you know, like what you use that sorbet stuff for.

I haven’t decided what to think of you.

Thinking is overrated and will soon be useless anyway. Give it up.

So...what would you think if I did…this?

You put that down, kid. Don’t make me go there.

What have we got to lose?

That’s precious research material to me. Put it down.

What have I got to lose?

Well for one thing, you don’t know what happens after you do it. Who knows…he got up close and flashed him a look with his terrible eyes…maybe that’s a reality I’ve already got?

Reminds me of something someone said once. We fear what we don’t know. It’s possible that the disadvantages exponentially outweigh the advantages. However—

Don’t.

—that’s just as equal as it’s opposing argument, and so, I’ll—"

"—be waking up now." The words were slurred slightly. Nicholas sat up, drenched in cold sweat. The light that had been coming in from outside was a dim purplish-blue. Poshedon stood in front of him, slather dripping from his teeth. Past the translucent outer baggy of skin, Nicholas could see the remains of some recent victim suspended in the jelly. Nicholas’s breathing slowed, but he did not take the laser gun barrel out of his mouth.

Easy. Easy kid…I’m letting it go this time. I need you a little more anyway.

Nicholas eased it out of his oral cavity, a thin white line of saliva still sticking on it, breaking only when he’d removed it two or three inches away. He put the gun on the ground, still shaking somewhat.

You weren’t gonna do it. You have more life than most men will ever known.

"What’s that worth?" he asked bitterly and sardonically.

Something. Maybe. Okay, you got me. Poshedon pulled his green lips back over his real mouth, which was not forming his voice of course. He made a sickening mockery of a smile.

"So you really eat realities?"

Fraid so.

"Why do you want mine so badly?"

Yours looked easiest at first. Soon, it became a challenge I couldn’t decline. It was so blank at first, like cornbread. But you got involved with Asterisk and spiced it up. I just can’t let it go. Makes me ravenous just thinking about it sometimes. You can imagine how bad I want to swallow you right now, seeing you here in full physical form.

"All that stuff about the other realities…is it true?"

To the last word.

"You seem like a pretty trustworthy nemesis."

Tell that to him. Poshedon rose up and spread his arms, looking down at his torso. Digesting skeletal remains jounced around, suspended and moving slowly through the gelatinous insides. I told him I could help him win this thing. He actually believed it, too. That was sad.

"Are the Lancers coming?"

They’re here, actually. You ever decide if you’re going to keep helping Tex? I’d really like to see you walk up there invisible and give him that laser in the eye. I could hold ‘em off for ya, too. Make sure you got away clean.

"We’ll see."

Nicholas did approach the crowd of Lancers Royale invisibly. He found Chara and the scouts giving report of their findings to Crazy Tex, who was standing on a light military vehicle someone had gotten a hold of. It resembled a jeep. The baron sat in the back of the jeep.

Nicholas decided to put his NeuroVis glasses back on. Crazy Tex showed many human characteristics, and probably thought like one.

But it wasn’t quite what he expected. He could find no thoughts in Crazy Tex. None at all. For all his military abilities and leadership qualities, for all his charisma, Nicholas could find nothing. He squinted and looked him up and down, but found nothing at all.

Until he caught the glimmer.

Nicholas remembered spider webs on Earth. They weren’t always visible, especially in evening light. Often you could only catch a fleeting glimmer that ran the length of the thing over the course of a second. And then you could judge its location.

It looked as if it lead from where Crazy Tex’s mind should be back to the baron. There he could see it—valor, deceit, leadership, technique, potential, convolution, masterful puppetry. A small portion of it resembled the mind that he had attributed to Crazy Tex. But it was so much more.

He wondered if Crazy Tex was even a real being, or just a weapon formulated by Baron Abscondeo. If he were a real Zeinesian being, or any kind of being, Nicholas thought he could never mute his pity and kill him.

Nicholas clicked off the cloaking device with eight minutes’ worth of juice remaining. Everyone started that moment he appeared, but they recognized him as he predicted. Crazy Tex did not flinch, however.

"You!" hissed Chara. "You’re still alive!" Camera bots buzzed excitedly around him.

"I suppose I am."

Crazy Tex looked at him disapprovingly. "Did you find anything in the port?"

"This," he said. But he was not looking at nor speaking to Crazy Tex. He looked directly at the baron. "They’re stockpiling weaponry. They’ve found a pretty good amount of these blasters. They bear a green star emblem. They’ve also got a communications system. Links clipped to their belts. They are suspiciously well-supplied."

"It is possible," said Crazy Tex, stepping between Nicholas and the baron, "that the directors have given them the superiority in supplies because of our excellence organization and ardor."

"What’s happened since we left the main group?"

"We made some fifty kills against a loosely confederated group. We lost only one warrior, and he at my blade because he was an informant to them. He thought to eliminate my eventual threat with their help." He sighed. "But know this." That was the camera bots’ cue to zoom in. "I refuse to fall before we take the Consummatus Central Hold. There will many lives end in an honorable deathmatch."

Nicholas sat alone, a ways from the campfire clusters of warriors. Two camera bots followed him, practically pleading for information on his scouting raid.

"There is more to this game," he said, sitting on a rock and peering off into the sky, full of lights. "I know that a hundred billion of you are hearing me tonight, that is, if I’m lucky enough to get some coverage." He sighed, threw a pebble. "And I know this is what you all want. You want to get your life lessons in short little segments from prime-time reality shows. It doesn’t go that way, galaxy.

"Today did teach me a number of things, though. Or at least, bring them to my attention. First off, I’ve got a chance of winning this thing. I didn’t have any iota of belief in that before. But today it dawned on me. It’s possible. I don’t know why I feel a lot more confident about it. If not, I’m going to get pretty far, at least. I’m going to let you know what a man can do. What a human can do.

"Also, I don’t care. If I win or lose, if I make a good percentile, if I die honorably or I’m executed naked and hanging from an artificial tree. Doesn’t matter. Because I am bigger than this planetling, bigger than this game. I’m huge. Why, you may ask? Because I have an enemy and a benefactor. They’ll both smile to hear this, but for different reasons. You both believe in my potential. But know this. Neither of you have me, or ever will. To my benefactor: I’m going to learn your way, and learn it well. I’m going to rise above you. To my enemy: you can never have my world. You can never have my mind or my dreams." He sat in thought for a few minutes. The cameras got a good, long view of his furrowing brow and could practically film the gears of his philosophies turning.

"There is one thing you can have though. It’s an entirely human concept. Where I come from, it means a lot. So—about the dreams," he said as he displayed the bird to the cameras, "this is for you."

At that moment, across billions of viewers and monitors holographic and two-dimensional, and on front pages of newspapers across the galaxy where they were still used, and in millions of other forms of newscast media, was the image of Nicholas with his middle finger raised. He had flicked off an entire galaxy.

"You," came Asterisk’s voice after a while, "are going to be a star."

The Lancers Royale now numbered seventy-six warriors.

The offensive they prepared against the eastern port was no secret to the green-stars. It wasn’t that Nicholas had given them away. In fact, his raid on the port structure left the local green-star contestants in disarray. They’d never seen him, and he had wounded a few with a weapon that they were hoarding.

They did have scouts of their own, though, and they’d heard about the recent victory against the other group. They’d called in for reinforcements from the central green-star group in Consummatus. They’d sent a little help, but not enough.

Nevertheless, all defenses were increased. Even the hooded pale-eyed sentry was hobbling on patrol, this time in a larger group.

Nicholas gave the laser weapon to Chara, who had hissed in gratitude. He was beginning to enjoy Chara’s company. He already felt like they were old war buddies, and had been through much together. It certainly beat having Poshedon around to confuse and frighten him. Asterisk encouraged him to keep trust Chara, as serpentine as he seemed. "On some worlds, the serpent is a symbol of unity and trust."

"That’s pretty foreign to me."

"They think your view just as foreign."

Chara had attained some body armor which Crazy Tex either hadn’t noticed or allowed him to keep. The latter was most likely. It was a thick, light, material that was hard and yet flexed with the body. This kind of material became more dense at points of high impact. You could impale a person if you had a year to spend working on it, but no normal bullet would penetrate that armor.

The sky was overcast today, no doubt some simulation voted in by millions of viewers. The air above the Lancers was filled with camera bots whizzing frantically back and forth, documenting as much as they could.

Before noon, the Lancers began streaming down the Terraces and closed in around the port. The Battle of the Eastport was begun.

Nicholas waited until the front assault lines had broken the outer defenses, and then he and Chara began scaling the walls of the structure. Atop the structure there was a squad of sharpshooters and a grenade backup. Nicholas’s mining arm assisted greatly in that climb, and Chara had sharp claws in his fingers. At the top, they charged into the midst of the sharpshooters and opened fire. Nicholas rushed in for close-combat, knowing that the explosives soldier could provide little defense against them.

Nicholas shot down two of them with his sidearm, and lifted another green-star off the edge with his mining arm. Chara took out the grenade launcher.

The two surveyed the scene from their lookout position. The battle raged in a semicircle around them and beneath them. Sentient beings from across the galaxy were falling to the ground, spilling whatever kind of blood they had. Casualties began to mount for both sides. It looked, however, as if the Lancers were gaining enough advantage so that soon they would be able to infiltrate the building.

That was when Hashamayim appeared. At least, Asterisk said that was his name. He warned Nicholas to be wary of this one. He was on par with Crazy Tex.

He had golden wings that glinted in the sun as he descended from the artificial heavens. He was pretty well-armored, and he carried a huge autocannon. No one could have been allowed to begin the game with a weapon that powerful. He had to have found it somewhere. It breathed out a stream of bullets almost consistently. A trail of shells followed Hashamayim.

Crazy Tex took note of him immediately.

Hashamayim alighted atop the structure, between Nicholas and Chara. He turned to Chara and squeezed the trigger, the impact of the quick spray of bullets carrying him back off of the structure, falling down below. Nicholas took the moment’s distraction to charge and hit him with the mining arm. It sparked against his armor, and he only turned and whipped Nicholas down with the gargantuan weapon. Nicholas slid backward, and off the edge of the roof.

He came down upon a balcony, and not gently. Beside him was a window. Beyond the open window were open metallic crates, and a guard with a bandaged right arm. Taking note of him, he sent two laser bolts sizzling out the window.

Nicholas remembered him. This time, he sent a sidearm bolt that finished the job.

Nicholas climbed in the window. The effort exerted in that reminded him what he’d fallen on—his right leg. It throbbed with sudden pain. He imagined with some regret that he was better off than Chara, however.

This time he looted the guard. He took the pain killer gel caplets, the communications link, and his laser blaster. First order of business: the pain killers. He only took one, unsure of the strength relative to the human chemical balance. Outside, he could hear the sounds of battle: the clanging of metal weapons, the buzz of laser guns, the droning of camera bots, screams of agony, and the high-pitched report of Hashamayim’s weaponry. Even underneath all that, he could hear the waves crashing lazily against the sand on the shore.

The rest of the compound was pretty empty. Nicholas found his way back outside, remembering his first encounter there. The pain in his leg began to lessen, and remarkably soon.

He found Gheron outside. It seemed wrong, but he was disappointed to see him still alive. He was surprised that the proud, big-faced creature still lived after this battle. Looking around, Nicholas could see that their casualties had grown almost twofold by the time Hashamayim arrived.

But the battle had paused. All were looking up toward the top of the Eastport structure, where Nicholas had been. He got some distance and looked up there. Someone with a loud voice had climbed up there with Crazy Tex and Hashamayim and said announced a duel. Whoever won got all of the living troops from both sides.

Hashamayim leapt up into the air even before the duel was officially begun and opened fire. The stream of bullets ricocheted off of Crazy Tex’s wide-bladed weapon, and then glowed white hot from the heat of it. Tex ran forward and leapt up into the air, slashing, and sending a gigantic fireball into the air. It caught Hashamayim alight, and he fluttered angrily, trying to put out the fire.

Hashamayim began to fall. Tex leapt up and used the skull-crusher hilt for just that. He crashed it into Hashamayim’s head, disorienting him for a moment, and kicked at the autocannon as hard as he could. The strap snapped in two and it fell into the shallow waters of the coast.

Nicholas heard a high staticky sound, that was over in an instant. He knew instantly what it was, and knew he could never track its origin. That invisible wind-sniper woman. Hashamayim fell limp, and although no one had seen Crazy Tex strike a finishing blow, they credited him the victory. Tex landed on the shore.

The green-star troops surrendered. Tex allowed them to join the Lancers, but only once they surrendered their hoarded weaponry and equipment. Those who would not join he did not force nor kill. He did, however, send them on their way weaponless. They were very few in number. It was a death sentence as it was, anyway. Certainly there were no strong groups still accepting members. By now the law was kill-on-sight.

Nicholas had disobeyed that rule when he’d encountered the Astartan, but that was his little secret (which of course, he shared with billions of pan-galactic viewers).

By evening the supplies had been redistributed and the leaders under Crazy Tex turned their attention toward the boats. The port had three large ships in dock. They had two masts each, but were long and flat, with many oar-ports. There were a number of smaller dinghies and rafts as well.

That night Crazy Tex chose captains for the boats. A tall, blue fellow with long ears said he’d been a sailor all his life on the water planet Kerkeros. His name was Razi. He was chosen for the first boat, which he named after the planet. The second captain, Malarich, was a thick, squat humanoid with a long orange beard forked into seven braids. He lead the Mekhtar. The third captain, by some strange twist of fate, was Gheron. Nicholas did not complain when he was assigned to Gheron’s ship, if only because it was chosen as Crazy Tex’s flagship. Also, Hashamayim’s huge autocannon was mounted on the front of that ship.

There was no time to rest that night. The wind had picked back up. Nicholas presumed that he was the only one who had figured out why. It was that sniper woman. Whenever her weapon fired its super-powerful bolt, it brought the winds along with it later that day, and appeared to have far-reaching effect. It was apparently some sort of wind-gun, though how someone could concentrate wind that small was far beyond him.

Dzerino, the flagship, set sail first, with crew pushing off with the long oars. They sailed west. The other two followed.

That night the hard winds turned into a storm. There was rain, albeit artificial, and flashes of lightning. Once it flashed red, but that was not lightning. It did, however, sink the Kerkeros. The directors and judges, and viewers were displeased.

They circled around to pick up survivors, but in the storm, could find few. Two ships now. When the storm died down, Crazy Tex gathered his crew for a meeting. They signaled the Mekhtar to pull up beside them, and the rest of the rafts and dinghies in between. Crazy Tex addressed the whole of his fighters.

