THE FORGE

FIRE AND ICE

To you, dear reader, for choosing this collection.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As well as offering heartfelt thanks to Simon Fisher-Becker for his foreword and to the authors and the invited entries for adding their voices to this anthology, there are a group of folks who rarely get the thanks they deserve when creating a publication like this.

With this in mind we would like to thank; our typesetter Elaine for doing such a wonderful job with the layout, our cover designer Ramon for his beautiful, unique artwork that really captures the spirit of this collection, our tireless editor who spent many hours over many weeks working with each of the authors to finely hone their tales, our author liason Anne-Marie for handling what must have been a hurricane of communications during the editorial process and finally the army of fans who continue to buy, read, review and share news about our charity anthologies, we couldn’t do what we do without each and every one of you.

Thank you.

Dan

CEO

Fantastic Books Publishing

FOREWORD

By Simon Fisher-Becker

For an anthology with its roots in the 16th century, this one certainly spreads its wings far and wide. Both fire and ice have long played roles in great literature; Shakespeare’s King John introduces the concept of fighting fire with fire: ‘Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threatener…’ During Shakespeare’s lifetime, Sir Thomas North, (Military Officer, Translator and Justice of the Peace) introduced the figurative concept of breaking the ice. His wording is irresistible in the context of a science fiction and fantasy publication, ‘To be the first to break the Ice of the Enterprise.’ Is it Plutarch who said, ‘the mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled,’? If so, it beautifully captures the essence of this anthology.

The remit given to the authors was to get in touch with their dark side and they’ve done just that. Dystopian landscapes unfold from humankind on alien worlds to alien beings wrestling with very human problems (though you could be forgiven for thinking it is an historical account of what is happening on Earth today). There is adventure, drama, narrow escapes, success and failure. Infused with unexpected humour the writers have skilfully forged fire with ice. This is science fiction and fantasy written to a high standard as storytelling ought to be. Given the struggles against adversity that are told on its pages, it is fitting that this book will generate funds to help relieve a condition that causes widespread pain.

Chronic conditions such as fibromyalgia often hit the more vulnerable the hardest. In the 21st century our planet has become too small for factions and inequalities. The Canadian journalist, Bat Masterson, so perceptively said in the 19th century, ‘We all get the same amount of ice. The rich get it in the summer. The poor get it in the winter.’ In the 21st century there is no excuse for such a gaping imbalance. It should light the fire of rage within us all that such disparities still exist. It is so easy to feel a donation from a science fiction and fantasy anthology seems like a drop in the ocean. I say, think again. Remember, every ocean is a collection of single drops.

Simon Fisher-Becker is an actor and author. Amongst his many roles, he has played Tony Fazackerley in Puppy Love, Dorium Maldovar in Doctor Who and the Fat Friar of Hufflepuff House from Harry Potter. Simon’s autobiography, My Dalek has a Puncture, is available from Fantastic Books Publishing.

FORGED

Dan Staniforth

I stand at the top of a pharmacological cliff. Cold waves pound at its base. Watching from the promontory I cannot tell what makes up the water. I see only hazy blue and feel its power.

‘You want Fire?’ the weasel-faced sergeant asks. ‘For real?’

I nod.

‘You got an op tomorrow. Fire’s gonna make that dicey.’ My money’s good, and she knows she’ll take it. The credit chip lies between us on an ammunition case. My stillness unsettles her, and she palms the chip, leaving two bright red capsules.

‘Your funeral.’ She leaves quickly and I am alone in the tent. The shadows press in on me, full of faces I cannot remember.

We all take ICE. The drug numbs certain parts of our brains and enhances others. On ICE, I’m faster on my feet, on the trigger and in my head. I can go for hours. My spatial reasoning is top percentile, and unless you’re in my unit, you might as well be a paper target for all the thought I’ll give as I take you down. We got the shot before we flew out here, and every six months we get a booster. I’ve been here four years, I think.

The tent is cold and dark, so I pull a blanket around myself as I look at the pills. This stuff is Fire. It might let me know what grinds away at me every night. I’ve seen soldiers take speck doses of Fire before furlough, especially when they have a booster shot of ICE coming up. This is no microdose though, this is the full burn. We don’t remember our dreams, but I’ve been waking up with tears on my face. Pillow damp and pressure building in me, filling me with something. My mind only shows me smudges. A chalkboard, erased just before I see it.

Soldiers using ICE follow orders more efficiently and accurately; they perform at peak capacity. As it wears off, so do memories of the combat zone. Proper regimens increase operational security and lower instances of PTSD and related traumas.

I remember briefings. Manuals. Orders.

Old conflicts produced broken soldiers. Men and women who came home whole in body but not in mind. PTSD put veterans on the streets and destroyed families. No matter what I have to do out here, when I go home, when it wears off, I’ll be human again.

The pressure is unbearable. I scoop, swallow, wash them down with plastic-tasting water from my canteen. Fire in the hole. My next booster isn’t for two months. I hope I make it.

The sergeant was right. I have an op tomorrow, but there are eight hours’ sleep owed me, and unconscious, that’s a long time. I’m a soldier: I sleep fast, and I sleep hard. My head hits the pillow.

‘Within ICE, memories which are not chemically conditioned will fade. At daily briefings, you are required to take supplements. These ensure crucial data will remain available to you. Extraneous details will fade from your mind. Do not worry, Cadets, memories formed before ICE will be unaffected. You will not forget your name, your mothers, or your high school sweetheart.’

‘Please can I forget my wife?’ some smart-ass chimes.

‘We cannot provide that service, Cadet. However, grateful souls in the disputed territories may be able to help.’

I remembered Jas. The way she looked at me when I told her I had signed up. As if I was some sort of idiot hero. She wanted to punch me and fuck me at once. Jas was finishing medical school while I was out here. She was the smart one.

‘You will do basic training while taking supplements, but you will not be issued ICE until deployment. Make the most of these memories, they’ll be lasting you until you come home.’

On the sofa in our rented cellar we shared wine. Jas didn’t like the idea of novel neural depressants.

‘They’re still a work in progress, Raf. Nobody knows what effects these drugs will have in the long term.’

‘I’ll never forget you, Jas. Or how you make me feel.’ We drank more wine and went to bed.

‘ICE will make you a better, quicker soldier. It will help keep you alive, more capable of keeping your unit alive. Without it, you are a weak link. You do not have to partake, but you are responsible for those around you.’

One cadet refused the supplements. He lasted a week before he was shipped home. Another changed her mind halfway through and ran away. By dose day, everyone was on board.

‘Injections today, then you take a weekend furlough. ICE won’t kick in until you get back. We take a pill and a plane and go win this war. Dismissed, Soldiers.’

Jas and I made promises. She’d write. I’d do what I could from a combat zone. I took a lock of her hair, and she took a cheek swab for a slide. Jas had funny ideas about what was romantic, but she said it would keep me close. We partied, fucked, and stayed up late holding each other, making plans. She drove me to the base the next day, and as we parted she told me something, but I can’t remember what.

As I sleep, cliffs crumble. Water destroys the rocks that held it back. Floods roll in. Jas’s voice ripples through me.

‘I’m pregnant.’

Sadness that originates there flows forward, covering me. Is this the truth the drug obscures? I kissed her and walked away, ICE already forming layers. Left the country and didn’t return. Was that ICE? Or was that me?

‘You ok, bro?’

I wake, not ok, but I cannot tell my squad-mates. We have a job to do. I kit up and we move. An hour later I’m on the streets of what used to be a city. I’ve never seen a landscape like this without ICE. Buildings are skeletons and stones, history told only by outlines and detritus. Figures stagger from the shadows, dark eyes looking at us with no hope, no hatred, no interest. All landmarks are gone, leaving only memories and damage.

My stomach churns. The chiaroscuro of the day makes my eyes hurt. I hit the ground but I’m missing something. Fire is still inside me, old layers of ICE peeling back like wallpaper strata as a house burns. I can smell the scorch marks on the walls as my unit moves forwards. My gun is out, pointed, but I don’t see what surrounds me.

My Captain seats me in the oddly empty tent. Words fall from her mouth to my ears, but they don’t stick.

‘News from home. I’m afraid it’s not good. Jasmine is dead.’

I am not present in my body as I shake my head, looking like I don’t understand.

‘Jasmine Alvarez. She had you as next of kin alongside her parents.’

Jas. Oh. I stagger and take a knee in the dark squalor of the building. My partner hears me go down and turns.

‘You ok? Raf?’

A weak nod and raised hand buys me time.

Jasmine. How? How did I forget? Why did I give this up?

‘You know Jasmine, from home?’ my Captain asks me gently, and I nod. I remember, but through fog.

‘Your daughter is fine. She’s with her grandparents.’

Chills run through me. Jas, her laugh, her smell. Remembrance comes at me like a truck and I drop my gun. I have a…

Bullets run dry. I fumble for a reload as I hear footsteps. ICE reflexes drop my empty rifle. My pistol comes free as a crouching figure leans from the doorway. Full face mask and filthy clothes rob the figure of gender, but it steps back. Eyes widen in terror behind the mask, shadows moving beneath dark water as I fire, splashing bright blood on shattered black plastic.