"On a whim, no doubt, they have destroyed one of our ships. I am certain that this is because of my decision yesterday to let the green-star warriors live and join us. That did not please the viewers or judges. And so a new decree I give you. No other being in this world must live. We must not allow anyone else to join the Lancers Royale. We must become twice as hardened as we are, three times as strong, and ten times as deadly. We must work as one and lose as few casualties as possible. We have communication links now, but I cannot make every decision for every Lancer. You must think for yourselves, of course. Keep in mind the goal—the goal is individual. The means, however, is unity amongst the collective. Do this not for me. Do it for yourselves."

Nicholas remembered every coach he’d seen on TV during interviews after they lost a game. "We played hard today. We just let a few of them get by. The [other team, whomever they may be] are a strong team, and they made us work for our points. We just have to keep at it and next time we’ll see a real turnaround."

Crazy Tex told them that they were changing route. They weren’t going to Consummatis, but rather Southwest to the Orisian Islands. They would establish themselves there until they were prepared to invade Consummatis.

The Spire of Tarosha jutted up from the water like a huge jagged nail. In the early morning, the Lancers docked there. There were too few trees to find any firewood on this rocky extrusion. Most huddled in circles on the island and ate rations or slept under a rock.

Crazy Tex sent Malarich and a crew climbing the crooked spire. Rumors circulated about some new weapon hidden up there at the top. Bored and not tired, Nicholas decided to go exploring the rocky terrain. He was a scout anyway—that was his job.

On the southern side of the island he found a cave. Inside he could hear the dripping of water, and see nothing. He felt his way along for some time until he realized that he could see, and not because his eyes had gotten used to the dark. There was light coming from somewhere down the way. Through a twisted series of turns and drops he found the source.

In some circumstances, he could have said she was beautiful. But there was something just too deadly and arcane about her, and he could find no beauty in it. Her lodging was a sanctuary, and she knelt in a massive, flowing black dress in between two candles. They lit the room dimly with blue flame.

Nicholas put on his glasses. Finding nothing, he approached her unsteadily. A pair of camera bots whirred to life. He, or someone, had been meant to find this chamber. The dim blue shimmered on her long dress and her endless black hair, and flickered off of the dark blue lids of her eyes and her lips of the same color.

"Wise one," she said without opening her eyes, "you have uncovered the Chamber of Aros. The gift is yours." She motioned to a chest set in front of her.

Nicholas drew close to the chest, reached up to open it. Noticing the camera bots zooming in on his hands, he became suddenly suspicious. "I thought there would be something at the top of the Spire, rather than here. What will they find?"

"A false gift," she said. "It will seem right, but will prove worthless."

"Will it hurt them?"

"If they choose to believe in it, they hurt themselves."

"And this is the real gift? Not a trap?"

"You do not have to open it."

She was bluffing, he was certain. She wasn’t even a real being. She was some sort of machine, made of flesh, maybe, but no mind. Not here, anyway. She was part of the game. Nicholas opened it. Inside there lay a token cast of the whitest silver. It was beautiful. He held it up and examined it. It glimmered and almost seemed to double the light in the room.

"What is it?"

"The Token of the Spire of Tarosha," she replied.

"What is its purpose?"

"To unlock the White Door in the center of the Blank World. Beneath that door is a suit of armor, the Argent Armor. That armor controls the Krake, the beast of Da Gon Gai which sleeps."

Poshedon was waiting at the entrance of the cave.

Got yourself a new toy, hmm?

"You gonna rat me out?" Nicholas asked. A trio of camera bots hovered around them. Nicholas could tell he was gaining popularity with viewers. He was always followed by at least one camera bot. Sometimes they were tough to get rid of, too, but the directors and judges knew better than to give away his importance to Crazy Tex.

Unnecessary. The cat doesn’t use the mouse to bring him a beer from the fridge. It just eats.

"Ah, so we’re cat-and-mouse? How cliché."

That’s America for you.

"You fluctuate between extremes, don’t you? Trite and suddenly far ahead of your time?"

Time means nothing more to me than mozzarella sticks. It was an appetizer.

"Oh, so you’ve eaten Time?"

Care to test me?

"How?"

Make me prove it.

"Fine." Nicholas sat down on a rock, the cold wind blowing mist that chilled the back of his uncovered neck. "Junior high school."

Poshedon began to convulse, the trunk of his gelatinous body going into spasms so violent that he had to grab onto some rocks nearby for stability. His two antennae wriggled in stress. Finally his torso, if torso it could be called, heaved one final and horrible heave. Nicholas could see painful-looking bubbles beginning to form and boil upward in Poshedon’s gut, and suddenly something appeared.

It glinted with the dim light even inside of his translucent body. Carried by spasms and bubbles, it traveled up Poshedon’s right arm, and surfaced upon his hand. He held it forth to Nicholas. It was a 1976 nickel. Jefferson had been colored black with permanent marker. Nicholas lifted it from Poshedon’s hand.

"This…this is mine…"

Was, is, it’s all the same now.

"We used it as our secret signal, me and—"

Her.

"Yeah, her…I know her name. Geez, I can’t believe I forgot."

Search as you will. It’s not there.

Nicholas sat and thought as hard as he could. He banged his head with his hand a little, as if he could dislodge the memory from the underside of some cortex and float it freely to the top. He could see her face. He could even taste her name. It felt as if it were right there on his tongue, but he could not for the life of him spit it out.

He stood to his feet, slowly, with realization.

"You…you ate that memory, didn’t you?"

Not just the memory. Swallowed the name whole. He gestured to his belly. There it was, congealing in his bowels.

Nicholas began to feel dizzy.

"What…what else…did you…"

What else can’t you remember?

"I…" He began searching for something to remember. He looked up at Poshedon. "Second grade." He was wholly overwhelmed. "I remember first and third. Teachers were Miss Kelly and Miss Bechel. But not second…nothing…" He sat down. "We moved. From…somewhere…to…somewhere else…. My mom, she—I had a mom. But her face—I can’t remember it. You ate her appearance. My dad—I had one. I think."

Technically.

"No! No, I know I had one, his name was J-…Jay, Jason, J-something. And I played with Legos all the time. I always used to build different kinds of…of…something, and Dad used to see them and tell me that I had a future as a…a…."

It was all gone.

Nicholas dropped to his knees. "You…are an unspeakable…heinous…cosmic bastard…."

Maybe. Poshedon had begun to saunter off. Nicholas could not see him, though. He was losing strength, reeling, watching the rock floor rise gradually and inevitably toward his face. Or maybe I’m just hungry.

Nicholas awoke shivering on the rocky floor. He could not remember a time that he had felt colder. Though he knew it was impossible, he felt as if all warmth had left his body. Cold was in his face. In his nose and ears, his throat. It was in his eyelids, and even in the back of his eyes. It permeated his flesh. Cold settled in his bones, which rose to a screaming attention with every gust of wind. The overcast of clouds still grumbled uneasily overhead.

Someone was approached him, but he could not hear them. He thought he might be in fact too cold to hear them.

It was her, the sniper. She had a worried look on her face. He was too cold to really care, though. He tried to move, tried to speak, but every effort let in more cold.

"You don’t look so good," came her voice. It was breathy and sounded muffled.

He grimaced and shivered in response. He was so cold, he felt like he might wretch.

"You want me to do it right now? I mean, we both know there’s only one way out of this anyway."

"Nnn…" That was all he could manage. His lips rounded into the shape of an O, and she understood. He tried to say something else, putting his lips together and blowing out, but she knew his language, and that didn’t mean anything.

She searched through his pockets for anything that might help. She found the NeuroVis glasses. "Ah. I’ve read about these. Now, let’s try my hand at reading the human mind."

She put them on. It made her look a little more intelligent. She did not seem to focus on him for a moment, but looked around, amazed at the cold that saturated his very being. Searching his memory, she said, "A-ha!" She folded them up and rummaged around in one of his pockets. She pushed a pill into his mouth. "Bet you didn’t know these could help. Actually, now I know you didn’t know these could help."

He felt fire inside him, small at first, but incredibly hot. It felt hotter than it should be in a man, but he needed it, and let it feed on the cold. The warmth worked its way from his gut outward, into his lungs and ribs, then his legs and arms, up his spine and creeping into his face. The pill began to bring him back to normal.

Nicholas sat up, still trembling with cold and weakness. "I’m s-still a little c-cold," he shivered.

"Put this on," she said. She handed him a long coat full of pockets, that may have been brown once. It was worn far past most of its use, by the looks of it. But it was comfortable, and kept some heat in. "Get up. Try to move around."

Once Nicholas had gotten to where he could move around steadily, he spoke frankly with the sniper. "What is your name?"

"Ištar."

"Why are you helping me?"

"There’s really not an easy answer to that. Would you be surprised if I told you that it goes beyond this idiotic game?"

"No."

"Then would you be surprised if I told you that it goes far beyond even the realities you think you know?"

"Maybe a little."

"Let me show you something." She held her hand forth. Above it flickered a green holographic video. He could see the back of a familiar bald head, typing away at some desk monitor. "This is Asterisk’s headquarters. This is what happened earlier today when they found out he was helping you via that implant." Khyroecian troops burst in and grabbed him up roughly. They punched him in the face, out of the chair. They handcuffed him and dragged him out of the view. "You’ll note that you haven’t heard from him in some time, not even in your last dreams, in case you were wondering."

"Asterisk…is he dead?"

"No. He’s in prison. The judges have decided not to zap you on the spot. In spite of this questionable approach to the game, the viewers still love you. They held a sort of court-martial for the show without you. The counsel of judges and directors decided not to punish you themselves. They are, however, going to announce to all of the contestants that you had outside help. They figure that will probably keep you from being the proverbial last man standing and winning, but they’re going to squeeze all the entertainment value out of you that they can."

"What about Asterisk?"

"That," she said, her greenish brow furrowing, "is going to take some planning. But for now, we have to get as far away from Crazy Tex’s group as possible."

"How are we going to get out of this island?"

"How much juice you got in that cloaking device?"

"Ahh," he twisted it on his belt to check. "Six minutes, forty one seconds."

Ištar retrieved her wind-weapon, began fidgeting with the controls. "Well…where do we want to be?"

"How about south? Maybe I could get a hold of that Argent Armor. I think that woman’s riddle meant the southern ice caps."

"Alright. Then we don’t want the winds to help them follow us. So…" She held the rifle up, facing north. She fired a bolt into the air.

"The winds will follow it, like they always do, won’t they?"

"Yes. Only sooner this time. Now, as for getting down to the southern ice caps, that’s up to you. If you’re smart, you’re going to commandeer one of those rafts or dinghies. I can meet you there at the ice caps though. In the meantime I’m going to see what can be done about Asterisk."

"Can’t I just come with you?"

"You can’t go the way I go." Ištar left it at that. Nicholas knew better than to inquire further. "Well, what are you waiting for? The winds will be up soon."

Nicholas turned north and ran. He paused a moment and turned to shout thanks to Ištar, but she was gone. He followed the rocky coast. Soon he saw the Mekhtar and Dzerino docked up ahead. Warriors were loading up onto them, preparing to sail. Others were loading up in their two- or three-person boats and rafts. An abrupt tempest rolled in from the south. "That was fast," he said out loud.

The sky flashed blood red. A voice projected, all across the planet. It was the voice of the judges’ spokesperson. It shook the ground, and the artificial oceans roared. It announced the name of the cheater, and exposed him. The sky returned to normal.

Nicholas could hear the voices of his former comrades raising in fury. They began pointing in his direction, some remembering where he’d gone. Nicholas activated the cloaking device and charged in their direction. He passed Gheron, who lead the disorganized search party for him. He was tempted to finish that wretched being with his blaster. Instead, he picked up a smooth stone and hurled it. It struck Gheron’s massive forehead. Gheron began to shout in his own tongue, or rather, continued to shout, only louder and with the high pitch of extreme frustration. He opened fire on one of his own men with a laser blaster. An angry friend held him then at gunpoint. Someone in turn threatened that person at gunpoint. It escalated into an intense and confused standoff. Nicholas continued on his way.

He saw Crazy Tex standing on the deck of the Dzerino. He was looking alert. The baron, nearby him, was listening with visible confusion to the communications link. Nicholas spied a suitable canoe. The oars were in it. Its pilot and passengers were approaching it from the shore. Nicholas waded into the frigid water. His breath caught at its temperature, but the pill that was in him worked hard to equalize. Nicholas set the sidearm to "Stun for a Good, Long While."

But first he needed more confusion. He waded as quietly as possible up behind one warrior and snagged a flash grenade from his belt. He was cautious, and in the cold of the water, the contestant did not so much as turn his head. He flicked it active and threw it as hard as possible. It landed in the Mekhtar’s deck. He saw the flash reflect on faces and the mast. Fighters began to gravitate toward it, confused, the crew milling back and forth like ants. He pushed his sidearm against the spine of one fighter that did not move fast enough for his liking, and squeezed the trigger. With a muffled yelp, he sank into the shallow water. Nicholas took his communications link.

Four minutes of juice left. He got into the canoe as quietly as possible, and started to row. Those four minutes gave him a good head start. But soon his boat was noticed with a shriek from one of the Lancers. The juice ran out not long after, and he appeared to materialize on the boat.

A couple of rafts gave chase and opened fire. Nicholas ducked them, and they didn’t want to damage the boat, so that they could salvage it. Nicholas heard Crazy Tex call them back.

Nicholas paddled as hard as he could into the night, trying to keep against the wind, his only compass.

By the time Nicholas had spotted the ice caps, it was dawn. For a few minutes, he didn’t realize it, because he was so far south. Instead of the artificial sun rising and traveling across the center of the sky, it began to cut a small arc farther north.

It was a relief to find that he’d been going the right direction. He had been guessing and second-guessing since the wind stopped some hours ago. His arms ached from rowing almost nonstop. Da Gon Gai may have been small, but it was still a feat in itself to have paddled cross-continent by himself.

Nicholas spotted an iceberg and drifted up alongside it. The side was low enough for him to heave himself up upon, he imagined. As he stood up unsteady and wobbling in the canoe, he noticed the noise. Little points around him in the water were fizzing and hissing. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. The camera bot that had been following him buzzed out of the way.

An awful sigh rasped against the back of his mind. As much as I hate to help you, you’ll want to move somewhere else, and very, very quickly.

In one motion, he activated the mining arm, which clanked into existence over his left arm, ripping part of the old coat, and leapt up to the iceberg. The metallic fingers clamped down on hard ice which broke in their grip, but he managed to get his right hand on the cold surface as well. He rolled over onto the iceberg just as his vision was filled with red from the streak. The boat burst into a thousand charred pieces, showering Nicholas with hot black specks that stung his face.

"The judges must be pissed." He said it out loud, he wasn’t certain why. He supposed Poshedon could hear him.

Nicholas climbed up the iceberg and looked toward the shore. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he thought he could jump from iceberg to iceberg. It took him close to an hour to reach what he considered the actual shore. He remembered Coach Pidget high school, and was finally grateful for all those hurdles and long-jumps and track-running he and Dirk had been put through.

After some time he had made it to the mainland, if land it could be called. The few layers of dirt and earth (although earth was not technically the word for it here) had formed a veritable gray carpet that was patchy of course with white. The mainland was mostly comprised of large barren fields. After passing two or three of these sections of dirty ice, or icy dirt, Nicholas ran into a familiar face. It almost blended into the snow, and he wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t had on his NeuroVis reading glasses.

The Astartan was, surprisingly, alone. Nicholas imagined that a number of "partners" had probably come and gone, the first of which at Ištar’s wind-weapon.

"You again," said Nicholas. "What brings you to the ice caps?"

"An errand, none of which is your concern, human." There hung a sort of token from his neck, or where necks usually are on most species. It was just like the one in his pocket.

"What are you planning on doing with that token?" Nicholas said, his fingers brushing aside the hanging coat, reaching for the sidearm.

"Don’t even consider it. I could blast you where you stand. The Krake will be mine." He hopped off at full speed. Nicholas opened fire, and tried to keep up. He was just too tired, though, to keep up a considerable pursuit. Rowing all night had left him a bit weakened.

He only hoped Ištar would show soon enough to off the Astartan. He hadn’t had any way to communicate with her. He decided to try something.

Yes?

"I need you to do something for me."

Is that right?

"Yeah. Relay some info to…" What if Poshedon didn’t know about Ištar? She was an opposing impetus in his conquest to devour all, of course.

To whom? Asterisk? No…wait…. Nicholas felt the prickling sensation in his mind as Poshedon read it. No…you’ve got to be kidding me. How did she find out?

"Slugs leave trails."

I am going to be waiting for you at the White Door. It isn’t far. We’re going to have out, kiddo.

Over the next hill, he found another familiar mind. "Chara! I thought you were dead."

"That would explain," he hissed with something that was balanced uneasily between camaraderie and hostile opposition, "why you left me to die at Eastport. But no matter now. What brings you this far south?" They conversed as they jogged toward absolute south, both beginning to realize the common interest. "Ah," said Chara.

"Does this mean we have to fight it out when we get there?"

"Probably. But we have to do something about that accursed Astartan first."

"I hate his guts. Let’s work together and off him, and maybe then?"

"If we must," he hissed. Nicholas thought he perceived a breathy note of honest regret.

Poshedon was indeed there. So was the Astartan. It seems, started Poshedon, that we have got some confusion on our hands.

And there they were, the four of them. The door lay beyond them, placed in the center of an icy protrusion. The Astartan was being held in place by Poshedon’s caustic glare.

And you, Nicholas, are the link crossing both of the problems here. You two, however, may stay and witness what is about to happen.

Nicholas, I formally charge you with consorting and conspiring with dangerous enemies. I didn’t want to do this. I really wanted to savor this meal. But it’s going to have to be in a couple nasty gulps, unless you relent. Now, his false mouths flapped as he leaned his wicked face over Nicholas, call her off.

"Who?"

You know who. Her. Do it. Call her off. Or I eat.

"Really, I don’t know how to—"

Fine. If that’s what you’re at. A deranged and ravenous hunger filled his face, ruled his eyes and teeth. He lifted back and flexed his gelatinous being. Nicholas fell to his knees, grabbing his head and screaming. The pain of time and existence being removed all at once rasped at his very soul.

"Please…don’t…"

Kid, you don’t play Poshedon. That’s just how it is. Hmm… He licked his lips. Tasted like Upbringing and Adolescence. And now…

Nicholas made a noise that sounded like a hybrid cough and scream, only backwards. Tears streamed from his face.

"Please stop! No, I can’t, I don’t know—"

A bolt of crackling static blast through the air and put a hole through Poshedon. Ištar emerged wearing a white snowy cape. Poshedon’s body filled the hole immediately.

Just for that, I suck him dry. He began consuming again. Nicholas felt his life being torn from his mind and his body. Things that always had been, were becoming never. He felt physical pain from memories being eaten alive. The laughter of summer days running through sprinklers turned into frantic screams as they were pulled down into the ethereal gullet of an unutterable creature, an uncertain and enormous evil force.

Nicholas felt his mind pull tight against his body, felt his eyes roll back into his skull. He dropped into something like unconsciousness, but in reality it was more restless and excruciating, and unconsciousness, even death, would have been a welcome respite. He lay there on the ground, and did not feel the cold of the icy ground. He had forgotten how.

You’ll notice I left pain in there. I might just let you go on with that much. Spasm your uncomfortable way through the rest of eternity, if I don’t eat eternity, that is.

He heard the shuffling of feet. He heard Ištar yell, "Enough!" He could see and now hear no more, nor feel anything but eternal, endless pain. He felt as if he were the black hole at the center of an anti-universe.

Nicholas did not so much awaken as realize that, in a sense, he was conscious.

Was this consciousness? He was aware of his surroundings, whether they were physical or insubstantial, or something unimaginable. Once he realized that he was sitting and somehow awake, he looked around and saw the walls keeping him in. They were gray and smooth. The floor curved up gradually into the walls. Nicholas did not know where he was. His chain with the green stone was gone. All of his equipment was with him though, even the worn and frayed coat that Ištar had given him.

Looking upward, he found that the sphere he was contained in was only in fact half of a sphere. There was no ceiling to it. He was in a small depression. Far above, there was a ceiling. He could see dark features there, but never for more than a second, as they were changing constantly. It was like a stormy night sky, with liquid storm clouds.

He stood to his feet. He was not in pain, nor even fatigued. He was certain he should be. That was where he’d left himself.

Where? In a place at all? He felt very confused right now. He climbed up the side of the small depression and over the rim. He was in a large room. He was not certain of the origin of the light, but it was dimly illuminating the area around him, showing him that there were more depressions spaced evenly in a grid for some distance in every direction. It did not tell him whether or not there were walls. If there were, then they were very, very far away.

Nicholas began to take a stroll. He walked for a few minutes, examining the depressions, seeing if there were anything in them. He did not find any discrepancy, any mismatch in the design of the floor and its strange pattern. He found no landmarks. He imagined he had been walking for at least a half an hour.

And then he felt it.

It was similar to the way he had always felt when he was beginning to get ill. He felt the pressure building up in his nose. He felt his stomach tightening. His spine and neck could not feel comfortable at all. Nicholas followed the feeling. Toward his left, he felt it grow, until he thought he would vomit. He bent down on his knees and leaned over one of the depressions. He heaved, his gut making some awful grinding noise that came out his throat. He could not expel whatever was in him. Nicholas stood up.

He went a little further and found it. At first it was the gray blur of an indiscriminate shape. As he approached it, the colors did not intensify, but the details did become somewhat clearer. He knew what, and who, it was going to be. But that was the only thing he knew to expect.

He did not expect Poshedon, however, to be crucified. Not crucified, per se, as it was a wheel structure to which he had been attached. It reminded him of one of those gyro-rides he had seen, in some other life, in some other world. His gelatinous body was stretched and bound by some chemical device which Nicholas did not know. But he could see the chemicals bubbling uncomfortably through Poshedon’s stretched form. The mouth was near the bottom of the structure. His blank white eyes stared evilly and almost pathetically from their sockets.

The past few times that Poshedon had interacted with him, he had not seen it coming. He merely barged into Nicholas’s attention with his selectively omnipresent voice. Nicholas stood there and inspected the gray-green being. He walked in a circle around him, the only sound the slight shuffling of his shoes on the smooth floor. He had conquered the nausea for the moment—not so much conquered, really, as held barely at bay. Poshedon’s horrible eyes and mocking facial expression followed him wherever he walked.

"So." He had half-expected his voice to echo, but it did not. "What happened to you?"

There was no response. He could not make heads or tails of it, but it frightened him. He almost needed Poshedon to make some heinous, sarcastic remark. At least he would feel as if things were normal again. What was keeping him from speaking? Nicholas wondered if the toying-with-prey mentality had given way to honest malice. Was it possible that Nicholas was no longer prey, but had earned his place as a genuine opponent?

He was not certain if he ought to glean incredible pride from that consideration, or fear of what would come of it.

But something or someone had done this to Poshedon. Maybe Poshedon was taking his vengeance by refraining from warning Nicholas about it. Maybe it was going to swoop down and capture him or kill him any second.

It did not swoop down, but it did almost send him sprawling on the ground. The voice was more like a woman’s than a man’s. It echoed through his being the way Poshedon’s had, only multiplied a thousandfold. He felt suddenly as if the circulation to every leg, bone and joint in his body had been asleep for years and he had just stood up. In some form, it could have been a soothing voice, if its infinite and terrible power were removed from it. It shook his body, his teeth vibrating in his skull. Poshedon’s body rippled inexorably. Nicholas did not imagine that Poshedon was taking it as difficult as he had been.

The human kinds don’t catch on so quickly, I see. No matter. It is good that you are here.

Perceiving this voice was a unique sensation. In one sense it was a wave of pure, wonderful euphoria. But it was so overpowering. It was meant for inhuman ears. Unfortunately, Nicholas’s were the human kind. The transceiver implant in his brain was nearly crushed from the endorphin rush.

"Who are you?" he asked, then gritted his teeth waiting for the reply.

I am Asherah.

"Are you a god?"

In some circles, they suppose I am a goddess, yes. But not where you come from.

Nicholas was gripping the steel glasses case. It was leaving red imprints of hinges in his hands. He hoped she knew how to be succinct. His body would not hold together under the barrage of her voice.

A shaft of pure light transfixed the chamber, if chamber it could be called. It stabbed downward through the cloudy ceiling, the sharp starlight sword point almost touching the floor. The point of the ray was so fine that he was not certain if it did or did not make contact with the floor.

It acted as a sort of transport, allowing her to manifest. She came down, a body comprised entirely of light so hard and intense that it appeared to be solid and opaque. The terrible light gave him something to focus on, though, seeming to muffle the effect of her voice. He was not certain whether to imagine it a body or a spirit, or both, or what.

"What are you? What is this place?"

This is the Immaterium. This is the place where I judge those whom I have ordained. I am the keeper of this realm.

"Are you going to punish me?"

No.

He never heard her say another word. She only closed her eyes, and held out her crystalline arms.

It was Nicholas’s turn to set things straight. He felt her will emanating from her being. He felt the attention to his right, to Poshedon. He turned to the sickly gray creature. She was giving him free reign over his oppressor.

He kicked Poshedon’s body, and hard. It would have hurt another human. It rippled uncomfortably, but Poshedon did not seem otherwise affected. The illness he was feeling had subsided somewhat. He was angry, but that was just a the surface of what rage brewed within him; it was almost difficult to muster, muffled in Asherah’s cold light.

But then she reminded him with her will. She reminded him of the visions. The dead bugs. The dead animals. She reminded him of the intrusions. Of the awful dreams, and the waking up, and the in between. She reminded him of the past—his past! It was there! It all came flooding back, squeezing tears of rage and resettlement from his eyes.

His name was Nicholas Kirk Evans, and he sneezed when he walked out into sunlight. And he played the guitar, and he liked to sketch things. He preferred acoustic remixes of songs. He had a little brother named Matthew and a cat named Bo.

"And her name," Nicholas half-screamed and half-sobbed, "was Jill!" As he shouted it, he shoved the mining arm into the stretched rubber. He gripped, clasped, and tore. He saw the pain in Poshedon’s face. It gave him a dark pleasure to see Poshedon hurt. Splatters of sallow gray and green stained the metallic fingers.

No, came Asherah’s voice.

At first he was afraid that she did not approve. He thought he had misunderstood. But no—she was telling him something else. He knew that he could never destroy Poshedon with this weapon. He knew that Poshedon’s destruction was not what he wanted. He couldn’t settle for simple removal from existence.

She was suggesting something a little more fitting. Nicholas removed his jacket, folded it neatly, and set it down on the floor. He knelt down and put his face up close to Poshedon’s.

"This is going to cause me endless revulsion. But you know what? You’re worth it." The eyes looked back at him, too proud to plead, wicked enough only to hate now in their humility. Nicholas stood back up. He retracted the mining arm. He reached out and touched Poshedon’s clammy outer skin. It was cold, and it shuddered as Poshedon tensed up. He drew his finger along Poshedon, tracing the length and breadth of him.

He savored the anticipation that Poshedon must have had to endure. Nicholas pressed his face into Poshedon’s being, inhaled deeply the peculiar smell. In rage so thick it felt like madness, he opened his mouth and pressed his teeth into Poshedon. He bit down hard, the sluglike entity beginning to wriggle in actual, physical pain.

It crunched somewhat, but it was a wet, soggy crunch. It was, without a doubt, the worst taste he had ever come across. He welcomed it, allowing madness to invert his perceptions, his eyes and ears and mouth and nose all seeing, hearing, tasting and smelling in negative.

In that sense, it was the best meal he had ever had.

He found Asterisk’s still body lying in one of the depressions during the stroll he took after his meal. His stomach burned with toiling queasiness. He stepped gently down into the cavity, adjusting his feet, careful of balance in the perfect curve. He knelt down by Asterisk.

Nicholas closed his eyes. He knew he could not do this anywhere else but in this Immaterium. Touching Asterisk’s head with his hand, the world around him went black. He could not even see himself, nor perceive it with any other sense he had. He stretched out into infinity in the endless, colorless, temperatureless, smell-less, tasteless, and silent void.

Nicholas thrust out his arm. Or at least, he thought that was what he was doing. He used the same will which usually seemed to precede arm-use. He sent the same mental command, carried on the wings of electrons from his brain to his arm. He could not know whether or not it was working.

He worked his fingers. He was somehow at one with this void, and so he could interact with it. He worked it between his fingers, twisting it, pulling on some until he felt it rip, a scar of matter searing the void in its un-center. He pushed that small piece of void into his mouth, or at least, commanded his non-body to do those things. It did not taste, of course, like anything. He chewed it up, and set the back of his tongue up high. He heaved his nonexistent lungs. The void vibrated and suddenly there was sound. Short a.

"A…"

He stopped vibrating it with voice and let the breath flow from him as he neared his tongue to the ridge behind his teeth, then touching it with the rasping strident burst of breath.

"…st…"

Nicholas found that he was getting the hang of this.