‘Raf. What’s up? I need you, brother.’

He’s shaking me and I see shrapnel-marked walls and a corridor. A door ahead.

‘We’re nearly there, but I need you here. What’s going on?’

Pushing memories from my head I take my weapon and stand. I am needed here. I hear the radio in my ear, see remnants of the surrounding building, rubbed away by the bombs.

‘Door on three, two, one…’

We move forward, opening and passing through. This is what we came for, where the target should be. I have a daughter. Our target, dead or alive, will be here. Intelligence tells us this is true.

She must be three now, three and a half. When do children stop counting half years? Behind these doors, in these tunnels, is the man we seek. The man we are hunting. His team, his people, his nexus. Have I ever seen my daughter? What does she look like?

Dark shadows in every room hold fears and danger. I enter, check my corners, kneel, aim, confirm, and room by room we continue. The building is empty. Stairs down.

I catch sight of myself in the broken glass of a door. Black hair, brown eyes. I know what I look like, but do I know who I am? Who’s inside? We would have made a beautiful baby, Jas and I. She must be special.

Stairs down. Focus. Stairs into darkness. The torches we carry poke holes into the unknown, exposing edges and walls, dangling lights that no longer have power. We build a picture of the unseen from glances in our beams. I lead down, open a door and stop.

How long ago? When did I learn that Jas died? Why did I stay here?

I am in the chair again, Captain standing before me.

‘I understand if you want to go home. Be with family. We can make that happen.’

There’s nothing in my face, behind those eyes. I see the words hit and slide off as if my mind was greased.

‘We can put a replacement into your unit until you get back.’

I shake my head. These men and women rely on me. Brothers and sisters. Leaving them in the hands of a stranger is unthinkable.

‘Your daughter is well looked after. We’ll ensure her grandparents have all they need. When your tour is done you can go home a hero.’

We stand at the bottom of the staircase, clustered around the doorway. The room is crowded, but not with insurgents. Children fill it. There is no blood, but no life either. They have died from smoke inhalation. Older boys and girls with their arms around younger ones. There are three adults, teachers perhaps. Everyone is dead.

The unit leader turns and points back up the stairs.

‘He’s not here. RTB. We keep looking.’

My ride back doesn’t stop at the base, I take it all the way. The Fire doesn’t wear off, it keeps finding new layers to peel back. Memories I don’t want. All I can think about is Jas and my daughter. I don’t even know her name.

All I can see is destruction. My actions causing death. My finger on the trigger. Blood, pain and darkness spilling from me, fear and hatred pooling around me as we travel through the warzone we have created. The melt comes and brings floods of poison waking me nightly, bombed out skeletal structures like hands reaching for me, awareness of my complicity. Emptiness in my eyes as I kill or brutally interrogate. The defence of my sanity at the cost of my soul.

I find the house where my daughter lives. A blue front door, narrow yard with a potted plant and a child’s bike. Chalk on the pavement. I watch her scamper from the house with her grandparents. They are happy. They have grieved and recovered, and I cannot approach them.

I stand at the bottom of a precipice. The sea of memories which surrounds me is dark and freezing. Atop the cliff my daughter dances, unaware.

the end

About the author

Dan Staniforth is a Theatre Technical Manager who grew up in Chilcompton and has wound up in London via Manchester. He enjoys making things. He is father to an energetic daughter and husband to a playwright. They all love stories and he is lucky that they put up with his. He tweets as @theonlygolux

Forged was the overall winner of the Fire and Ice competition.

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

JX Plant

‘Oh… the children are in the machine…’ – pause – ‘… or the furnace.’

Suliman hears the words, softly breathed though they are, and well out of his range. The emotion he used to call panic twitches muscles at the sides of his mouth without evoking any tangible feeling. If he were to make a noise, not that he has for many years, it will be the noise he used to call laughter.

She speaks. He knows that already. He’s known for almost as long as he’s known her.

And she reasons. The twitch of muscles relaxes into the ghost of something real; the emotion he used to call surprise. So she reasons after all. Yet he thought he already knew that, too. The surprise is that he didn’t, that he’d given up on her a long time ago. For all his clear head and quick thinking, which is pretty much all he has left, he’d missed that one. It doesn’t matter. He has all the time in the world. It might be seconds, it might be centuries. He doesn’t care. It’s his.

Tendrils reach through the pathways of his brain. Will anger spark in the wake of surprise?

No. Anger is spent. It would be appropriate but he has none to give. Cee-Gee reasons, but has waited for this moment to show her ability. A day earlier and they could have been far away. Just an hour earlier, he’d have worked with it. Sixty seconds even. If Cee-Gee could have given him just sixty seconds he’d have stoked the embers he knows he’s kept hidden deep within: ingenuity, spontaneity. Just sixty seconds. He’d have made something of it.

Too late now.

Cee-Gee has spoken just as a Broster is hurrying by and hears her. It’s too prosaic, too ordinary; that all these years of planning should crash on the chance of a Broster rushing by. To have waited this long, to have planned this well, to have grabbed the breaks and worked the system… and at the last moment when Cee-Gee shows that she’s been capable all along, it has to be now.

The crisis is unmistakeable. He’s seen it coming, but they haven’t. This is the reason that the Broster is rushing. He, along with the rest of them, is only just becoming aware that it is bigger than they know what to do with.

He’d have liked to get away in these final moments. The official plan, the one he had made himself believe in, had been to get away and live, but now he knows it was just to breathe the air of Spring from outside the confining walls, to die with the sky above him.

‘Uh… what’s that, CG-7? What are you doing?’ The Broster’s voice is impatient, but he can’t ignore what Cee-Gee said, despite the need to rush.

Suliman wonders about working muscles into a smile. It’s worth a smile to hear that puzzled tone. Stymied mid emergency, the Broster is flummoxed by Cee-Gee’s words. The very fact they are words is enough on its own, but to have the import of them seep into that slow brain, to have realisation dawn; that’s worth a smile. Not that anyone will ever know that it’s his doing. Not entirely his. He must credit Cee-Gee too. He’s old enough – by far – to have left behind the need for self-aggrandisement.

He holds back. No smile. No anything.

The Broster speaks again. ‘Quite right. Now climb in after them. Yes, there. Go on, girl. I don’t have all day.’

Another unfamiliar feeling. Is this one sadness? It’s such a stranger, he can barely recognise it. The Broster is telling Cee-Gee to climb into the furnace.

‘The children are inside. Go and find them.’

The Broster is going for the quickest solution to this inexplicable problem. And Cee-Gee will follow the orders of one of her sacred guardians. Why would she not? The Broster is sending her after the children. She can’t help but go.

It’ll be the end of Cee-Gee; the end of him. But in any case it’s the end of them all. Such a shame. Just sixty seconds.

He takes the energy that he didn’t use on a self-indulgent smile and turns it to vocal cords that have not felt vibration in decades.

‘I have the children,’ he shouts. He actually shouts and the words bounce off the silvered surfaces.

There’s a hush. He feels it.

Then the Broster’s voice, startled, panicked. ‘Get inside, CG-7. Do as you are told!’

Don’t climb in the furnace, Cee-Gee, Suliman thinks. No point vocalising that even if he could summon the energy for more words. Cee-Gee won’t understand fire or pain until the heavy door slams behind her but it doesn’t matter. Despite all his work over the years, he never had the means to teach Cee-Gee to disobey.

There’s a stifled gasp, the slam of a heavy door, the rush of hot air.

Footsteps.

After so long wielding the ultimate power of not caring for a single thing, suddenly Suliman cares. This close to the end, he wants desperately not to breathe his last inside the red heat of the furnace, what’s left of his body fusing with whatever’s left of Cee-Gee.

One spark of hope. How would the Broster know it’s him? He’s never heard him speak, none of them have. There’s nothing to show that he’s moved a muscle. At a time of crisis it could have been anyone. He’ll check the logs and they’ll show no one else is here, but then the logs are going haywire. He’s been hearing the whine of alarms all day.

A shadow falls across the doorway. Now it’s shock. Now he must get a grip, remember the lessons of so many decades, before this surge of emotions shuts him down all on its own.

It’s Cee-Gee.

Where…? He barely mouths the word. That’s all that’s needed between him and Cee-Gee.

‘The children.’ She’s looking all around the cubicle. ‘Where are the children?’

She hasn’t answered him. She doesn’t need to. The Broster is in the furnace. He gave her the means to see the Broster’s lie; he’s as responsible as her for the Broster’s immolation.

It’s her bond to the children. All these years, he’d had no idea the bond was strong enough to breach her calibration. Now Cee-Gee has broken free more comprehensively than he ever thought she could, than he ever wanted her to, truth be told. He wanted her free of the Brosters and the System, not of him. Now she’s free of everything. And all she wants of him is the children.

He told her, I have the children. That’s her motivator. It’s the only one left. But if she could see the Broster’s lie, can she see his?

He can only try.

Free me… what we practised…

His lips scarcely move, not words at all, just thoughts. She doesn’t need more to understand him. But how far will her reasoning take her… take him…? How literally will she understand, I have the children? Will it turn out that if he’d only said, I can take you to the children, he would still have a chance of that last breath of Spring air?