"…erisk…"

"How did you get here?" At first his voice buzzed in Nicholas’s mind, originating from the transceiver. He could smell that scent that he knew so well. It was the (probably over-) disinfected smell of some sanitizing agent that Asterisk was incessantly using. It soaked in his sparse, chalk-white flesh. He was dressed as he usually dressed on earth—in a tie-less suit that was a little tight and jacket, looking like a bald businessman from the sixties who had been locked up since precisely that time and released into the sun’s light again only recently. He was, however, standing up now on his own, looking fully revitalized, and yet pallid as always.

His eyes had the look that Nicholas had remembered. Not the mocking blank white of Poshedon’s, not even the concern of Ištar. It was a complex meaning held in a simple configuration of eyes and brows, and edges of the mouth. It said a hundred things without one word. It told Nicholas that Asterisk believed in him. Of course he did, and that was why he had chosen him. It boasted in Nicholas. It disciplined him as well, kept him humble. It still reminded him that he was only a research project, and a human, the white trash of the galaxy.

"So what is this place?" Nicholas asked.

"Good question, and one I expected." He looked around, took a hand out of his pocket to gesture. "You know they go on forever. Reality by reality. The physical one was not the beginning, although you may think of it that way if it helps. The physical one was put into being by the spiritual existence by volition. That seems to be one of the innovations of the spiritual existence—volition. Volition, in the right hands, causes matter."

"You’re stalling."

"That is as true as the fact that you," said Asterisk, poking him in the chest, "are impatient. Nevertheless, in spite of what some think, the physical and spiritual are not the center. They are one of the best, and most interesting and complex, I think, but existences exist, if I may use that word, since another better word does not for you in fact exist, in a continuum which is nonlinear. It’s something like a sphere, in fact, or a series of them, or a series of series of spheres, each connected in an exponentially more abstract fashion to the one prior. Each reality was created here, though, in the Immaterium. It’s sort of humorous that way. Like the baking sheet of the so-called Universe."

Nicholas remembered where he had been moments ago, and in some form, might still be. That’s what the depressions had sort of resembled. The little baking pans you made cupcakes or muffins in.

"That sort of reminds me of a joke," said Nicholas, with a smile.

"Does it?" said Asterisk, eyes lifted in what might turn out to be disapproval. Nicholas was uncertain.

"Yeah. There are these two muffins in an oven. They’ve been baking for a few minutes, you see, and they’re getting pretty hot. One muffin lets the steam out of his little muffin wrapper." He demonstrated with his own collar. "He turns to the second muffin and says, ‘Woo-wee! It sure is hot in here, boy! I tell you what!’"

"Let me guess. ‘At least we’re not bacon…’"

"Actually, no. The second muffin looks at him with eyes wide as dinner plates and suddenly screams out at the top of his muffiny lungs, ‘Holy crap! A talking muffin!’"

For one moment, he thought Asterisk was going to punch him in the face. Nicholas knew he deserved it, but he burst out into laughter at his own joke. "Sorry," he said between tears. "I love that joke." He laughed at the awful punch line. He laughed at the way he had wasted Asterisk’s time, which was not funny, and therefore, in a way, incredibly funny.

Nicholas controlled himself, sniffling. "I think you still, heh-heh, ah, didn’t answer my question."

"My dream."

Nicholas stopped laughing. "Wait. So I went from the physical world, to the giant in-between, and then into your dreams?"

"Yes."

"I suppose I was expecting something a little more grandiose and philosophical. You know, I would like to show these ethereal places to some people some day."

"Like whom?"

"Well, Dirk, for one. I think he would get a real kick out of this, and…Jill." Asterisk nodded his head in reverent understanding. "We were best friends for years, you know, until she moved. I miss her." Tears came into his eyes uninvited. He didn’t mean for them to be there, nor did he try to stop them. "I still have the newspaper clippings from the crash. Her parents mailed them to me. It’s hard on a ten-year-old, you know?"

"You’re remembering."

"Yeah, I guess that stuff’s all back."

"I suppose it would be. Asterisk glanced uneasily toward Nicholas’s stomach."

"What, afraid I’m going to eat you too?"

"If you think for a split second," he said, in a friendly, threatening voice, "that you can take me…even in this realm."

"Well what about those dreams where you try to run or fight but you’re trapped in slow motion? I’m the dream-invader now. What if I give you one of those?"

"First off, I don’t get those."

"Oh please. That is a filthy lie."

"Good kid," responded Asterisk with a smile. "I think I like this whole personality bit. It fits you. I imagine you won’t be half as useful as a research agent anymore. But it fits you."

"I imagine I wouldn’t. I found inspiration again. Inspiration had been boiling in the pits of Poshedon’s stomache for years. I think he started long before I ever knew, way, way before he ever started actually talking to me, way before the dreams."

"Well, remember—time to some entities is nothing more than a yard-stick. He could have started at one inch or twenty inches. So technically, he started them all simultaneously. In a way, Poshedon’s existence has and will be just a flash. It is to me, anyway."

"How so?"

"To Poshedon time was a yardstick. Time to you and your beloved mankind is a linear continuum. The metaphorical timeline, as you are all so used to saying. Well, where your time starts in one point, and continues to the right for as long as you can conceive, time for me is far different. There aren’t sufficient words to describe it in Human, much less in English, but think of a spider web. Now think of a spider web intersecting the first, sharing the same center-point. Now imagine a hundred thousand spider webs doing the same thing."

"Soon you will have a sphere, won’t you?"

"Well, I’ll ignore the fact that you just used the word soon, a temporal term, and answer your question, even though you know better…." Yep, it was definitely the same old Asterisk. "Anyhow, let’s say there are a large number of these. Not infinite, but a large number nonetheless, all stemming from the same central point. We speaking abstractly, so don’t bother me about things occupying the same space at the same time."

"What large number exactly?"

"Three thousand and twelve."

"That seems like and odd…rather, a bizarre number to use. Is there some sort of mathematical approach you used to get that?"

"In a way, yes. But let’s try and keep from imposing the laws of Human Academia on an exponentially abstracted theory, alright?"

"Fair enough."

"So you’ve got the three…the large number of webs forming a sort of three-dimensional web. It reaches out in all directions, but not infinitely, because infinity is uninterrupted. This web reaches out but is muddled by a system of negative space of course—like the spaces between the strings of web. This system is so incredibly complex that most who have attempted to study it have dismissed it for completely random."

"But you cracked it?"

"Not exactly. I have yet to master the complex mazes of what seems to be time. But what I did not tell you is that a similar web, occupying the same metaphorical space, is there comprising reality. At least, the reality you know."

"You’ve been to different realities?"

"Yes. Two. I can’t say it was a pleasant experience. I can’t say anything, actually. I can’t so much as try to remember them in my own method of thought. But back to your prior question. No, I have not cracked the codes of time and reality. I have merely been the first to catch a glimpse of the Infinite Pattern. I used what little knowledge I could get about it from all my centuries of research so that I could travel it."

Nicholas felt his heart sink and his cheeks begin to turn red. "Then…that’s what I have been for? You were using me to get knowledge?" The queasiness was returning.

"I was performing research, and you agreed to it."

"I see." Nicholas felt dizzy. He thought he might fall over. He wasn’t certain how he was sensing anything at all. He had never known anyone to physically feel anything in their dreams, and this wasn’t even his dream.

"Do you need to sit down?"

"Yes, I think so." He did. He never found out what exactly he sat on. But the void supported him. There was a long silence between them. Or maybe it was only a few seconds. Dreams often seem longer than they are.

"I think," Nicholas said, breaking the chill between them, "that I don’t appreciate that."

"Well, I’m sorry Nicholas, but you did agree to it, you recall."

He knew it was no point to argue with Asterisk. "I can’t believe I’m learning so much. This is your dream." Asterisk, for once, did not respond with words. He only shrugged. "Asterisk, do you believe in the mind?"

"Where do you think," he smirked with some amount of sarcasm, "we are now?"

"I understand—the Immaterium. So mental substance really does exist." It was almost a question. He did not expect a simple answer.

"For all intents and purposes, yes."

"So I’m in your mind?"

"In a way. Yes."

"So I’m close to your knowledge, right?"

"In the metaphorical sense of distance about which we were speaking moments ago, yes, I suppose that could be said of my knowledge."

Nicholas pulled out a hard, cold, metallic LensCrafters case.

The silence this time was icy in a different way. Asterisk had disciplined him before. Discipline is part of education. Asterisk now gritted his teeth. He was no longer the impenetrable teacher. "You know better. And here I give you a second warning: don’t do it. When I gave you those glasses, it was for research on humankind. It was a tool for you on Da Gon Gai."

He clicked open the case and removed the NeuroVis glasses.

"Nicholas. I am telling you. Do not bite from this apple."

He unfolded the glasses.

"It could destroy you. It could drive you utterly and cosmically mad."

He slid them onto his face, over his eyes.

"Nicholas."

He squinted and began the search into the depths of Asterisk’s mind. Words did not come to him anymore. He was lost in a thousand lights swirling past him and literally unthinkable speeds, in a billion memories that played all at once. Nicholas fell into them. First he was standing at the window of a house that was much taller than it was wide. There was a strong, cool breeze blowing, and he could hear the waves. An old man (or rather, old-looking humanoid) who resembled Asterisk grabbed hold of Nicholas and kissed him on the cheek. He threw himself out of the open window. Nicholas grabbed the windowpane and looked down the length of the towering house. It was a spear, and the world was suddenly another man. He looked particularly human. He had long black hair and dark, sun-scorched skin. Nicholas was holding the spear, and through no will of his own, thrust it into the man, impaling him. A hundred other ways to resolve the situation blasted past Nicholas, and he regretted what he had done as each one flew past him. Nicholas knew he was on Da Gon Gai. He looked around and saw a large metallic arch glinting in the artificial solar star. It turned into a clasp, a sort of wrist-cuff around his arms. He was bound in a prison, being pushed roughly into a cell by a guardsman. Nicholas cried out as he struck the hard floor. He was accompanied in the prison cell only by a stale, rotting odor.

Memories. He had to get out.

Nicholas squinted and stretched himself until they were gone. Not entirely gone, really, only stored in the back of his mind, or rather this mind, ready for recall at any time. Nicholas drifted atop the currents of volition and fell into its counterpart, a raging sea of reaction. He began to swim. Hard waves began to lift him twenty to thirty feet up, then drop him back down, then fall on him from an even greater height.

Another involuntary wave began racing toward him. As it was bearing down on him, he took a breath and ducked under the water. He dove and kicked as hard as he could. He felt the current under here become suddenly strong, and moving him, whoever knew where. He persisted; he kicked his feet and pushed with his arms. Downward, ever downward.

Nicholas found that as he got deeper, the water around him became less and less dense. He soon found himself in what had turned gradually into the equivalent of air. He opened his mouth and breathed it in. It was musty and frigid, but he could breath. A twinkling caught his eye. There, far below him. All he had to do was drop.

The next thing he found himself immersed in was not being held down by some comparable pseudo-gravity. It was not just down, it was everywhere. Numbers.

It was a sea of the abstract. The buzzed past him like fiery sparks or flies. They swirled together and rose like a colossal towering structure. These numbers were somehow different from the mathematics Nicholas remembered from grade school. They did not form things that were entirely ideal and separate from physical reality. They fit together more beautifully than any puzzle or architecture Nicholas had ever witnessed. There was something rugged, something worn and proven true about them. These were not merely theories that worked in theory. These were the weapons of the mind that could create, build, and lay waste to entities and ideas trapped in the material existence.

Nicholas lost count of how many different patterns he saw, some overlapping, others never touching. He stopped chasing them around and sat in silence and stillness. He closed his eyes and did not watch, only listened. And then he heard it.

It was one peculiar number that droned on in a hollow and somehow forlorn ringing. It rang past his ear, shooting through the algebraic storm and into the infinite beyond. Nicholas used something kin to the square root for leverage to push off and leap after the little structure. It was difficult to follow, and twice he believed he had almost lost it.

Soon he had followed it to a place where all was quiet. He was floating in the vastness of a mind within a dream within the Immaterium. And he wasn’t quite certain how to make sense of that.

The quiet gave way, however, to a deep, low ringing, or the thousandth echo of that ringing. It was not loud, but it was coming from far, far away, and he knew that at its source, it was most likely a veritable blast.

And then he saw the corner of the Infinite Pattern.

It was all he could see, and it was bigger in a few senses than anything he had ever seen or imagined in his life. He knew it stretched on for far, far more than that. This was only the glimpse that Asterisk had caught in his lifetimes of research.

Nicholas could not conceive what he was seeing, but it filled him with a number of extreme emotions: a bitter sadness, intense curiosity and desire to know more, and an ecstatic sort of joy that caused him a manic laughter.

"You wanted to learn about it," said Nicholas. "Here’s your chance."

He knew Asterisk was probably screaming at him and shaking his dream-body right now, but then, what could he do to him? Nicholas opened himself up and embraced the dream. He blasted his former teacher into the Infinite Pattern, writhing like a serpent caught up in Big Ben’s gears.

Nicholas felt his skin burning into existence. He was not certain how he had returned to this place, but he felt a memory of that inexorable tingling that had been the echoes of Asherah’s relentless voice. He was face down in the patchy grass and dirt.

Nicholas lay there for some time. Whenever he tried to use a muscle, he felt the tingling perpetuate itself in his body. It was only a small portion of what it had been in her presence, but it was still incredibly unpleasant, and at the same time not so.

After some time he reached a burning arm full of pins and needles into a pocket. He retrieved the last of the pain-killer pills and swallowed it. The burning and tingling died down after a few minutes. When he finally stood up, however, he felt his body still humming with the report of teleportation.

He looked around. The air was crisp and familiar. The sky was still overcast. It looked like it would rain soon. Behind him arched a familiar metallic structure. This was where Asterisk had dispatched the human, years ago. Yet Nicholas remembered it vividly. It was then that it he realized with a creeping sensation that he had all of Asterisk’s memories now.

He wondered what had actually happened to Asterisk. Had it worked? Nicholas hadn’t truly meant to wound or destroy him. He merely wanted to slap him in the face and say, "Fine!"

"Fine, indeed," came Asterisk’s voice in his head. Nicholas could not hold back a smile.

"Asterisk! Are you alright? Where are you?"

"I am alive and well. I’m just where you sent me. To the next reality along the Infinite Pattern. It’s not something I can explain or describe really." There was something in his voice that sounded almost intimidated, or at least humbled, by what he was experiencing. "And in case you were wondering, I’m not angry."

"Good. I—"

"You showed me the next step, Nicholas. And I appreciate that. Had things not turned out this way—and to be honest, I think there was something close to a one in a hundred billion chance of this happening at all—then I would be angry."

"Guess I was lucky I hit the one."

"I suppose you were," he said, to Nicholas’s surprise. He had been baiting him with the word "lucky," and waiting for Asterisk to snap back. "I’m going to be out of radio contact for a while. I’ve escaped the jail confinement, of course—it’s in another reality entirely. But I’m going to do some exploring and studying. You finish the game. You’ve really gotten on the nerves of all the other players, and the judges hate you, but they will be fair. Plus, the galaxy loves you. You’re just the rebel sort of hero they wanted to see. Last Man Standing has been skyrocketing.

"Listen closely. This is the last I will help you. You’re in Consummatus. Chara got the Argent Armor. He’ll control the Krake for some time when he summons it. He’s heading for the Central Hold, where Crazy Tex is already holding the one-on-one deathmatches. Chara isn’t making incredible progress. Go make your place in the honor amongst thieving and murdering survivors. Show them what you’ve got.

"Nicholas, there is a story told on your world about the first man, Adam. Those who told it thousands of years ago called the word for earth adamah. That is what is so spectacular to me about the human kind. They are, after a fashion, made of the world in which they live. They return to it when they die. You will too, I suppose, one day. But you will not finish on this false planet. Yours are not the bones that will lie in it forever. I want you to win this thing. It may seem petty on the outside. But I won’t explain it to you. You have my memories now—something which I may one day remedy or strike back for. But you can figure it out on your own for now, if you want."

Nicholas skimmed through them as he would a book. He wasn’t certain about all this. But he would do some research tonight, or sometime soon. And he did want to win.

"Until we meet again, Nicholas."

Nicholas did not say goodbye.

Nicholas thought evening was falling on Consummatus. He headed north. The artificial sun hidden behind the cloud cover made it difficult to orient himself. After a while, however, he got a general direction from the moving light. He figured that the darkest point on the horizon was the east. He started at a trot.

The structure was an immense black shape atop the hill in the night. Fires burned behind open windows. Once he had gotten to within about a mile of the building, he saw the mounds of bodies which answered the question he had been wondering for some time: what was that awful smell?

Nicholas could tell that there had been a great opposing force inhabiting the Central Hold. He knew that the battle had most likely been epic in proportion, under the circumstances. After all, he knew for a fact that Crazy Tex’s group had been seventy-five strong at the Spire of Tarosha. He hadn’t killed any of the Lancers, although there was one in particular he would like to. Given that they were not accepting any new members since the policy change once the directors sank the Kerkeros, they could only have been seventy-four going into the battle.

Judging by the mounds of alien bodies, it appeared as though the opposing force had been at least twice that.

He was amazed, and discovered some remaining pride at the temporary allegiance he had. "That’s my boys," he said aloud. It wasn’t that he didn’t know why. For a moment he almost attributed valor and organization to Crazy Tex himself. But Crazy Tex was the Baron’s puppet. Nicholas didn’t even think he was a sentient being, maybe not even a carbon-based, organic form of life.

So really it was to the silent Baron’s credit that the group had stayed together for so long. He was playing them for a lot of fools, though. With the use of his weapon, Crazy Tex, the baron could probably destroy a good number of the warriors. Or at least he could have at first. But now they were hardened veterans of battle. He had given them all exactly what they wanted. Something to trust in this trustless game. An idealist leader who had a vision and clearly defined goals, and the determination to accomplish them, who used his resources wisely but was unafraid and quite able to do himself that which he was requiring of his vassals.

A pair of camera bots that had found Nicholas during his trek through the darkness panned dramatically around the mound of casualties, and caught Nicholas’s reaction to them.

He had been obliged to give them some monologue for the show. "I’ve been out of things for a while. I know I’ve pissed off some judges. I know that everyone on this filthy, false mudball hates my guts and would gladly take the honor of killing me. I’m a stranger in a strange land." So yes, it was cliché, but maybe only on Earth. "And through it all I’m not ready to go. I feel like I could win this thing yet. But that’s not what I want right now.

"Crazy Tex is a fraud. He’s not even a sentient being. He is a thing of non-living material, filled with almost-life. He is the baron’s weapon. It isn’t that I don’t like him. If he were real, he would have all of my respect. Instead, it makes me hate that baron all the more intensely. He has used them all very cleverly, and only I have seen through the guise. I believe I will punish him for it. I plan to make the mark of Mankind a lasting scar."

The camera bots stayed put viewing the bodies in the foreground, and Nicholas walking away toward the fortress in the background. He imagined that would probably make a wonderful lead into a commercial break.

The sentries on patrol shouted as they saw him, and reported an intruder over the radio link. Nicholas still had his Lancers Royale patch, and held it forth when they approached him with intent to kill him. By Crazy Tex’s law, Lancers must not kill other Lancers while they still bear the emblem. But if they had done anything wrong, it was presented before Crazy Tex for disciplinary action, if any was to be taken.

A bird-faced sentry with a spear squawked something over the communications link. He pressed it to his ear to hear the reply. "You are to be taken inside," he screeched at Nicholas, "and presented before the master. He will judge you."

The bird-face and a few other guards led Nicholas inside. They escorted him up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway. At the end of the hallway there was a balcony. The balcony looked down into a large chamber. In the center of view, on the bottom floor, was the arena. Around it was a lifted wall and fighters leaning over it and cheering from the second floor. The baron and Crazy Tex were in the balcony.

Crazy Tex’s face lit up with amusement at Nicholas’s return.

"You were not expected," he said, "to return to us. Especially not here. What kind of secret have you got now?"

"No secrets. No tricks. If you are displeased with me, do as you will. But if I may, I would fight in the deathmatches."

Crazy Tex smiled as genuine a smile as the baron could muster. How artistic.

"Far be it from me to deny someone a fight. I am just, little Nicholas. And you will die in the deathmatches. You will be in enemy territory, because all here would clean your name from their tongues, thinking you a cheater. It will be punishment enough. After the fight that is in progress, I will present you to my Lancers and ask for a volunteer."

"That is fair, Baron."

All within earshot gave him a strange sort of look. The ever-so-slight change in the baron’s brow betrayed that he had been startled. Crazy Tex stepped up to Nicholas and put a gloved hand on his shoulder, whispered in Nicholas’s ear. "They will kill you, man-pup. And if by some fantastic twist of the fates and furies they do not, then Nicholas, I will."

Nicholas reached up and patted Crazy Tex’s shoulder. "Not Nicholas. Adam."

The roar leapt into a howling frenzy at the deathblow. Nicholas looked over the edge and saw a humanoid-shaped green alien falling to his knees. The other, scaly, armored reptilian creature, removed his thin blade from the other and began to dance around and receive the cheers and shouts of the crowd.

He bowed to Crazy Tex, who bowed back to him from the balcony. The reptilian warrior left the arena to clean up.

Crazy Tex raised his hands into the air for silence. After a moment, it came. "I have an announcement to make. We must welcome back our lost sheep. The scout returns." He gestured toward Nicholas, who walked up beside him on the balcony. Suddenly the crowd below erupted into a violently angry mob. They hurled insults and gestures, shouting terrible threats which Nicholas had never heard before, in any language, even alien ones. "Nicholas has returned. I have decided to forego a disciplinary trial. I think it would content him, and all of you, to die in the deathmatches." More shouts, now a mixture of applause and agreement for Crazy Tex, and disdain for the cheater.

"But first, he needs an opponent. Who will fight this warrior?" There was not a single voice that did not raise to plead for that honor, with the exception of the guards and sentries who were on duty. And even some of them radioed back to petition for the chance to fight Nicholas. The chamber was filled with sounds of thirst for Nicholas’s blood.

Home was very, very far away.

It amused Nicholas, however, to see the one whom Crazy Tex chose. It was Gheron. That ugly, obnoxious, giant-faced office manager. He shouted something to Nicholas that sounded brutal, but he did not understand it.

"You will both fight naked," he said to Nicholas. "It is the most honorable tradition. You may visit the quartermaster’s chambers to agree on a weapon."

"That’s fine…but I wish you would send an interpreter."

"Done."

In a basement under the Da Gon Gai surface was the quartermaster’s chambers. Nicholas was met by Gheron and the interpreter, a squat mole-like being. Nicholas had pity instantly on him, knowing that he would have to compete soon enough. A camera bot followed them in.

Gheron shouted something in Nicholas’s face. Nicholas almost choked on the rank breath. Toothbrushes were hard to come by here on Da Gon Gai, he supposed. But then, did Gheron’s kind use them?

The squat interpreter squinted as he repeated nervously, "He says you have to choose a bladed weapon to make it go faster."

Nicholas thought to say, "Tell him I don’t have to choose a weapon at all and that I can kill him right now with my left hand." But he decided to hold his tongue. He didn’t mind using a bladed weapon so badly. This way it didn’t take brute strength, which was just something Nicholas could not muster so easily. They settled on a weapon that was four feet long, half hilt, and half double-edged blade.

They gathered in the arena, amidst a roar of jeers and shouts from the spectators hanging over the edges. They spat insults at Nicholas and cursed humankind for its treachery. Nicholas paid them no mind.

Time to make my mark, he thought.

Crazy Tex waved his hand. The fight had begun. Nicholas pitied Gheron’s predictability. He twirled the weapon over his large head and charged Nicholas. Nicholas dropped onto his back and threw his a leg and his arms up. Gheron stumbled, and as he fell, Nicholas was ready to move him over. The roar of the spectators was deafening.

Nicholas turned and struck at Gheron, who blocked only just in time, only having gotten halfway back on his feet. He struck back when he regained balance, a hard swiping blow, which Nicholas ducked. Nicholas seized the opportunity, and rammed his bladed weapon into Gheron’s ribcage. The white noise of the shouting turned into a black blanket of frustrated curses. They could not believe Nicholas had killed Gheron at all, much less that he had done it that quickly.

Crazy Tex raised his hands for silence. "It was a fair fight. My Captain Gheron, we salute you. You die in honor." It was the last thing Gheron saw and heard before he dropped onto his side, yet transfixed by the weapon. A camera bot panned in a circle around him, documenting the last moments of his life. "But you are not yet finished, Nicholas. You will fight until you die."

Another fighter was already undressed and prepared to fight him. This one was little taller than Nicholas, and resembled a man, only with a glowing red V mark on his forehead. Nicholas retrieved his weapon. With Crazy Tex’s permission, they began.

The V fellow did not charge so quickly. Nicholas feinted forward, and his opponent took the bait and leapt back. As he landed, Nicholas really did charge him, taking advantage of the time it would take for the opponent to realize what was going on, pull himself back together, and block. He barely made it past the first of these steps. He screamed as the blade went sliding into his gut, but he was not finished yet. He cracked Nicholas in the jaw with the hilt of his weapon. Nicholas rolled onto the ground, without the weapon. His opponent began to follow him. Nicholas thought that he was going to kill him when he could no longer bear the pain of the weapon and collapsed onto the dirt floor.

The spectators shrieked in frustration and began removing their clothes and crowding the gate to try and be the next to fight Nicholas.

The third warrior came out with the blade weapon. Crazy Tex showed no reaction to the fact that Nicholas was not dying. He waved his hand for the fight to begin.

Nicholas noted the camera bots. Almost none of them were facing any of the contestants. They were facing to Nicholas’s right. East. He could see nothing of interest over there. He could only imagine that something was about to be interesting. To the bewilderment of his opponent, Nicholas turned left and ran as hard as he could, then leapt upward with all of his strength and grabbed onto the wall. As he pushed himself over the wall, the entire eastern side of the Eastern Hold came crashing inward. The balcony where Nicholas had just been came down in sparking, screeching metallic pieces. Bricks and mortar, wooden planks, and metal bars came flying, throwing up clouds of dust. Behind it all, Nicholas caught the dark scaly blue shape preparing another blow, and three red eyes glowing in the night. Crazy Tex, the baron, and their assistants came falling down inside. Nicholas leapt over the wall for cover, still naked.

There was a monstrous roar from outside. Chara had arrived.

The Krake roared with the sound of a mounting falling down. It had four huge arms like giant trees, and a long tail which it swiped back and forth. Nicholas predicted that Chara had probably set his Argent Armor aside for a while, killed the sentries quietly, and then donned the armor again to summon the Krake. That would explain why no one seemed to notice the approach of this thirty-ton beast.

Nicholas had to get back his things. He remembered where they were. Top floor, on the western side of the structure, which was still standing. He raced up the western stairway. And found the trunk wherein his things were stored. He quickly put on his undergarments and pants, laced up his boots, and strapped on the retracted mining arm. He grabbed the shirt, with the NeuroVis glasses in the pocket. He threw his coat on, removed the blaster from the holster. Another tail swipe. This time it was from below, but still on the eastern side. In a motion similar to a golf club’s, the beast’s tail sent a barrage of large chunks of wall flying indiscriminately at Nicholas. He ducked down and let them shatter against the wall, showering him with clods of dirt and pieces of brick and wood. Nicholas felt the support struts on this side of the balcony begin to give. They vibrated and groaned. He leapt down the stairs as they crashed down behind him, bringing down with them parts of the roof.

He ran out into the chilly, overcast night. The Krake took notice of him, but did not seem to care much. It saw no threat, and went on with destroying the Eastern Hold.

Nicholas ran past the enormous beast and began shouting. "Chara! Chara, where are you?!" He waded through wreckage, stepping over a newly-fallen pillar. He heard a moan of despair and saw one of the Lancers stumbling across some of the debris. It was a taller bluish humanoid. As soon as he saw Nicholas, he seemed to return to his senses, and then lose them in rage again. He opened fire with one of the laser blasters. Nicholas had fired two shots before he even realized it.

He had the blaster set to "Slay Like Mongrel." The shots burned clean through the stupefied opponent, who was without armor or anything, having undressed for the fight. Nicholas imagined that the destruction probably killed at least half of the remaining Lancers, since most had undressed.

"Nice shot," hissed a familiar voice. He wheeled on it before he realized he recognized it, almost opening fire. "I wouldn’t." Chara smiled, bearing the Argent Armor. It covered most of his body in white chain and plate mail, without a helmet. It seemed to generate its own light, since there was little at this time in the evening.

"Good to see you. So what’s the deal? You just left me in the ice caps?"

"I thought you were dead," he rasped. "If you could see what you looked like, you’d believe it too. In fact, I’m still not certain you weren’t dead. No man, especially no human, survives what you went through."

"I assume you sneaked in and killed the guards?"

"Once a scout, always, I suppose."