Illogically, the furnace holds fewer fears if he’s to end up there from Cee-Gee’s hand.

But no, she’s moving quickly, efficiency itself, disconnecting tubes, removing electronic tethers, bypassing alarms – though who’s to come running when the System itself is in meltdown? She’s even remembered that they can’t take the smooth-running bed, that it must be the lowtech but more robust caricouch. She moves him from his stacker to the harder surface. He’ll have to get used to that now. No matter. He has all the time in the world, even if that might only be minutes.

They’re racing down corridors. This is not discreet, but then no one’s being discreet. Everyone is rushing and running, shouting and panicking. They pass a few sectors of calm where the alarms are silent, where voices are muted, words bounce back from the mirrored surfaces. He notes a swift movement that shuts a securiscreen against them as they rumble past.

He’s not the only one to have been preparing, of course he isn’t. Others have seen it, created their own safe havens, their safety zones. Looks like some of them will actually work. He can’t blame them for shutting out those who are scurrying blindly begging the System to restore order. It’s interesting because it means the Facility will survive. If he’d known this, he might have planned differently, planned to survive within its boundaries, but how was he ever to know? He’d been on his own before Cee-Gee, and pretty much on his own in all material senses since Cee-Gee.

Then they’re away from the System’s smooth surface. The caricouch bumps over uneven flooring. The light dims. This is the basement that Cee-Gee knows about. From here it’s just guesswork, wings and prayers. He’s always thought there must be a way out, but now he’s remembering the concept of wishful thinking.

It gets darker, danker… the air itself begins to smell bad. Sounds of water dripping. For decades he’s seen nothing but the pristine smooth walls and ceilings of the Facility with their right-angled joins. This is chaotic. It’s dirty, ragged… joins that fail to join… that leak dust and debris.

Then they are outside. There’s no warning, no gradually increasing light. No transition. They were there underground, now they’re here outside.

It has been so long that outside has become an abstract concept. Elation weaves panic with exhilaration, real emotion flurries so close to the surface, he isn’t sure he can remember how to breathe. But he can. Air is all around him, carried on a breeze, uncontrolled, currents that swirl without thermostatic manipulation, that pick up dust and debris without filter, that make him cough and gasp. A voice that has said four words aloud in half a century is liberated into a whoop of pure delight.

He is outside, breathing air, under the sky. Alive. He closes his eyes for a moment to allow the rush to settle. He wants to laugh until tears run down his face.

Everything from before crowds him. Suliman who has never cared is overwhelmed by a desperate urge to live.

Cee-Gee is his only lifeline now. He knows what motivates her. Even now when she’s broken free, when she’s bundled one of her sacred guardians into the heart of a furnace, he holds the key to controlling her. All he needs is a clear head and some quick thinking; how to use the motivator and hide the lie?

He laughs because he can, though the urge has gone. The air and the outside, the sky and this thing called being alive have fogged his brain. Quick thinking will return… given time. He’s grown too used to having all the time in the world, too used to being a step ahead.

The caricouch slows and stops. Cee-Gee says, ‘Show me the children.’

The outside world assaults his senses. He has to savour it to the exclusion of all else. There’s a lie there to mollify Cee-Gee. He just needs time to work out what it is. Cee-Gee will wait. Cee-Gee is programmed to wait. There’s all the time in the world.

‘Show me the children! Now!’

the end

About the author

JX, who has insisted on being known by his initials (JX – JayEx) since he was four, dabbles equally in music and words and considers himself to be a more accomplished wordsmith than musician. He originally wrote All the Time in the World as the first chapter of a novel that somehow never went beyond its opening. Success in this anthology might be the motivator he needs to complete it.

All the Time in the World won 2nd prize in the Fire and Ice competition.

A WORM IN THE TOFFEE APPLE

R.L Kerrigan

Alice was always jumpy this time of year. She palmed a couple of Diaxims from the top of the dresser and urged them down her dry throat. Mark said it was just the fireworks. She rather thought it was the horrid pregnant silences between explosions which made her worse. But it was day time now. No fireworks yet.

She twisted the fat diamond rings around her slender finger and looked out of the bedroom window. The cold mid-afternoon sun streamed through the monkey puzzle tree and across the perfect front lawns. Next door’s new Tesla Off-Road glinted beautifully. It had been left out on display in front of its huge and empty garage for one reason, thought Alice. But there would be no persuading Mark on this. He had been quite clear. Until his bonus review at the firm was completed there would be no upgrade on the cars. There were the village fees and upkeep on the French house to be paid and if she wanted to ski at all this year, she would have to cut her cloth. They could afford it. Mark was just being a difficult bastard.

Pursing her lips at the injustice, it occurred to Alice that she hadn’t been out of the front door at all today. A trip out might be just what she needed. The doctor had been clear that she was to stay active and positive if she wanted to be happy and valued. She was lucky to be here. London had been so taxing. A lifetime ago. It was like a jungle, so hard to feel clean, even in the compounds. The distant memory pricked out sweat on her top lip. The rules were different there. Why any decent person would choose to live in that swarm was beyond her. Of course the firm had a presence there, but made sure its top execs had remote and virtual working tools so that they never had to actually leave the Villages.

Descending the stairs to the nursery room, Alice checked her phone for messages. Nothing from the agency. Two days now. Still no new nanny. Was it any wonder her nerves were starting to fray? Really, Mark was bloody lucky she knew how to pull together in a crisis. He had said he would give the agency a piece of his mind after Eva upped and left… Evie… Ellie? Whatever that sodding girl’s name was. To be given Village papers and then to just disappear? The ingratitude of it boiled Alice’s blood. She scooped up the silent child from its play pod and made her way through to the garage suite. Sunglasses, handbag, keys, kid.

She flicked on the garage light with an elbow. The pale space was flooded with cold white light. Three cars, Mark’s vintage Harley, a couple of over-flow champagne chillers humming quietly with empty crates from the vineyard stacked on top. The latest order of Mark’s favourite Grand Cru was still on the floor in front of one of the fridges. Bottles and bottles. She wouldn’t be putting it away for him. He could drink it warm, thought Alice with a small tut as she made her way to the four by four in the middle, flung wide the back door and clipped in the car seat.

As she pulled out on to the driveway the child started to squawk loudly. Alice passed it the dosing dummy, flipped the noise cancellers on in the back, and in an instant all was tranquil again. Scrolling the short list of her recent places on the dash screen, she selected Beans on the Green and commenced auto-drive. She shouldn’t even have to touch the display, but she was stuck with this archaic model. Alice sat back, massaging her temples as she grappled with the day’s biggest question: what would she donate to the parish bonfire night charity drive?

The destination alarm pinged, breaking Alice’s deep thought. They had come to a halt under a willow between the village green and the river. Exiting the car, she spotted a woman making her way across the grass towards the café. Alice recognised her from her hypnofasting class. It was working, she thought enviously, the woman looked beautifully frail. Seeing Alice, the woman gave a weak wave, twig fingers scraping the air in a languid arc. Alice looked away first, dropping a pair of large sunglasses over her narrowing eyes.

Alice waited until the woman was out of sight before removing the car seat from the back of the car. She didn’t want to be seen without help unless she could immediately explain why. But more than that, she didn’t want to risk the child exiting the car before making sure the Xanpaed in the dummy had silenced it again. Villagers didn’t pay what they did to have the tranquillity and order of the village spoiled by an uncontrolled infant. By-laws couldn’t be clearer on this.

She hadn’t got much further towards the café when Reverend Quinn hove into view. He was upon her within moments, long lolloping strides bringing his waxy smiling face to within uncomfortable inches of hers.

‘Alice my dear. Is that you over there by the river?’ He gestured towards the car.

‘Only, I must ask, did you see any rats on the far bank? They find a way of getting over you know.’ His eyebrows slanted comedically, his moon-face suddenly the picture of angry concern. Alice remembered that he was up for the position of Council member with portfolio for pest control. His sermon on Sunday had been all about the cleanliness and godliness proximity. He was clearly pitching for the role vacated by the late Mr Antrobus, whose non-detection of a sizeable nest in a village storm drain had cost him dearly.

Alice shuddered. ‘No. I mean, I doubt I could see that far across the waters but… no, nothing moving as far as I could tell.’ It was every village member’s job to be vigilant.

‘Good-O!’ said the vicar, beaming once again. ‘Will we be seeing you and your lovely family at the bonfire night fete this evening?’ He placed a sweaty hand on the child’s head.

‘Of course, Reverend. I’m just deciding what to donate to the drive.’ Alice shuffled the infant carrier out of his reach.

‘Capital. I’m sure you can get your hands on something.’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink then looked past her to the tranquil waters beyond the green.

‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he murmured.

As the reverend trotted off, Alice decided to change direction. There was too much to think about. She needed Mark. Leaving the green behind her, she headed towards the stone-flagged market square. The firm’s Agile Space was housed in a double fronted Georgian building with a brass plate and hanging baskets. She found Mark at his desk, deep in conversation with a disembodied face on one of his three screens. Seeing her, he graciously ended the call and removed his earpiece.

He smiled up at her. ‘Hello my darling,’ he said.

She ignored his outstretched arm.