"Even now?"

Chara smiled bitterly, because he could never muster a true smile for what a smile was conventionally used for. "No, I don’t suppose now. Where have you been? How did you come back from the dead?"

"I wasn’t dead. I was just…away."

"And the judges let you rejoin? Even after they decided you had cheated?"

"Well, it wasn’t away, um, here, really."

"Teleportation?"

"Well, that’s close, yes." By the look on his face, Chara did not care to put any more effort into this guessing game. "You really want to know? Fine. I was transported into the Immaterium, a world that exists beyond our reality. I ate Poshedon. I went into the mind of my teacher Asterisk, and I found a corner of the Infinite Pattern. And then I came back."

Chara looked at him blankly. "Ah, hate to cut our conversation short. But Crazy Tex is awakening, or so the Krake tells me. Did you see it?"

"Did I see it?! It almost killed me."

"Beautiful, isn’t it? Well, I must be off. I have a competition to win."

"We’ll see. Same rules? Leave off each other until we’re the last two?"

"Of course. Good day to you, then."

"And you."

Nicholas headed back to the wreckage, going around the north side of the hill. Some of the escapees hobbling away from the destruction. Crazy Tex was scarred and burned, but half-dragging the baron, whose left leg was evidently useless. The baron did not appear to be in good health.

Crazy Tex saw Nicholas approaching from some distance. He did not halt his progress. He only looked at Nicholas pure aversion. Nicholas would not have it, though. "Baron. You will not win this competition. But if you wish, I will give you one last fight." The camera bots swarmed like a plague of flies.

Baron Abscondeo said nothing. Crazy Tex lowered his master down. He reached up to his back and removed the gigantic blade with a metallic clink. The flames leapt along the length of the weapon. Crazy Tex saluted Nicholas, and Nicholas saluted him.

Tex leapt up into the air and came down with a diagonal slash. Nicholas had to roll out of the way, and far. The blade was at least as long as Nicholas was tall. Rolling back onto his feet, he clanked out his mining arm, and unloaded a pair of blaster shots. They ricocheted off the weapon, careening into the sky and then oblivion. Nicholas grabbed the NeuroVis glasses and put them on.

All he could see when he looked at Crazy Tex, however, was the one strand of spider web leading back to the baron. When Tex came at him a second time, slashing twice horizontally, he dodged the blade and got Tex between him and Abscondeo, so that he could see the baron’s mind.

He saw a flicker of the next action, and was ready for it. Crazy Tex feigned a horizontal swipe, but instead arced straight downward, attempting to split Nicholas in two. He read it perfectly, and spun so that his back was mere centimeters away from the blade as it bit down into the ground. He kept spinning and grabbed Crazy Tex’s right hand, which was closest, and clasping the wrist in the three fingers of his mining arm. Nicholas felt the muscle squish and the bones snap a number of times as he clamped down with the merciless grip. Tex shouted, and cuffed Nicholas hard on the side of the face with his other hand, dropping the weapon to the ground.

Crazy Tex could not operate the gigantic sword with one hand, and that his less-dexterous hand. He sank to his knees, trying not to move his right arm.

He had failed his master. The baron raged at the thought, and began the mental mantra to release Crazy Tex by killing him.

Halfway through it, Abscondeo looked up to see Nicholas standing over him, pointing the blaster toward his head. "You could have won this thing with me," said the baron. His voice was thin and weak. Nicholas realized it was the first time he had ever heard him speak. His voice sounded old, so ancient that it had been hardened by the years and then smoothed over the centuries. It did not sound week, but it did sound wise, and sounded as if there were many more things he was thinking which he was not saying.

"I am made of my Earth," said Nicholas. "What are you made of?"

The baron saw something in that, thinking maybe it was a way out. He played along as if he had been having such hostile philosophical musings with underlying threats for years. Which he had.

"Of the steel wires of puppetry and plots, I’m afraid. The fire of ambition muffled by the cold ice of patience. I—"

"It’s not like I can’t read." Nicholas squeezed the trigger. Twice, of course.

Crazy Tex, now an empty shell of a being, let out a desolate howling noise. He was now without purpose. Nicholas came up and sat down beside him, putting away the NeuroVis glasses. He put his hand on Crazy Tex’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

They both came to in one of the half-sphere depressions in the muffin pan of the universe. He took the silent and confused-looking Tex by the hand and helped him out of the depression. They walked for sometime. The liquid cloud covering glinted dimly in Tex’s eye, holding his attention.

Nicholas was uncertain as to which way to take. This was for Tex, not for him. He pulled tried one direction, and nothing happened. He headed a different direction, and Crazy Tex began to moan and hold his stomach. Nicholas knew they were going the right way when Crazy Tex leaned over to heave his stomach’s contents, which were empty, into the bowl-shaped cavity.

It was not long before they found the baron. He was suspended on a wheel, just like Poshedon had been. Crazy Tex froze. Nicholas gave him a push, and got his reluctant feet started.

Nicholas left.

Wounds leave scars.

"Yeah. Okay, sounds like a plan. I’ll catch you guys when you get back then. You too. See ya." Nicholas hung up the phone and went out to the sidewalk, sliding on his glasses. Paul and Gringo and Ike were still waiting for Sizer to come out of Starbucks. He’d stood at that table for minutes, dumping in packets of sugar.

"Like he needs that kind of extra energy or anything," said Gringo. "You know, I saw him once at like seven in the morning. I had seen him like five hours before. I was brushing my teeth. He was practically bouncing off the proverbial walls."

They sat at a metal table, the surface formed form crisscrossed iron mesh.

"Wish I’d gotten a warm coffee instead of a frappuccino," Gringo shivered.

The halting conversations started up. A sequel to a video game was in the mail. They were close to REM’s headquarters. Too bad the chocolate shop was closed. That Chinese food was making someone feel ill.

A woman approached them and signaled that she could not speak. She showed them a post-it note with a mostly legible note about how she wanted to borrow a dollar from each of us to pay medical bills. She produced a pen and grabbed one of the folded up newspapers on the mesh table. They read as she wrote. Nicholas, however, was not reading from the newspaper scribbling.

It was true that she wanted to borrow a dollar. That she had medical bills because of cancer was not true. The bad grammar and spelling was honest, though. Nicholas did not have a dollar to give her—but the other guys each did. She gave them each an unexpected and awkward hug in turn, and to show that she had no hard feelings, she shook Nicholas’s hand.

The fact that she had to fabricate such a lie to live on was enough to make Nicholas pity her. "I say anybody who can’t speak deserves my dollar," said Paul, then catching himself. "Although, I imagine that’s probably easy to pretend."

"Yeah, well," said Sizer.

After a few minutes, Gringo decided to share with them his thoughts on literature. "Yeah, I think comic books and video games count, if they have plot. They tell a story don’t they?"

"Well, maybe Metal Gear Solid and any RPG. But would you say that Super Mario Brothers is a form of literature?"

"The first one?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose it could be, in the most primitive form. The struggle of a man trying to rescue a princess, which is of course an often-used template for an adventure story. He has to face all kinds of trials, and compete with his environment and a number of enemies to achieve his goal."

"Yes," said Sizer, "but you realize that the majority of the dialogue is ‘Thank you, Mario. But our princess is in another castle!’ repeated a whole bunch of times."

"Well, repetition happens. Ever read any Hemingway?"

"True…."

"Sorry to miss the rest of this," said Nicholas, "but I have to go meet someone."

"Peace."

Nicholas’s rendezvous waited for him in a dark alley between buildings. And there were plenty in that city, not even that far past the borders of the college campus. The green gem hanging from Nicholas’s neck hummed in low tones. Dirk couldn’t believe it. "He’s so, so cool! He’s just like Siegfried from SoulCalibur. My favorite game character, even."

"I’m not sure I understand," said Crazy Tex.

"I’m glad to see you’re doing better," said Nicholas. He extended a hand out to Tex, who shook it congenially.

"I am. I feel…whole again. I remember everything from the past. You have taught me so much."

"No, I didn’t teach you anything," said Nicholas. "It was all there. You only had to grasp it. I must ask you, though. What has become of our friend the Baron Abscondeo?"

Tex winced at the mention of the name. "Well, first of all, I’ll ask you never to speak that name in my presence again." Nicholas nodded reverently in assent. Dirk did the same. "I am using him. By that Infinite Pattern bit that you showed me, I have imprisoned him on my home planet. He is serving my family. I have a family, Nicholas, a huge family! Did you even imagine it? I didn’t. Not for all those years. I know it is only that I have forgotten…but the way that he had wounded me has separated me from the person I once was. I can never fully identify with that me again."

"I understand. I had…many things which I will never have again. I still don’t feel at home in this me."

"Have you struck back at your Poshedon yet?"

"I have begun it. I have yet to visit him. I think I will sometime soon. But that’s not why I wanted to meet you here." He checked himself out, made certain that none of his foreign elements were visible. He looked perfectly normal. "I’ll be back soon." He left the alley and headed southward down the sidewalk. He turned right on Broad Street and went into one of the restaurants.

With the glasses, he could see the inebriation creeping over all of the minds sitting in the room and drinking. No one noticed him as he entered. He surveyed the subconscious thoughts for a moment. He knew they were in here somewhere. He skimmed through the mental records of close to a year ago. First he saw a party at a friend’s house. Not the one. In the second he could see driving in a car. Nope. He looked around some more. Finally he found them—a fraternity/sorority get-together, drunk and walking up Lumpkin Street, and pretty turned on by the thought of a girl, and nigh-determined to get her into bed somehow. It had been about a year since that day when he, Drew, E, and Turnipseed had all heard their slurred voices calling from the west side of Lumpkin Street and saw the girl trying to get away.

It was just a shell of a drunken memory. But Nicholas knew it had to be them. They were just as drunk now. It was Dude A and Dude B. Nicholas silently thanked Asterisk for setting up this meeting for him.

"No need," came Asterisk’s voice. "Just get your business done."

Nicholas walked quickly toward the back, where the frat boys were sitting at a table. They didn’t notice him walk past them, until his hands clasped the backs of their collars. It was not natural strength that allowed him to raise them from their seats and walk them out of the restaurant. It was something else, some aid from the Infinite Pattern, probably, although he was certain he would never be intelligent enough to conceive.

They drawled their slurred protests, saliva dropping from Dude B’s mouth onto his shirt. People saw them go, but Nicholas was quick about it and it did not look like a fight would ensue. And that was correct.

The only resistance they offered was to flail a bit. It was not too difficult to drag both of them by the collars up Jackson Street, and push them down in the alleyway. Dude A, still the vocal one, shouted at Nicholas, mortally insulted from being taken from his beer. It was something about "lem a gubback."

Asterisk translated. "Let me return to the bar and continue intoxicating myself."

"How do I explain to them what is going on if they are drunk?" Nicholas said quietly.

"Well…here." Suddenly the two frat boys stood up straight. Asterisk had removed their inebriation, somehow. "That’s a trick I’ve learned from the progress you’ve made as my agent. Good work. Now have at."

"What the hell," said Dude A. "What is this?"

"I have gathered you gentlemen here today to make you aware of something. First off, I want you to remember this." He closed his eyes, and the green stone began to hum. They suddenly remembered that night a year ago. "You were drunk. Especially you," he motioned to Dude A. "You were causing that girl to feel uncomfortable in your quest to try and get her to bed."

"Wull, she—"

"I don’t care if you knew her. Can you recall her name?" They could not, as Nicholas knew from scanning their memories. "That is correct. I need to explain something about your mentality and why you are the cause of the backwardness of this country and this world. There are a number of biological urges that humans have. They are all there for a purpose."

"Bioloja-who?" said Dude B.

"Quiet. As I said, we all have them. That night you were placing that as your primary concern. The barbaric fulfillment of your needs, which weren’t even needs, really, was more important to you than whether that girl was raped or not. You had decided that, and now you will pay."

"Screw this, you freakin weirdo, I’m going back to—"

Nicholas held up his blaster at them. They didn’t recognize the strange details of the weapon, but they still knew a gun when they saw one. "I said, quiet. Anyway. Emotional trauma and STD’s exist to keep you in check, but you are so monumentally ignorant that you choose to shrug off just that. Not anymore." Nicholas closed his eyes again, and touched the Infinite Pattern.

"You’re getting good at that," commented Asterisk.

The gem hummed even louder now, vibrating on his chest. Nicholas spoke with a voice that emanated from somewhere else, and they felt it tingling and shaking within their bodies, in their guts. Fear is a biological urge. Know it. They sank down onto the ground, trembling, one against the wall.

Nicholas returned to his normal self and looked at their minds. In both, he could read an unfounded and powerful fear, fear of everyone, fear of dark corners. They were afraid that other people were going to do things to them. Rape them, kill them, torture them. People never would, but they were going to think it for the rest of their lives.

Crazy Tex and Dirk stepped out from the shadows. The two saw them, and scrambled to their feet and ran. They set a precedent of running, and would run for years to come.

Nicholas took his leave of Dirk and Crazy Tex and disappeared into the streets of downtown. Then he disappeared even out of that.

So this is a prison reality, said Poshedon. He was again circumscribed in a wheel, only this time hanging from the ceiling in a large room. Nicholas walked along the slick marble floor and gave his giant wheel a push. He went rocking back and forth.

"I’m afraid so. Is it bad?"

If I try and pretend it’s not, you’d just put me in a worse one.

"That certainly is within my ability right now."

You’re getting cocky. That’s a good sign.

"Is it? You think I might turn out like you?"

Not sure. Looks like it, though. That’s how I got started. Punishing. Learning things. Becoming strong and able, dominating one reality, learning its secrets.

"Her name was Jill, Poshedon." At that mention, Poshedon was halted, and his voracious stomach let out a loud and painfully hungry rumble. Nicholas could have almost described it as thunderous. Poshedon had not lost his appetite, and Nicholas had not fed him a single thing. "I wonder. Can you die of starvation?"

Not sure. If so, it’ll take longer than you’ve got on this planet.

"Oh, let’s not debate about time. I’m a little smarter than that now."

My recommendation still stands. It’s quite tasty with a dash of pepper and age.

"I haven’t the stomach for it. Never will. But you, it seems, are still hungry for memories and knowledge?"

Poshedon strained against the roaring of his stomach once again. He could not bear this.

Fine, if that’s how it is. I can take a lot of punishment, you know.

"I can give a lot of punishment. More, I’m willing to wager. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought recently."

How’s Asterisk?

"Better than ever, working on a new reality."

Sounds familiar.

"Your suggestions aren’t going to change my mind. I still know Asterisk. You are galactic scum. He is upright."

Cliché. And bullshit. What about the green one?

"Ištar? Haven’t heard from her. She’s done her part. I don’t suppose she’ll be back anytime soon."

Not that you’ll know of anyway.

"You know," said Nicholas, his anger boiling close to a rage, "I don’t like your tone. Have some respect." He formed a wall of memories and knowledge of absolute truth around the chamber. Poshedon’s stomach thundered again, this time not giving up quite so easily. Nicholas pulled Poshedon’s wheel back and let it go, so that he swung up closer to the walls of what he meant to eat, but could not quite reach it. He swung there in torment.

"I think it’s important to document what people say," said Dirk. "Sometimes people just say very profound and quote-able things, and we forget about them. I think many people see the importance of documentation of history. That’s why people take pictures of picnics and friends and excursions all the time."

Nicholas, Gringo, and Long-Haired-Tall-Michael were also out sitting with them. There were at least six Michaels that Nicholas’s group of friends and acquaintances had to distinguish between. Identifying which one the speaker was referring to became difficult early on in the semester. Thus, a complex system of nomenclature evolved for people to identify them. It stopped just short of the genus-species system, and ended up sounding like Native American names. There was also a Michael who was long-haired, but not tall. He could not be called Long-Haired-Short-Michael, for two reasons. First, the particular Michael in question was not short. Also, the name Long-Haired-Short-Michael was too descriptive of Fisk, who was simply referred to by his last name (although Gringo called him Fairy Bed-Maker Princess because of Fisk’s unbreakable bed-making habit, or just Fathead for no apparent reason). Once Hal suggested that they could just refer to the different Michaels by their last names, but this seemed like a foreign idea to Gringo. No one knew their last names, anyway.

Long-Haired-Tall-Michael was an artist. He never spoke very loudly. He had a low-toned voice. He painted silently for his 2D design class while the others discussed documention.

"It’s also why I keep the quote book. Here, here’s a few good ones. I asked people to give me some inspiration to write about. This is what they said. These are darn fine quotes, I might add. Very poignant." He held his composition notebook aloft and cleared his throat. "Paul says, ‘It took getting rid of the roast beef, but I did it.’" The others stared at him expectantly, waiting for the poignant part to come. "Well? Isn’t it inspiring? Go ahead. Be inspired. Create something based on this."

Nicholas hadn’t sketched in years. The mechanical pencil felt at home between his fingers, and he began to work out a musing sketch on the page while Gringo tacked away at his lap top computer. Nicholas had a semi-abstract sketch going before long. "Okay," said Nicholas. "Here."

Dirk looked it over. "I dunno. What are these vertical pillar things?"

"I’m not certain. It’s something grill-like. It’s what the word ‘roast’ made me think of."

"And this? Is that a wasp?"

"No, it’s a bee."

"As in beef? Minus the f?"

"Yeah, and look at the shape of the pattern he is flying around in. F-shaped."

"You remind of that gameshow," said Dirk. "The one with the goofy pictures full of plus and minus signs to get you to say the key word or something. I liked that gameshow."

"Me too," said Gringo.

"Hey, Gringo," said Dirk, ripping the page out from Nicholas’s notebook. "Oh, you mind if I rip this out, Nick? Gringo, be inspired by this picture. Write some poetry about it."

"Write poetry about a roasted bee-f?"

"Yeah. See what you come up with."

"Okay, gimme a minute."

He came up with this:

"Your poem sucks," said Dirk.

"What?!"

"It’s conventional."

"Conventional? No it isn’t. It’s way unique."

"No, man. The no-capitalization thing just screams e e cummings."

"But look at my word choice. I made certain to avoid cliché by saying ‘stopping tall’ instead of ‘stopping short.’"

"I’m going to give Nicholas another quote. Let’s try this again." He cleared his throat again, thus initiating the ritual of quote-reading. "This one is a dialogue:

‘You know, one day, someone's going to put on those pants.’

‘Yeah, but by that time, I'll be long gone.’

‘You unscrupulous cur.’

‘You're just miffed that I beat you to it.’

‘Shut up.’ You may proceed to artistically interpret that."

Nicholas began sketching.

"It’s really the attitude I interpreted, I think," said Nicholas, showing it a few minutes later to Dirk. "It’s the scheming and plotting."

"I like the shaded guy in the foreground. Is that a world in the background? Yes, of course it is. That continent looks like a giant slug consuming a smaller, broken-up island meal."

"Doesn’t it?"

"Gringo," said Dirk.

"What?"

He tore the thing from the notebook. "Oops, I keep forgetting to ask. Hope you don’t mind. Gringo!"

"Dude, what?"

"Interperet poetically," said Dirk, in a commanding voice. "We’re on a roll this time. Make a good poem." Gringo snatched it from his hand, irritated. A few moments later, the poetic response came:

"Much better," said Dirk. "The prose in poetry thing, very nice. We should all go into business together. Now try this one. Geoff sent it to me:

‘Question: There's this girl that I like, but she sets me on fire whenever I get close. How can I make her like me? And what's the best treatment for third degree burns?

Answer: Dude, that's not a girl, that's a propane grill.’ This time don’t show me anything until they are both complete." Dirk waved at them in a dismissive fashion to begin.

Six minutes later, Dirk was looking at the completed products. "Brilliant. I swear, we need to go into business together. Pure genius."

The sketch was a tower of flames bursting diagonally across the page. The flames swirled upward and left and formed the suggestion of a woman’s eyes. The content was simple, but the lines were thick and he had cross-hatched a dark background. Gringo’s poetic response read:

"You know," Dirk said, as Nicholas and Gringo braced themselves for a philosophical musing, "I’ve been thinking about what you said about comic books and video games being literature. I think I agree with the comic book part. But I’m sure there would be wide opposition to that idea. Why do you think that is?"

"Comic books have pictures," said Long-Haired-Tall-Michael.

"That’s one way to put it, I think," agreed Dirk. "I think there are a number of factors that contribute to a lower standard for comic books. First off, they come out on a regular basis. Deadlines force cheapness, or at least, that is a stereotypical characteristic of them. Deadlines are a western and capitalist idea, if not for having created it but for its extensive use. There is only one Starry Night. There are thousands of copies of the three-hundred and twelfth issue of X-men. It’s a mass-produced thing.

"Also there is the stereotype of the typical teenager’s attention deficit disorder. Too many people see the comic book as an illustrated book. They think the pictures are a crutch for the illiterate teenagers. I say, pshah! The finished work in a series, when series actually finish, are in retrospect an epic. A longer and more involved story than the Iliad or the Odyssey."

"I’m back," said Asterisk, directly into Nicholas’s mind.

"How was the research?"

"Interesting. Fascinating, even. Nothing I could just begin to describe over the radio like this, but fascinating nonetheless. How is Poshedon?"

The jade-colored stone hanging from his neck hummed abruptly and briefly at the name. "Hurting."

"Glad to hear it. And how have you been?"

"Rediscovering myself. There sure is a lot of me. Poshedon didn’t consume me completely that day on Da Gon Gai, thanks to Asherah. But I’m remembering a great deal of things. I like to draw, Asterisk, and I’m not half bad at it. And I like rock music. Not much of a singing voice for it, but I like to listen to it anyway."

"Have you been home yet?"

Home? The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. "I’m not sure what to expect. I mean, I’m not missing, am I? Police hadn’t been looking for me for years."

"That was a calculated bite that Poshedon took. He didn’t tear you from your environment and upbringing, but made clean, concise cuts. Anyhow, have you got your laptop nearby?"

"Yeah."

"I wanted to send you some files. These are all 2D files, of course, unless you find some sort of three-dimensional projector, and last I checked, those hadn’t come to Earth yet." Nicholas could almost hear the sarcastic smile. "Anyhow, open up the viewer I sent earlier, and I’ll transmit them via your mental transceiver."

"You can’t just play them directly in my mind?"

"I could, but you are not equipped with any sort of viewer to run the files well. They wouldn’t look correct. Here goes."

Nicholas felt the information go through his mind and into the laptop. After a few minutes, Asterisk came back on. "There you are. They’re super-condensed, but they still retain some fair quality. I made certain to find all the shows and specials that featured you. Enjoy."

"Okay thanks." Nicholas selected one of the commercials and clicked play.

The commercial was in a language that sounded like a series of yaps. The letters looked like vertical lines with dots and crossbars here and there to signify the different sounds. Some words, then cut to a group of warriors walking together. More words, then Nicholas and the Lancer Scout group heading east during the first couple of days. There were Gheron and Chara.

"You know, I never did find out what happened to him, or who won the competition."

"I’ve included the victory celebration. There have been a huge number of debates and discussions about things that didn’t get finished. Like you, and why you sort of disappeared. You were missing in action, along with about twelve others. There will be entire documentaries and essays and probably books devoted to this. There are already hundreds of fan-fictions written about you and some of the MIA’s."

"Wow. It’s just a show."

"It makes me sad to hear you say that. I thought you would have taken a little more away from it."

"Are you bummed because I didn’t win?"

"I think we both learned separate things that were worth more than victory. Although, you’d be living like an emperor right now if you had won."

Nicholas played the next video. It was the awards ceremony. There was an enormous procession down some majestic city street on some planet Nicholas did not know of. There was a parade miles long. The journalists reporting on-scene were both human-looking, but bore the same red V mark that Nicholas’s second deathmatch enemy had. There were beings riding in on giant reptilian creatures, holding tight to the reigns of the lumbering beasts, throwing coupons to sponsors of the competition. There were floats that really did float. They hovered a few feet up in the air, and onboard alien music groups sang and danced. Venatese women danced in unison, the equivalent of Earth’s color guards and cheerleaders. Alien dignitaries, nobles, and rulers rode in classy, shiny vehicles, waving. Nicholas skipped forward some, passing by the performances and the speeches.

And finally, on a giant hovering throne surrounded by a personal vanguard which was a small fraction of his immense award, sat Chara. Nicholas’s jaw dropped wide open. "I could have taken him any day!"

"But you let camaraderie get in the way."

"I can’t believe he won. Doesn’t seem fair. Did he really kill all the rest of the enemies with the Krake?"

"No. The final battle was very, very well-documented. He killed most of the people at the Central Hold with the Krake. After that, the Krake returned to the seas and he could not summon it again. He hid the Argent Armor, and wandered about Consummatus and the other continents. The last ten players were awarded GPS systems to find each other so that it did not drag on indefinitely."

"I think I’d like to see the last fight."

It was indeed well-documented. Chara and some the other final contestant, a mid-height warrior with a chain-spear, faced off in the early morning. However, following their GPS systems, they had found each other in the middle of an ocean, each worn out from rowing their small raft. They circled each other a few times and saluted, honoring one another. Then they got in close and agreed to attach the two rafts for a better playing field. The morning sky was darkened by the sheer number of camera bots that had come to witness the scene from every angle imaginable.

Chara leapt forward and slashed at his opponent. Both were wearing light body armor. The enemy warded him off a few times, and Chara went on the defensive, dodging that deadly chain-spear. In the end, the opponent caused Chara to fall off of his raft. Under the water, Chara unclasped his body armor, slipped out of it, and let it float to the top on one side. He swam under to the other side of the two rafts. As the opponent struck down at the body armor, mistaking it for Chara, Chara rolled onboard and found a crack in the other’s armor. He skewered the player, who saluted him reverently as he fell to his knees and dropped into the water. He floated there face down. Exhausted, Chara lay down. The rest he had been needing for days and not getting overtook his body almost instantly. He waited to be picked up by the drop craft.

Scanning through the other files he had received, Nicholas found that scene to be one of the most popular scenes. However, the image he saw more than any other was him holding up his middle finger to the camera bot. Audiences inferred the vulgarity of the gesture, and loved him even more.

Nicholas’s transceiver vibrated again. "I just sent you some of the fan-fictions, written by the teenage equivalent of a few different race types. I ran them through a translator before I sent them. Most of the translations are pretty good."

"Thanks." Nicholas leaned back and prepared to read about himself.

That was how the first one started. According to Xaran, Nicholas and Crazy Tex escaped to a notorious galactic hub of organized crime. There their benefactors waited to pay them off. But they only paid half, since neither Tex nor Nicholas had won the competition. Nicholas shot them all in the faces for vengeance with his deadly sidearm blaster. Nicholas and Tex were chased all across the galaxy, turning into a sort of Bonnie and Clyde. In the end, Crazy Tex and Nicholas killed each other in some remote planet.

In a second fan fiction, Nicholas was portrayed a Loki-esque spirit of mischief. The protagonist, Chara, played the part of the typical space hero. He fought Crazy Tex’s Zeinesian squires and minions in deep underground compounds, work too dangerous for any police force. Nicholas appeared every once in a while to fight Chara. When in trouble, Nicholas could summon a gray-green slug-beast to do his bidding.

They had seen Poshedon. However, Poshedon, like Nicholas, was MIA. He had officially entered into the competition just to get near Nicholas. He had preferred there, where an alien was expected to be seen, instead of going to Earth, where aliens were not seen. Of course Poshedon could simply eat away at expectations and memories and such just to disguise himself, but it was just too much trouble.

Nicholas woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. His memory reached out and tried to clasp onto the fading images in his mind, but to no avail. They were gone, and he had no idea what he had dreamt. There had been images of something terrible and organized, something dangerous and hostile. It was urgent. He needed to remember what it was. He had to do something about it. He got up and unfolded his laptop. It didn’t look like anyone was online, which meant they were probably not awake any longer.

Lost in thought, he found himself in jeans and a shirt walking down Lumpkin street. It had started to rain, but that didn’t concern him much. He knew he had meant to go here, he knew he was heading to the Mayors dorm community. But how was he going to get in?

Luckily, the girl at the desk let him in. She made him ask nicely, of course, a pretense. She had a crush on him and he knew it. She had spiky blonde hair and dressed in a modern version of the punk tradition: holes in the knees of her jeans, thick-rim glasses, and a chrome-studded bracelet. He elicited some pity from her, playing up the fact that he had walked here in the rain. She eventually smiled sweetly at him and let him pass.

Nicholas sat down in the stairwell. Why had he come here? Who was he coming to see? It could be Gringo, Paul, Ike, Sizer, any of the Michaels, or—

Dirk.

He remembered. Anger filled him, but he did not act on that anger. He took a moment not to let it subside, but to let it filter into his veins, on standby, awaiting his need. He went up one flight of stairs and turned right once in the hallway. Nicholas had forgotten to check the clock. He didn’t know if it was midnight or six in the morning. There were no sounds signifying human movement. If there were anyone awake, they were not around.