‘I’m having the shittest day Mark. I mean, where is the fucking nanny? You were supposed to sort this. I’ve got the donation to organise, the kid keeps surfacing, the car is a bloody nightmare and all without any sort of help. You know I wouldn’t normally bother you at work but I need this handled!’

Mark stood up and closed the office door. He looked sheepish.

‘Yes, darling, well the thing is, I haven’t wanted to bother the agency.’

‘What the fuck Mark?’

He loosened his tie. ‘Look, it was Wednesday I think,’ he turned back to the screen and scrolled up through his diary.

‘She got a bit… reluctant. I could have handled it a bit better I suppose but yes, look…’ He pointed at a meeting entry.

‘We’d had a bad outcome on the Paradiso account and I needed something to distract me at the end of an awful day. Please don’t be cross. I wasn’t asking her to do anything out of the ordinary. She’s for all our use after all isn’t she?’ He looked to Alice like a sad little boy. She started to soften.

He went on, ‘Anyway, she starts refusing at the first fence and I… well… I sort of lost my temper. I cleared away afterwards and I’ve been meaning to deal with it since.’ He looked extremely sheepish now. Alice felt her indignation give way to irritation.

‘For God’s sake Mark. Is that what the clutter is about in the garage? All those boxes stacked up so that no-one can get into the chillers?’ She dropped her voice slightly but hissed, ‘You should have just told me you silly fool.’

She left the office feeling disgruntled. She had a reasonable explanation now but it irked her that she had had to draw it out of him. She knew it was because he was embarrassed. There was a reason outsourced workers were so expensive; Village papers and vetting cost a great deal, deposits were astronomical. He was always getting at her for over-spending yet here he was, wasting money and resources like this.

But slowly, the intense feeling of righteousness started to lift her mood. As she drew near the car, she began to wonder if there might not be a silver lining to this whole debacle after all.

That night, the village green was alive with the yellow glare of at least 30 elevated, lawn-safe bonfires. The aroma of popcorn and toffee apples hung on the air. It was artificially intensified to mask the more offensive smells but it always gave Alice a lovely warm feeling inside.

She looked about her at the crowd. The whole village was there. Everyone seemed genuinely happy on these occasions and Alice felt a spontaneous surge of contentment. Such unmedicated feelings were rare. At that moment she noticed the skeletal hypnofaster stalking towards her, a satisfied grin stretched over her taut skull-face.

‘Gosh Alice, twice in one day! The girls and I were just saying that we don’t see enough of you. Did you manage to find anything to donate to the Fires? I know it’s hard babe.’ She pulled a grotesque baby-face in commiseration at Alice’s presumed failure. She carried on, no interest in a reply. ‘So Angus caught a rat on Sunday’s Hunt. Perfect timing for tonight. It had crawled into the Protected Zone from one of the estates.’ She mouthed the last word as if it was some sort of expletive. ‘They all do. They’ll soon learn to just stay there.’

She rolled her eyes, lurched in to touch Alice’s cheek with her own then picked her way back into the throng of villagers.

The woman would hear about Alice’s largesse soon enough. Alice and Mark were not Hunt people yet and normally this sort of exchange would have sent her hurtling into a pit of social anxiety and envy. But not tonight. She’d nothing to feel inadequate about tonight, at least.

Mark moved close beside her. The child in his arms was transfixed by the flames, large eyes dilated and unmoving as it sucked rhythmically on its dummy. The loud screams and cries for help coming from the rats on the far bonfires didn’t seem to faze it. Alice could never understand what they were saying anyway, she supposed it was English of a sort. She felt exquisite pride as she thought how perfectly silent her own expensive donation had been compared to the raucous and, let’s face it, utterly disposable offerings of her neighbours. A rat was ordinary and uninspired. Her donation showed class. And after all, a well-chilled body burns for a bit longer, the pretty face a much more pleasant sight as it melts off the bone.

She glanced across at Mark, his face shining in the firelight with admiration and gratitude. She might get that new car after all.

the end

About the author

This author’s dreams of being either an astronaut or a spy were squashed by the reality of being too short and too talkative. Happily, R.L Kerrigan still manages to satisfy the desire to explore and tell preposterous lies through short story telling. It is a much safer endeavour, and one which can be done in a dressing gown with cup of tea.

A Worm in the Toffee Apple won 3rd prize in the Fire and Ice competition.

OUT OF HER MIND

Danuta Reah

Words on a page, black print on white. Words on a screen, black print on a flickering monitor, safe, contained. He’s the shadow in the night, the soft footsteps that follow in the darkness, sealed away as the book is closed, fragmenting into nothing as the screen shuts down into blackness.

But now he’s seeping around the sides of the screen, bleeding off the edges of the paper…

The room is empty. The light reflects from the walls, glints on the metal of the lamp. The screensaver dances, flowers and butterflies, over and over.

The summer heat is oppressive. Laura looks out of her window. The small patch of ground behind the house is scorched and wilting, and over the fence, the buddleia that grows in the alleyway droops, its purple flowers brown at the tips.

The air is still and dry. The louvres are open, but the wind chimes she put there at the beginning of the summer hang motionless. She taps them with her finger, the gentle reverberation giving her the illusion of coolness.

‘You going to sit there all day?’

Laura jumps and turns round quickly. It’s David.

‘You going to be sitting in front of that thing all day?’ He resents the hours she spends in front of the screen.

‘I was just…’ She gestures towards the monitor where the screen saver dances in a pattern of butterflies. ‘It won’t come right. I need to…’ She can’t explain, but she knows she needs to keep on writing.

She must.

He is impatient. ‘It’s beautiful out there. I’m not going to be stuck in on a day like this. I’m going out. Are you coming?’

She looks round the room. Her study is stark with its north facing window and bare walls. Her desk is tucked away in a corner, quiet and secret. It used to be safe. ‘I have to go on. I can’t leave it now.’ And she can’t.

‘You aren’t doing anything. You’re just staring out of the window. Can’t you make an effort, pretend you want my company once in a while? I might as well be married to a machine.’ He’s angry and frustrated. It’s summer, a glorious summer’s day, and Laura just wants to sit in her study, staring at the white flicker of the screen, tap tapping her fantasy world into its electronic soul.

You married a writer, she wants to say. That was the deal. But there’s no point. He doesn’t want to hear it.

‘I’m going.’ He slams out of the room, out of the house, doors opening and closing with noisy violence. Laura lets the silence flow back, closing in on her, then turns to her desk. Her hand hovers over the mouse for a second, then she pushes it, and the flowers and butterflies fall apart, leaving just words.

Writing running down the screen. Just words on a page. And sometimes there’s a sound when the house is empty, a footstep in the corridor, the creak of a door.

It’s nothing. It’s imagination. He’s always been there, the monster under the bed, the ogre in the cellar. Just a shadow to frighten children in the night.

Only the footsteps are gone now, and there is no monster under the bed, no ogre in the cellar. She grew up and left him behind, only now… now there is something worse. Now he lives in Laura’s mind, on her screen, in the pages she writes. Now he hides behind the butterflies and the flowers that dance in front of the words. Or does he? She can’t find him. He’s gone. He’s somewhere else.

Outside her window, the butterflies used to dance on the buddleia, but now the flowers are dying and the butterflies have gone.

Laura is in the supermarket. She has decided to surprise David. Look, I did the shopping! He hates shopping. Mechanically, she takes stuff off the shelves, loads it into the trolley, a bag of salad, bread, eggs, milk, bacon.

The supermarket aisles are long and well-lit with rows of shiny tins and boxes reflecting the light into her eyes. Reds and yellows and greens, primary colours, nursery colours. The trolley has a red plastic handle and bars of aluminium and the boxes and bottles and tins on the shelves flicker as the bars run past them, like the flicker of the words on the screen. She can see the patterns on the screensaver moving and dancing.

Waiting.

She shouldn’t have left. She has to hurry; she has to get back.

The aisles are long and straight. Laura pushes the trolley faster and faster past each one. Biscuits and cakes. Tinned fruit and vegetables. Soaps and cleaning stuff.

And a movement at the far end of the aisle.

Who’s there?

She squints but the light reflects off the tins and the bottles, reflects off the shiny floor. She screws her eyes up, but she can’t see it properly. It was – just a flicker, a silhouette moving quickly round the corner, out of view, out of sight.

She pushes her trolley into the next aisle, and her foot slips in something sticky, something viscous, something that is spattered across the shelves and dripping on to the floor, red, dark, drip, drip, pooling round her feet in abstract patterns.

She stops, frozen, half-hearing the voices: ‘Look out, someone’s dropped a bottle of wine… better be careful… mind the glass… get a…’

She pushes past, the wheels of her trolley smearing through the red and leaving a trail on the floor behind her. ‘Hey!’ But the voices don’t matter. She has to get back.

The queue snakes away from the checkout. She pushes her trolley to the front. ‘Sorry, so sorry…’ as people step back, frowning, puzzled, too polite to object. She doesn’t have time to queue. She feeds her purchases through and digs in her bag for her purse as the checkout girl drums her fingers on the till and the queue stirs restlessly behind her.

‘…with a filleting knife.’