He knocked on Dirk’s door. Luckily, Dirk had a single room, so no one else would answer the door. At first there was no response, then Nicholas could hear some movement from within. The movement stopped. He knocked again, a little longer this time. The inhabitant opened the door with his right hand, his left rubbing his eyes.

"You know it’s like four in the morning, right, Nick?"

"We need to talk."

Dirk noticed that Nicholas hadn’t corrected him on the pronunciation of his name.

"Get an umbrella," said Nicholas. "I’ll be on the balcony."

Dirk didn’t have an umbrella, but he did have a water-resistant coat with a hood. He didn’t make Nicholas wait long. He came out in his coat, boxers, and sandals. "This better be important. And fast. I have an eight o’clock class."

Nicholas only glared at him a moment, then turned to look out toward Lumpkin street. "I can’t believe I never saw it, not even with the reading glasses."

"Saw what?"

Nicholas’s look was as sharp as a knife point, and just as dangerous. "Don’t screw with me."

Dirk sighed. They stood there getting wet for a long while, two lifelong friends coming to terms the hard way. The sound of the rain was usually comforting to Dirk. But not now, now it only muffled tension and turned it into cold drama. After a long, awkward time, he broke the silence.

"They made me swear not to tell."

"Hope it was worth it."

"Nicholas, you don’t just say no to these people."

"Say no to them? You are one of them!"

"Keep your voice down. You’re going to wake someone up."

"That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?"

Dirk gripped the balcony. "I feel awful. I really do. I wanted to tell you I wasn’t a human."

"I should have known. You were never really that thrown off by my gadgets and gizmos. I just thought you were simple. A simple, good friend who didn’t ask questions but trusted me with faith I didn’t have to prove."

Dirk picked up one of the waterlogged acorns and hurled it at the oak tree.

"But there’s something else," said Nicholas. "You were here to watch me. Why?"

"To make certain that you were trustworthy and sane, and as objective as possible. I was supposed to kill you if you didn’t work out."

"Have there been others?"

Dirk looked ashamed. He stared at the ground. "Yeah. A couple. But I knew I wouldn’t need it with you. Nicholas, I gave up my life as what I was before. I knew I would never have to leave this human body. We worked out great, didn’t we?"

"What’s so special about me, then? Why did I work out?"

Dirk just shook his head.

"Dirk…."

"I can’t. I’m sworn."

"You can. I’m pissed."

Dirk took a deep breath. "You were Asherah’s idea. Nobody ever messes with Earth. It just was never worth it."

"Are you saying," Nicholas said, without almost any voice at all, "that I was constructed in the muffin sheet?"

"Only the Immaterial parts of you. That’s why Asterisk didn’t want you coming near the Infinite Pattern. It’s your design. Once you touch get a glimpse of it, you go the whole way. You master it soon enough—or it masters you. Whichever way is your choice."

"Dirk," said Nicholas, almost out of breath, "if you don’t tell me I’m human in about three seconds, I am going to destroy you."

"You see? You don’t have your weapons. You were going to use It. Nicholas, you are human. But you are not adamah, Nicholas. You’re not made of this Earth. It’s more than dirt and flesh. It’s…it’s this…."

Dirk sent a barrage of thought to Nicholas. It overwhelmed him and he dropped to his knees, leaning on the balcony wall. He saw himself, having removed only a couple of feet, then the view skyrocketing into the air. He saw the Mayors dormitory community shrink into a dot, the entire campus and then the city shrink into nonexistence. The state and its woodlands and roads shrunk and collapsed within a pinpoint, and eventually the entire continent was visible. He could see Europe from here. He had left the atmosphere, and could see all of the cottony cloud cover all over the world, the storms, the seas. The sun peeked out from behind the easternmost tip, if it was proper from this vantage point to use cardinal directions in that way. He faced the world and the world faced right back at him. But he saw more. There was a silver electric swirl which was not cloud cover. He saw the pattern repeated two or three times, then a hundred and a thousand. He saw the spirit of earth, the Soul of the World.

It was a contrary spirit, hardened by a history of conflict, softened by self-esteem problems, stained red with the guilt of innocent blood, vengeful, angry, loving. Nicholas knew now that he had seen that in everyone he had ever met on this planet, with the exception of Dirk, Asterisk, and himself.

Nicholas regained consciousness and stood up, a little shaky and unbalanced. "Why didn’t you just tell me?"

"Because then, all this would happen."

Nicholas caught his breath and let his body stabilize. He felt as wounded as he’d ever been. He felt impaled on a blade, and that blade was most certainly in his back. He was so very, very angry.

"You know, you’re right. This would all happen. And I think it will now."

"Nicholas, you be careful what you do."

"Like this?" Numbers, they were everywhere. And he could read them.

Three hundred and sixty five. Dirk.

Sixty two. Throw.

Three thousand and twelve. Carry out action.

Dirk flew backwards into the wall, the wind knocked from his lungs, and slid down, sitting up. He gasped for breath. Nicholas walked over to him and looked at him bitterly. "I’m sorry it had to be this way." Dirk tried to gasp a reply, but simply could not force one out.

Nicholas walked back into the hallway and left Mayors Hall.

Ištar had just dozed off. She was hidden in a forest, in a tree, not on Da Gon Gai any longer. She was a light sleeper. In her dream, in a giant black room, she saw it glint incorrectly with light.

Approaching it, she realized it was a Tvarinian mining arm. They used to use these back on Uorane. It was back in the slave days, when the Uoraneans captured a bunch of the Tvarinians from their planet and put them to work on Uorane as slaves.

But she knew she had a different kind of connection with it. It was Nicholas’s. She smiled at the thought, but she started when she heard his voice.

Did I ever thank you for fixing that arm for me?

"Nicholas? Where are you?"

I’m here.

"What…what’s changed? I can’t see you. Your voice, it’s…."

I’ve just been working on things, I suppose. Thinking things over. Please don’t believe that I haven’t given recent events a lot of thought. I have most certainly thought them through. And this is the course of action I have to take.

"I haven’t heard from you in some time. Did you get to see any of Asterisk’s hordes of videos and 2D documentation from the competition? You were great."

Her own voice echoed in the nothing.

"How did you find me asleep, anyway? How did you get here exactly?"

I know about the Pattern.

She did not breathe for a moment. Her heart skipped a beat. "Nicholas, have I ever been anything but helpful to you? Wasn’t I always there when you needed, even when you didn’t expect me?"

That is what’s going to make this difficult.

"Nicholas, you don’t have to strike back at me. I’m your friend."

It was all a cover-up. Don’t think I don’t know. I made Dirk talk.

"Nicholas, did you hurt him?"

Not badly. Yet.

"Don’t do this, Nicholas. It’s not worth it. I want you to listen to me—"

I think Asterisk really has been afraid of me since I sent him into that one reality. That was only a slap in the face. This time it will be a sword into the mind. For all of you. You used me.

"We made you. Didn’t we have the right?"

Well the least you could have done was to forego giving me a mind. Feelings, passions. You could have made me a robot or something. Nobody pities robots when they get shut down. It’s not like there’s pain, physical, mental, or otherwise.

"You are a robot. You are a synthetic entity created for a specific purpose. But Nicholas, you can come with us. You don’t have to let things go like this. Don’t throw everything away."

Don’t you dare try and gentle me with clichés! The black void shook around her with his fury. She had nothing to hold on to. And suddenly there were numbers, vast, complex systems that were maddening even to look at. Equations leapt out and wrapped her up. Ištar screamed, but only numbers bubbled out from her mouth. She squirmed, the last thing she felt able to do, and suddenly she felt the machines of the Pattern crushing her, tearing her apart. She knew it was not physical, but she did not know where her physical body would end up, nor if she would ever find it again. With the innermost voice, she screamed out his name.

Not Nicholas, he responded. Apollyon.

The glint of the reading glasses caught Asterisk’s attention. He walked up to them and picked them up. As he touched them, the last time he had seen these in a dream surfaced uneasily in his memory.

Wasn’t much fun, was it? But it was worth it, if you’re to be believed.

"Nicholas?" He looked around. "To be frank, boy, this is suspicious. You’ve picked up some nasty habits from that slug demon. If you have allied with him, you had best not tell me."

Bad timing for threats. And that’s a genuine no. I’ve not aligned myself with the toad. He still hangs from a wheel in a stone on a chain which hangs from my neck. Or did.…

"Where are you?"

Close.

"Why did you interrupt my dreams?"

If you want, I could just make you forget it all when you wake up.

"And where," asked Asterisk, with bitter suspicion, "will I wake up?"

It’s not so much a where. It’s more a when.

"Nicholas, tell me. Are you feeling…hungry?"

He seemed reluctant to answer. After a pause, he realized he had paused, and answered to try and cover up. Of course not.

"Don’t lie to me."

There’s a little hunger. But I can withstand it.

"Do you know that Poshedon said those exact same words? It was a long time ago by your method of time."

My former method of time. Time is just numbers now. Besides, he knew nothing about the Infinite Pattern.

"You think not? How do you think Poshedon worked out so cleverly how to consume realities? How to invade different existences and soak them up like a sponge? How to wound you as he did? Hmm? Clever reasoning and logic? I think not. Someone made him for a purpose. He was a cosmic assassin. You were the target. He knew an infinitesimal corner of the Pattern. That is why he was so dangerous, Nicholas."

Not Nicholas. Abaddon.

"Don’t threaten me with literary devices. You are still my agent, Nicholas. You are dear to me. I have believed in you for years. Centuries, really. That’s how long I had it in mind to take on this project."

It must be frustrating to see who learned the Pattern first.

"No! You served your purpose! Now you can go free! You have a home, a real home, and parents, and you have a past, and you have pain and joy and love and hate, all the things that man has, all of the adamah that makes up the adam. The memories will finish coming to you in time, maybe, or at least most of them will. Poshedon’s scars are deep on you, and lasting. But you will claim victory in that, just like you did on Da Gon Gai. Your memories will return."

But they are false!

"Not so! For certain, we fashioned them in the forges of the Immaterium. But they were only as false as a historical fiction. They were based on something true, and no one can ever disprove them. They are yours, Nicholas. My gift, our gift to you! And if you never want to speak to me again, if you never want any of the interaction again, any of the research, any of the missions, any of it—it’s gone."

Nicholas would have wept if he had found eyes.

I am sorry, Asterisk. I have already begun it.

"Begun what?"

I have already visited Ištar tonight.

"Nicholas, you—what did you do to her? Did you destroy her?"

No. I sent her away.

"Where?"

Into the Numbers. To let the Pattern deal with her.

"Nicholas!"

I am sorry. But the wheels were set in motion, and I cannot stop them. Goodbye, Asterisk. May we meet again on better terms.

Asterisk felt it again, the feeling like a snake in the gears. But it was multiplied a thousand fold this time. The gears were greater and harsher, and from every direction, pounding him into the cold devices of the Pattern. Asterisk tried to grab hold of the corner he recognized, but it went by far too quickly.

Dirk had sat at his computer desk until he felt better. He lay back down and fell asleep.

He dreamt of a small metallic device buzzing on the floor in a black room. He picked it up. It was no bigger than the size of his pinky fingernail. He puzzled at it for a moment.

The voice came from behind him, it seemed. But really it was everywhere.

It’s the transceiver.

"Nicholas? What’s happened to you?"

I am and have always been a machine. It’s all the numbers starting to show.

"What’s going on? Why did you come here?"

I’m cleaning up.

"What do you mean?"

Putting things back where they belong. You’ll note the thin metaphor.

"Nicholas, I know you don’t want to do this to me."

Your knowledge will change nothing.

"What about the fact that I am your only friend?"

Then you heard what I did to Asterisk?

"You got to him already? Who else?"

The green woman.

"She was as noble as they come, Nicholas," growled Dirk. "You destroyed her! That is murder!"

I did not destroy her. But she will not be coming back for a considerable amount of time, if I may use that term.

"The contrivances of the Pattern destroy as well as enlighten, Nicholas. You did destroy her."

Homogenize, maybe. Assimilate, most certainly. But destroy?

"Yes, Nicholas, destroy!"

Well I suppose you’re right. And that is why I am no longer Nicholas. I am become Shiva.

"This is lunacy. You are in error. You are going to regret all of this if you go through with it."

From a point of view, I already have. Once the wheels begin, they do not stop. The Pattern does not err. You know that.

"This is wrong!"

I will, however, give you a way to help me as the friend you have claimed to be for so long. Tell me who else is like you. I want to know who made Poshedon.

"The Astartan. He has opposed our operations from the beginning."

What beginning?

"Since Asterisk took it in mind to bow to the will of Asherah. His curiosity lead him there. He became loyal to her and earned high status in her court. He earned the honor of taking over the Infinite Pattern project."

And then there was me.

"Yes, Nicholas. You were formed in one of the bowls in the Immaterium. But it is no loss. You are still Nicholas Kirk Evans. You still have everything."

I want none of it if it is false.

"That is a lie, straight from the mouth of Poshedon."

I think not.

Dirk sat down on the black floor. He crossed his legs. He put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. "This is all so needless." Nicholas did not respond. "I am doomed because of your unfortunate discovery. And because you cannot reconcile the truth of what you are with the standards through which you were born. I hate it."

I had no love for being the plaything of the gods.

"Gods? A little lofty."

Very nearly so, had this Pattern fallen into their hands, or rather, into their minds. But I have further need of you. Tell me one last thing.

"And what is that, Nicholas?"

Tell me how to get back to the Immaterium.

"Nicholas, you can’t seriously be planning an assault on Asherah. That is more foolish than I will accredit you, because I know you better. You are far more intelligent."

You think she will not succumb to the pattern?

"I think you know the answer to that."

The Pattern was unknown to her. It is beyond her.

"You underestimate the her influence, I think."

Tell me what I want to know.

"Or what?"

Or I will remember you with less remorse.

"I am mortally insulted, Nicholas, that you would treat a friend like this. I would hate to be your enemy."

You would be hanging from a wheel and very, very hungry.

"So! You keep Poshedon around. But you send your friends away. Why don’t you go ask him? Or the Astartan?"

I can no longer speak with Poshedon. I can only shake his container. It does not amuse me any longer. If I were to find the Astartan, where would I begin to look?

"You still have the mind glasses, no? You look for him."

The years have been good. You were the best friend of my worst of enemies. Goodbye.

"And that is all?"

You wanted a denouement? A touching poem? Don’t worry. This will cure you of such trifling concerns.

The black room fractured into many black pieces, and swirled around Dirk, and disappeared. The numbers came. He did not dignify Nicholas’s actions with screams. He went silently and painfully into the infinite engines of the Infinite Patterns.