She blinks. It is the girl sitting at the till, her face hostile and blank. ‘What?’

‘Forty five. Forty five pounds… did he slash her?’

‘What?’

The eyes roll in exasperation. ‘D’you want any cash back?’

‘Oh. No.’

The car park dazzles in the sun, the concrete hot under her feet, the metallic paint of the cars sending shards of light into her eyes.

Night time. He walks the streets, he waits in the dark places. A silk scarf whispers between his fingers. It’s light and gauzy, patterned with flowers and butterflies. It’s smooth and strong. He has something else in his hand. It’s long and thin and sharp. It glints where the light catches it.

Someone is coming. The sound drifts around the roadway, loses itself in the darkness, in the wind that rustles the tops of the trees. It’s what he’s been waiting for, tap, tap the sound of heels on the pavement, like the sound of fingers on a keyboard, like the sound of knuckles against the door. Tap, tap, tap. And then there will be the other sound, the sound that only the two of them will hear, the sound behind her in the darkness… the soft fall of footsteps, almost silent, lifted and placed, carefully but quickly, moving through the night.

The heatwave breaks two days later. In the morning, the sky is cloudless, the shadows sharp as a knife on the walls and on the pavements. The buddleia, parched, droops down, the petals falling into the dust. Laura sits at the table crumbling a piece of toast between her fingers. The sun reflects off the polished surfaces, off the steel off the cutlery, the spoons, the knives.

David sits opposite her, immersed in the paper he holds up in front of his face. Laura stares at the print, black on white, words that blur and vanish behind the moving patterns of flowers and butterflies.

‘Maniac.’ David closes the paper and tosses it on to the table.

Laura looks at the crumpled sheets. WOMAN… KNIFE ATTACK. She grabs it and smooths the page out, her hands moving in frantic haste.

WOMAN KILLED IN KNIFE ATTACK. It was the previous night, in the car park, in the supermarket car park. The woman must have walked across the concrete that was still warm from the sun, her heels tapping briskly, the streetlights shining on her hair. Walking tap, tap, tap towards the shadows where the trees started, the trees that whispered in the night.

Laura runs to her room and switches on her machine. Her hands hover over the keyboard and then began to move. Tap, tap, tap. The words appear on the screen, fill it, scroll down and down as her hands fly over the keys. She writes and deletes, writes and deletes, but each time, a woman walks across the car park into the darkness where gauze and flowers and butterflies wait for her, fluttering in the breeze. And the light glints on something in the shadows, just for a moment.

The day greys over as the clouds roll in. The air cools, becomes chill. Laura types, deletes, types again. It’s no good. She can’t change it.

‘Still at it? You’ve been here all day.’

She jumps and turns round.

It’s David trying hard to be patient. ‘I’ve made tea.’

‘Thanks.’ She isn’t hungry, but… ‘Thanks.’

He’s made egg and chips. The chips lie pale and limp on the plate. The yolk of the egg trembles under its translucent membrane. She cuts the chips into small pieces, pushes them into the egg, watching the bright yellow spill and spread over her plate.

‘Egg and chips not good enough for you anymore?’ He’s angry again. He’s made the effort and she doesn’t appreciate it – doesn’t appreciate him.

She can’t explain. She can’t tell him. ‘It’s fine. Egg and chips is fine. I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’

He grunts, but doesn’t say anything. He’s trying. He’s making the effort. He shakes the sauce bottle over his plate. Smack as he hits the base with the flat of his hand. She watches red spatter over the mountain of chips.

‘Ketchup?’

She shakes her head. ‘Did you get a paper? Is there any more about…?’ About the murder.

‘No. Stupid cow, though. What did she expect, out on her own at that time?’

What had she expected? She sees the wine spilled on the supermarket floor, the drip, drip from the shelves, the bright red of the splashes. David lifts a chip to his mouth. Ketchup drops on to the table, splat.

She has to get back.

The dark footprints cross the paving stones of the alleyway, prints that look black and shiny in the moonlight, growing fainter and fainter with each step until they fade to nothing.

It is starting to rain. The drops make black marks on the dry flags. The drops are big and heavy, splashing up as the rain falls harder and harder. The footsteps begin to blur, and a darker colour trickles across the ground with the rain that starts to run across the path, across the alleyway, running into a black pool that gleams in the shadows. And the puddles cloud as dark streaks mingle with the clear water, running thick and black then clearer and faster, into the gutters, the drains and away.

The next morning, the sky is Mediterranean blue. The sun blazes down, scorching away the freshness of the storm. The air is hot and dry. Laura’s fingers fly across the keys.

David is the doorway. ‘It’s been on the radio,’ he says. His voice has the lift of excitement. ‘There’s been another.’

‘I know.’ She types, the words spilling out of her fingers. She can’t stop now, she mustn’t stop… and the rainwater ran across the paving stones…

‘Not the supermarket.’ David wants her attention. He has information to pass on, exciting news, and he can’t wait to tell her. ‘In the alleyway, Laura. They found her in the alleyway. Right behind our house! Last night.’

I know. But she can’t say it.

Three a.m. Something wakes her. She lies very still and listens. Silence. The wind whips the clouds across the moon. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. The curtains are pulled back and the trees in the garden make caves of shadow. They rock and sway. The branches of the cotoneaster scrape across the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. The alleyway is full of night.

David has been out all day, comes back to find Laura at her desk, the dishes unwashed, the fridge empty.

He looks at the screen. ‘Nothing. You’ve done nothing. Sitting there all day. I can’t do it all.’

Sorry. I’m sorry. But she can’t say it. Her eyes move towards the window, where the buddleia flowers droop over the high fence. A sudden breeze makes them lift their heads. A piece of tape, yellow and black, dances through the air and wraps itself round the stems, then hangs still. All day. She’s heard them there all day, behind the garden, in the alley.

Later, David relents. ‘I’ve made you a sandwich.’

She can’t choke it down.

‘There’s no pleasing you!’

She flinches as his hand brushes against hers.

His eyes are cold. ‘Out. I’m going out. If you want to know.’

She can’t worry about that now, can’t let it distract her. She has to get back to her desk, back to her screen. Nothing else matters.

In the distance, she hears the door slam.

Laura sits in her study. The rain started falling hours ago. She reads the words that fill the screen. She scrolls down, reads on. Her fingers tap tap on the desk. She looks through her window. Now, it is dark outside, the back garden, and the fence, and the alleyway all in shadow, empty now and silent.

She has to bring him back, back behind the screen, behind the words, behind the flowers and butterflies, safe and secure. He doesn’t want that. he is enjoying his freedom.

But there is a way.

She goes out into the corridor and opens the hall cupboard. The corridor is painted white, the walls satin, the doors gloss. The floor is polished. The light reflects into her eyes.

She opens the cupboard. She drums her fingers, tap, tap against the door. She takes off her slippers, and puts on a pair of black shoes, strappy, with very high heels. She has to fiddle with the fastenings for a few minutes. She stands up, tall and straight. She puts on her coat, a mac, light and summery. It will be no protection against the rain. She throws a scarf, a summer scarf, thin and gauzy, round her neck. Then she walks to the door. Her heels tap, tap, tap on the lino.

I’m coming.

The street is long and straight, with pools of light under the streetlamps, light that glints off the water as it runs down the gutters. And between the lights, only shadows. The rain drips off the trees. Dark and then light. Dark and then light.

I can’t find you anymore!

I can’t find you anymore!

She walks on. She knows he will come. He has to.

Her feet tap tap on the pavement, moving quickly from light to light. And then she hears it. The sound of soft footsteps behind her, moving fast, moving closer.

Something glints in the darkness. Something blows in the wind, gauze and butterflies and flowers.

David gets home late. As he comes through the gate, he sees a curtain twitch in the house next door. He hesitates, then walks up the path. His own front door is open. He can hear it banging as the wind blows. What the…? He catches it before it can swing shut again, stands for a moment, listening. ‘Laura?’ he calls, and again, more loudly. ‘Laura?’ Then he closes the door quietly behind him.

The house is silent.

He goes to Laura’s study. The screen flickers, the flowers and butterflies locked in their perpetual dance. He banishes them with a touch, and looks at the screen, looks at what Laura was writing, looks at the words that scroll down the screen.

The street was long and straight, with pools of light under the streetlamps, light that glinted off the water as it ran down the gutters. And between the lights, only shadows. The rain dripped off the trees. Dark and then light. Dark and then light.

I can’t find you anymore!

And then, over and over: No, no, no, no… down the screen. Down and down, no, no way, no way, no way. No..w no..w now now now.

Now!

He reaches out and presses a key. The writing jumps, fades, is gone.

The black screen faces him.

the end

About the author

Danuta Reah was invited to contribute to this anthology. She is the author of seven crime novels, a novella, and many short stories. In 2005 Danuta won the CWA Short Story Dagger for ‘No Flies on Frank’ (which was included in The Best British Mysteries IV anthology published by Allison & Busby in 2006). Her story Glazed, in Getting Even (ed Mitzi Szereto, Serpent’s Tail) was shortlisted for the 2008 CWA Short Story Award. Several of her short stories are now available as eBook singles.

Danuta’s story, The Trouble with Dragons, was an invited contribution to the anthology, Fusion, that came from our inaugural Sci-Fi short story competition. Danuta also contributed the eponymous, The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing, to our fantastic female fables anthology.

THE BUTTON

Tim Gayda

As I flopped from the stasis pod – shaking, choking, retching – my first thoughts were of the button. Always the button. It haunted the dreams of my prolonged slumber, though for how long I could not say. I only remembered that constant cycle of stretching out to touch the button, to press the button and then, as my finger met its hard surface…

Another coughing fit wrenched me back to reality. My hands were frozen, pressed against the floor. I tried to stand, fell down with a metallic slap, my legs writhing and twitching. After several minutes of gasping chill air, I braced myself against the pod, struggling like a newly born calf until finally, I could stand.

I inhaled deeply and stared at row upon row of stasis pods, their muted blues cast into the darkness. The shades of humanity lay dormant within each one, waiting to be reawakened. I shuddered for several minutes, preferring to stay except for that overriding urge: ‘…the button… push the button… push…’

Stepping forward, arms clasped tight across my body, I almost tripped over a tangle of wires twisting their way across, through and over each stasis bank. The reek of ozone pulsed through the air. They thrummed softly as I threaded my way between these frozen chambers, fingers slipping against each one, my legs becoming steadier, my feet colder.

Once, when I stopped to rest I swept the ice from the glass of one pod. The woman frozen inside seemed mature, comfortable – old enough to know the value of life, yet young enough to still abuse its many pleasures. A smile trickled across her lips. Faint laugh-lines thawed her icy stare. You could see it in her eyes – that careless attitude from our past society still burned too bright.

‘I will push the button, despite all of you,’ I declared to the sleeping masses, doubtful I’d ever receive their gratitude for ushering in the new age. It seemed like only yesterday when I and my colleagues lobbied for the project to be completed. Now I resented the idea of pressing the button for the reward none of these people deserved, after we spent our lives working to finish the project.

I heard the soft dribble of water in the distance. Faint mirages condensed in my mind of sunny beaches and warm rippling water. I even longed for the warmth and comfort of a human voice and I clapped my hands together, needing warmth of any kind.

Following the steady drip-drip as splashes echoed and rang against cold metal, I plodded onwards. Refreshing droplets shattered against my skin and stung my eyes. The air became thick with coils of steam and my fingers were no longer numb. I saw a shimmer of light ahead. The heat spread around and through me. Not comfortable; more sticky and oppressive. I was startled by a thud – a hand thrust against the condensed glass of a pod. I hurried towards the light expanding upwards in a broad oval. That desire – no, compulsion to push the button pressed like a pistol against my back.

I stepped inside and the door slid shut behind me. A neon flash skimmed across my eyes and a tinny voice said: ‘Professor Harrington – ID accepted. Transporting to: Neo-Paradise control tower.’ With a shudder the lift swept upwards. I pressed back against the wall. Before I could steady myself the door slid open with a blast of searing air.

Standing upon the threshold I peered inside. A wall of computers wrapped around the outer edge of the room, whispering and grumbling in machine languages unknown to human ears. There was a hustle of wind behind the window shutters and you could almost taste the reek of burnt silicon.

The control room was stifling.

I stepped inside. The sweat already soaked my back and blurred my vision. I rubbed my eyes, blinked twice. I stopped before a towering machine covered in grime and there it was – the button.

The button was inlaid within the centre of the console, framed by screens obscured by years of dirt, displaying scans of the planet’s surface. It was bigger and rounder than I remembered – a red flare amidst the grey-black shell encrusting it. I carefully lifted the glass panel, traced a finger around the button’s edge. I hesitated for a moment – just a moment – then reached forward to touch it. As my finger met its hard surface–

‘You have awoken,’ a voice said with formality.

A metal stalk extended outwards from the console. Its eye-clusters expanded and whirred, clicked and contracted as they rapidly scanned me.

‘Has it worked, Oracle?’ I asked, my finger hovering over the button as a bee hovers over a flower, ready to collect its nectar.

‘That would be ill-advised, Professor,’ Oracle said, ‘given the present situation.’

I pulled back, pondering the A.I.’s words.

‘Has it worked?’ I asked the question again, although I already knew the answer. ‘I’m to wake them up if something goes wrong. The button is the failsafe.’

After Oracle’s eye-clusters retracted once more there was only silence. I paced around the room. In answer to my question the shutters rumbled back. The wind howled outside. For a moment I imagined the paradise world we should have awoken to: a world completely restored from the polluted wasteland we left behind.

My delusion was short-lived.

The shutters revealed the true state of our world with a derisive click. Instead of our Neo-Paradise the landscape shimmered over a scorched earth, the sky a burnt umber. Instead of pristine lakes there were only dusty moats and hollow irrigation lanes where water once flowed. Instead of lush, fertile valleys for farming; only blistered patches of green and stunted conifers parched for the lack of water.

I stifled the despair bubbling in my stomach by tracing my finger around the button’s edge. I probed for a reason why this should be.

‘You woke me too soon?’ The only solution I dared contemplate.

‘We have failed,’ Oracle said with finality.

‘Is…’ My voice faltered. I had to start again… ‘Is the entire world like this?’

‘We were too late to start the terraformation process. The average temperature will soon rise beyond acceptable levels of habitation. Resources are depleted. Carbon dioxide levels are becoming critical. Biodiversity is–’

‘Oracle, how long have I… have we slept?’

‘A fact you need not concern–’

‘How long?’ I slammed my fist against the console.

‘Over four millennia – 4297 years, 8 months, 12 days – to be precise.’ The A.I. controlled the entire terraformation network, its omniscient knowledge of the planet’s condition indisputable.

‘So much for the new world.’ I waved dismissively at the button. Over 4000 years old and I could damn well feel every single one.

Oracle’s eye-clusters expanded, glowing crimson against the button. ‘No, they need not awaken at all.’

‘Why did you wake me then?’

‘Many systems have failed. I was only able to wake you, Professor, due to your security clearance. Each facility cannot cope with the heat building outside. I am programmed to protect all life. However, I cannot make the… final choice.’

Despite the heat, Oracle’s words were like icicles stabbing my insides.

‘All I require is the code.’

‘Twelve billion people are in cryogenic stasis across the entire world.’ I shuddered. ‘Twelve billion people, Oracle.’

‘It is the…’ Oracle paused ‘… humane decision.’

‘They wouldn’t listen in time…’ I said, wringing my hands. ‘We told them. For generations we showed the evidence. Relentless red-tape, lies and falsehoods used to maintain control. Report after report, experiment after experiment…’

Oracle’s eye-clusters flexed and nodded solemnly while my fury blazed against our ancient society. I blamed everyone – from politicians to scientists to the public themselves. No one escaped my wrath. When I slumped, sweating and delirious into a chair, an idea – the idea – soothed my scolded mind.

‘I await your input,’ the A.I. said.

I remembered the woman’s face in stasis: the complacence etched upon her face, a chilling reflection of our ancient culture. ‘Can they learn, even now?’

‘Tell me the code and–’

‘Oracle,’ I said. ‘How long can the population survive within each facility? What resources do we have left in storage?’

‘Enough to sustain three generations – I estimate over two thirds will starve and die.’

‘The bare essentials,’ I said, my finger still circling the button. Not pressing it would be too easy, leaving the majority of humanity in an endless slumber, whereas giving Oracle the termination code was too difficult to consider.

‘Humanity will awaken to a living hell if you press it.’

‘And if I don’t?’ I retorted.

I gazed out at the once immaculate cities now in ruins, hollow remnants of the old world awaiting repopulation. Soon they would be humanity’s new home.

‘They must face the consequences.’ I sighed, caressing the button’s rigid surface. ‘I promised to wake them at the proper time.’

Although humanity would re-emerge to establish their Neo-Paradise the celebrations would soon turn to ashes. It was time for the leadership and populace to rebuild society, their time to try and undo the pain centuries of corruption and complacence had caused. The embers of a speech flickered across my tongue as I prepared to broadcast across the world.

I pushed the button.

the end

About the author

Tim Gayda has been a passionate writer since first putting pen to paper as a young child. Over the years, he has enjoyed the challenge of writing fiction and transferring his imaginary worlds to the written word. After successfully getting his first short story printed, Tim now hopes to get more stories published in the future.

The Button was highly commended in the Fire and Ice competition.

ALL THE KING’S MEN

Katie Lewis

The Mechs said we’d be Paired for a while: me, to grow the genetic augmentations, and her to unlock them for the Supergrown. The first day was tests, to ensure we were compatible. They started the extraction and implementation process on the second. It was always bad for the Carriers. Indeed, when the Mechs went for their break, she was sweating, shivering and, notwithstanding the ban on music, singing at an increasingly loud volume. Even her curly red hair seemed limp.

‘Hey,’ she croaked when she saw me looking. ‘Th-this kinda sucks. F-Fancy distracting me?’ I hesitated. ‘Please?’

I walked towards her. ‘Someone,’ I said, ‘didn’t wash behind her ears today.’

She gasped as I pulled my memento from her ear. ‘You do magic?’

‘I used to.’ I reached for her other ear but she grabbed my hand, and promptly dropped it.

‘You’re freezing!’

I smirked. ‘Never touch a Donor before?’

‘You’re all like that?’

‘Keeps the augmentations stable.’

‘Huh.’ She hesitated, looking at my hand longingly. ‘Did me grabbing it hurt?’

‘I’m used to it.’ After a second, I held out my hand, ignoring the burning sensation as she took it.

‘Thanks.’ She sighed in relief. ‘I’m Ivy, by the way.’

‘Ellis.’

‘Ellis,’ she repeated, low voice melodic. A spasm wracked her. Fingers branded my flesh.

‘That song you sang,’ I said quickly. ‘What was it?’

‘Hu-Humpty Dumpty.’

‘What’s it mean?’

‘D-dunno. It’s from before.’ She took a breath. ‘It’s kkinda sad though. Everyone failing like that.’

‘At least they tried.’

‘True. B-But I always imagine the king’s men, having to decide he’s beyond saving and moving on.’ She licked her lips. ‘H-how d’you make a decision like that?’

‘Maybe they had others to save?’

‘Maybe.’ Blue eyes darkened for a second. Another spasm. ‘W-why do they have to torture us?’

I stilled, heart thumping. ‘That’s dangerous.’

‘S-sometimes, I don’t think I care. Supergrowns are monsters.’

‘I… maybe.’

She smiled. ‘You’re not as party-line as you pretend, are you?’ When I shrugged, she surprised me by bringing my hand to burning lips and kissing it. Blue eyes looked at me, feverish.

The door opened.

I made it on to my gurney in the nick of time.

We passed in the Exposure later. She smiled, which my minder noticed. Quickly, I said it was my fault: I’d pulled a funny face. It earned me a baton to the back. When I straightened, she’d gone.

‘That coulda gotten you a worse punishment you know.’

‘I know.’ I knew better than to rub my back.

Jeb grunted. ‘Don’t blame you. Pretty, that one.’

I looked at him sharply. ‘I’m not–’

‘Not accusing you. Just commenting.’

I said nothing.

The feeling of burning lips on flesh haunted me all night.

She coped better with the injections the next day but when the Mechs went for their break, she held her hand out. I took it; she smiled.

‘You,’ she croaked, ‘aren’t as mean as everyone says.’

I shrugged, though I felt uneasy.

‘Why’d you take the blame yesterday anyway?’

‘Jeb’s a softy,’ I said. ‘He’s been my minder for years.’

‘Lucky. Sara’s mean.’

‘I know.’

She seemed surprised. Then she laughed and tugged me forwards, this time to brush my cheek with her lips. It added to my dreams that night.

We continued that way for weeks – soft conversations in breaks of varying lengths, fingers entwined, heat brushing skin. I realised quickly that she was brash and open, to the point of danger. She was kind and cheerful but beneath her laughter, there was a deep well of bitterness. Sometimes, I thought she grasped for me simply to anchor herself.

I let her talk, but I was concerned at the statements she made. She felt especially strongly about the frequent Donor and Carrier arrests. Sometimes, she talked of escape.

People listen, I said, to explain my reluctance to discuss it. People tried to trick others.

She laughed it off and squeezed my hand.

‘You can trust me.’

I just shrugged.

‘But why don’t the arrests upset you?’ she asked once, fingers walking up my arm. It hurt, slightly. Her strength augmentations were very effective.

I shrugged.

‘They’re your friends,’ she said. ‘I see you in the Closure.’

‘They talk. I listen.’

‘What about in the lab? With other Carriers?’

I shrugged again.

She frowned. ‘Have you always been so cold?’

I shrugged. Suddenly, she lunged and tickled me, making me laugh. When she let go, she looked so proud of herself that I chuckled.

‘See,’ she said. ‘You can laugh.’

Feeling bold, I kissed her cheek. ‘Only because it’s you.’

She rolled her eyes but I could see her smile.

‘You seem happy.’

I shrugged.

‘It’s that girl, isn’t it?’ Silence. ‘C’mon, Ellis.’

‘…gonna stop it?’

‘I should.’ My lips tightened. Jeb sighed. ‘But I won’t.’

‘But it–’

‘Would damage you more. I won’t be responsible for that.’

I had nothing to say to that.

‘If you could have one thing, what’d it be?’

‘That’s–’

‘Dangerous. Noted. Answer.’

I grinned. I did that more often, with her. She grinned back as she jogged around the room. The augmentations had given her excess energy. The extraction had taken mine away.

‘Dunno.’

‘Ellis.’ She stopped jogging. ‘Is it so bad, to want?’

I shrugged.

‘C’mon,’ she said. ‘There must be something.’ She jogged over and sat next to me. ‘You can trust me. I promise.’

I hesitated.

‘My brother,’ I said finally. ‘He’s outside.’ I swallowed. ‘If I mess up, he’ll die.’

‘Oh, Ellis.’

‘It’s fine.’

She pulled me gently towards her. ‘It’s not.’

I leaned my head against her shoulder.

‘It is,’ I whispered. ‘It has to be.’

Ivy slept, the procedure that morning being particularly exhausting. I tried to slip as many items into her pockets as I could.

‘Ellis?’

‘Shh. Sleep,’ I said soothingly.

‘OK.’ I reached for a pen. ‘I like you like this,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘I wish you could always be this free.’

She fell asleep before I could reply.

And then one day, she kissed me.

I was so startled, I fell backwards, hitting my head on the floor. It hurt more than usual. The extraction had taken a lot from me.

‘Ellis?’

‘I…’ I tried to push myself up without looking at her. ‘We can’t–’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’ I rubbed the back of my head and winced.

‘So?’ Her voice was harsh, a strange contrast to the vulnerability on her face. ‘You…’ She swallowed. ‘I see how you look at me.’ I said nothing. ‘I… you can feel, you know.’

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I pushed the gurney into place instead.

‘Ellis…’ She sighed. ‘Escape with me.’

‘What?’

‘We could save your brother.’

‘Ivy, the moment they can’t find me, they’ll go for him. Why can’t you just stay safe here?’

‘Safe, huh?’ She looked away. ‘Know how they’re gonna impregnate me with that Supergrown?’

I frowned. ‘Artificial–’

‘No.’ A pause. ‘I hear Councillor Evan has first dibs.’

I stared at her. ‘Ivy…’

‘And there’s a reason nobody’s birthed more than two of ‘em.’ She swallowed, fingers twisting together. ‘I can’t go through that.’ Her breathing quickened. ‘I’ll, I’ll break, Ellis. I’ll break and nobody will be able to put me together again.’

‘Ivy–’

‘No, Ellis. I–’

My fingers were beneath her chin, tilting her head towards me. She stilled as I leaned in and softly kissed her.

‘I’ll never let that happen to you,’ I said quietly. ‘Never.’

‘Ellis–’

‘Never.’

Blue eyes met mine. And then, suddenly, our lips were together and all else was forgotten.

‘So,’ Jeb said as we walked into my cell. ‘You two had fun.’

‘Huh?’

‘Spare a thought for those who monitor the screens. They could be traumatised for life.’

I stared, speechless.

‘Luckily for you,’ he said, ‘I looped the video feed so nobody else would need to illegally buy alcohol.’

I actually blushed. ‘You gonna–’

‘No.’

‘You, you’re not?’

He grunted. ‘I’m fond of you, kid. I want you to be happy. So, just this once, I’ll let it sli- oof.’

My hug clearly startled him, but he patted my back. ‘Just don’t do it again, alright?’

It was a stupidly innocent thing for him to say.

‘Ellis?’

I looked at her, tall, striking, hand burning on mine.

‘You OK?’

We both knew it would end.

‘Did you think about escaping with me?’

I twisted my other hand in my pocket.

‘Ellis?’

It was time.

‘I did,’ I said.

‘And?’

‘I can’t.’ Her face fell. ‘They’re gonna find out.’

‘What? How’d they–’ She stilled. ‘Ellis, you’re not–’

‘Well, it is my job.’

Her eyes widened; her hand flew to her mouth.

‘You… but you… You accused me of spying.’

‘I didn’t, actually. I just let you believe that. It made you talk.’ I stood. ‘You’re an idiot for not guessing you’d be listened to. Don’t expect to live past tomorrow.’

‘How can you be so, so cold?’

‘It doesn’t pay to get attached. I told you.’

‘So everything… everything you did…’ She looked as though she were trying not to cry. ‘Everything we did…’

‘Oh, Ivy.’ I reached out, holding her tight. ‘We could never be together. You know that.’

She pushed me away. I stumbled backwards, hands catching on hers. ‘I can’t believe you,’ she said. ‘They’ll torture and rape me. Don’t you care?’

‘I only care about one person.’ I walked back to my gurney. ‘This way, he survives.’

The door rattled open.

‘I hope you die,’ she hissed.

I shrugged.

The next morning, Jeb put his head to my ear as we walked to the lab.

‘You,’ he said quietly, ‘are one ice-cold bitch.’

I said nothing.

‘Seriously. That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen you do. You broke her.’ He shook his head. ‘I honestly thought…’

‘Would you have let her escape?’

‘I…’

‘Exactly.’ I opened the lab door. He followed me in silently, glaring at me all the while.

We were so focused on each other that we didn’t see the guards until they’d shoved me away and grabbed him.

‘Where is she?’

‘What?’

‘The girl. Where is she?’

‘What?’ He looked at me.

And understood.

He knew exactly what I was capable of.

‘I did it,’ he said, eyes never leaving mine.

‘What?’

‘I did it.’

‘OK,’ said a guard. ‘That’s–’

‘He’s lying,’ I said quickly, loudly, clutching Ivy’s memento – a ring. I wondered if she’d realise I’d taken it when she’d pushed me away. ‘I picked his pocket and planted his spare keys on her, along with instructions for her escape. I did it.’

I didn’t look at Jeb. I couldn’t.

‘But how d’you know how to escape?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I’ve heard plenty of good escape plans.’

‘Then why are you still here?’

‘Ellis,’ Jeb said quietly. Now, I looked. His expression was heartbroken. ‘Where’s Michael?’

A guard said, ‘Michael Laska? His tracker’s malfunctioned but…’

A second.

Everyone turned to me.

‘At some point,’ I said quietly, ‘all the king’s men decided Humpty couldn’t be saved.’

‘Then–’

‘I made sure she chose someone who could be.’

Jeb looked horrified. ‘She thinks you let her go–’

‘As a game. So she wouldn’t come for me but wouldn’t wanna owe me.’ I shrugged. ‘It was the only way to save ‘em. She’ll forget about me eventually. Meet someone better. Someone less broken. Someone not perverse. And he’ll be safe. It’s for the best.’

‘Ellis…’ He shook his head. ‘How can you sound so, so calm? Don’t you care?’

I shrugged. A guard stepped forwards and handcuffed me. I turned away from Jeb.

‘Ellis?’ I started to walk. ‘You’re wrong, you know.’ He sounded desperate. ‘She’ll never meet someone as good, as loving as you. Never.’

I said nothing. I just kept walking, expression as calm as always.

In fact, it wasn’t until we were in the corridor outside that I finally let the tears I’d been holding back slip down my face.

the end

About the author

Katie Lewis is a lawyer, originally from rainy Wales but now living and working in London. When not working, Katie likes to write stories (short and long) and then evade her colleagues’ questions as to: (i) where she found the time to do that; and (ii) is she ever going to do anything with them? Contrary to what she’s told them, she has been shortlisted and had short stories published by Momaya Press and Earlyworks Press previously, and would like to publish a novel one day. Katie also enjoys reading, travelling and playing drums in a samba reggae drum group.

BLIND ALLEY

Emily Wootton

An aphotic murk descended upon the alley, humid and repressing; all was still and silent.

Until it wasn’t.

Propelled by instinct, Martha shot up off the stones. There was a flicker of movement in the darkness ahead. She hissed at her companion, Jason, to move! before whipping around to run somewhere that their assailants weren’t.

But she felt the pressure of his hand on her elbow, a signal for her to stop. ‘It’s just cats,’ he said, his voice a cool whisper.

Martha crouched back down, much slower this time. She allowed herself to lean on the wall and took a deep breath. It reeked of rot and rubbish. It reeked of death. ‘I thought it was–’

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You’re not turning rogue on me, are you?’

Martha flinched. How could Jason joke about that? Once human, now anything but, rogues were people who’d had their brains sliced and spliced. The state’s pets. With no emotion, no identity, rogues had only one goal in mind: to uphold the state. Anything else wasn’t just irrelevant but a threat to be destroyed.

They’d both spent the last few years posing as state researchers to discover just that. Martha herself had nearly turned rogue. They wanted to test a ‘new procedure’, and as a loyal subject, she couldn’t argue. She’d been drugged up on the table with the hot point of the laser primed and ready when Jason had managed to slip into the system and trigger the emergency alarm.

No harm done, they said. Just a few cells gone. The op had been rescheduled, but the two of them had to run. One unexplained breach could be covered up, but not two.

Martha turned to face Jason. In the half-light, she saw that he was smiling. His eyes were not. They were icy, reflecting the caution which she herself felt. Martha realised that Jason wasn’t joking about her becoming a rogue. He was serious. Deadly so.

‘Ha ha. Very funny,’ she said, while wondering, Which of us do I need to reassure the most?

Martha’s breath was white smoke; they huddled close together, needing the body heat now night was approaching. They didn’t have long. Warmth dissipated, or, as Martha well knew, it could be destructive.

‘When do you want to leave?’ Jason asked.

Martha liked how casually he spoke, as if they had a choice. As if they were stopping to sightsee. But she was happy to indulge the fantasy.

‘Maybe a couple more minutes.’

Her head was banging. What she really wanted to do was sleep. But sleep was something stolen in snatches, in abandoned buildings and old dumpsters. Something that was close friends with death.

Instead, she rummaged in her pocket and produced an energy bar. ‘Want to share?’

Jason nodded. So she broke the bar into two. It was bland stuff, but after going on the run for the whole day, anything keeping her alive was welcome. She hoped any pursuers wouldn’t suspect that two fugitives would seek shelter at a dead end.

Martha knew how risky it was, to quite literally have their backs against the wall, but the risk was a necessary one. Pursuers could only charge from one direction, giving her and Jason precious seconds to climb. They’d made sure to assess the place. On the other side of the wall was a block of flats leading to the outskirts of the city; it was best to rest on this side, where no eyes could see them. There were a few cracks and uneven bricks that made suitable footholds; Martha just had to think of it as a rock-climbing wall, one of many she’d scaled in training. Except now there was no harness.

‘Time to climb,’ she said when they’d eaten.

‘Ladies first.’

Ignoring the stones that scraped through her trousers, Martha began hauling herself up the wall. She was just halfway when a bullet sunk into the concrete, just missing her left shoulder.

Her hammering heart sent both adrenaline and panic shooting through her. They’ve found us! Aware of being too conspicuous – though what did it matter, at this point? – she lay flat on the top of the wall and reached down to help Jason. He was nearly there when another bullet burrowed into his thigh. A strangled scream escaped his gritted teeth. Martha heard trampling feet and saw faint outlines of state agents advancing, burning with bloodlust.

Damnit, Jason! she thought, grabbing his hands and heaving him up. They plummeted down on the other side. He winced as his feet hit the concrete.

‘Want me to dig it out?’ Martha asked.

‘There’s no time.’

‘Can you run?’

‘I hope to God I can.’

Sticking close to the wall, they pelted across the concrete. Martha could hear the agents as they jumped off the wall. It wouldn’t be long before they started shooting again.

She scanned the area as she ran. To their right, an open stretch of concrete lay between them and the nearest sprawl of buildings. Straight ahead was a main road. If they wanted the best chance of losing their pursuers, they had to head for the buildings. That meant streaking across open ground, too close to the streetlights to be safe.

Beside her, Jason was panting, his eyes narrowed with the effort of running. No, not running, Martha realised as she looked at him, but limping.

‘I can make it, you know,’ he spat.

Martha swallowed her doubts, the dull ache in her head worsening as she nodded.

They veered away from the shadows and across the concrete. Martha tried to close her mind. A bullet shot past, taking part of her cheek with it. Martha knew she should feel the warm blood splatter on her cheek, the agony of losing a chunk of flesh, but she felt nothing. It didn’t feel like this was happening to her, but to someone else. Someone she didn’t know.

She had almost reached the buildings when she heard a cry from Jason. Something sharp had lodged itself in his arm and he stumbled to the floor. Martha raced back and put her arm around him, prepared to drag him if she had to. Instead, he placed a black file in her hand.

Jason had given up.

‘Don’t you dare!’

‘And don’t you dare stop me,’ he said. ‘Run. Do it. For both of us. For all of us.’

Martha wanted to ignore him and die fighting. But something in her brain ordered her not to.

She stuffed the file deep into her pocket. She began to run, but a heavy weight yanked her back. An agent. His blade bit into her throat. More blood. More numbness.

Then the weight was lifted. Jason! His eyes had dwindled to a pale blue, but had no shortage of determination as he grappled with the agent and hissed at her to go one last time.

Martha couldn’t disobey, not now. She sprinted towards the buildings, ducking as another bullet flew past her. She sped down a small alley before swerving to the side and up a stairwell. The metal railings hid her from view. Just about.

There was no sound beside that of her breathing. No one had followed her. At least, not yet. Before she moved on, she squinted through the gaps, allowing herself one last look. Over the roofs, illuminated in the haze of the streetlights, she could see Jason and the agents still in the clearing. Two of them held him back as the other stood in front of him, brandishing a weapon. But though he had given himself up, Jason would never give up the information.

Just before Martha turned to run, she saw the agent thrust something in Jason’s stomach. He fell to the floor. Dead. Vaporised. Frost in the glare of the sun.

Martha blinked. She wanted to feel pity. She wanted to feel something. But it was almost as if something in her brain was blocking all emotion…

the end

About the author

Emily is a university student studying English Literature with Creative Writing. As well as articles and poetry, she loves writing fantasy and dystopian fiction, because they can offer critiques of the modern world in the guise of fiction. Besides writing, she enjoys doodling, playing video games – and eating ice cream!

BY THE GRACE OF THE TWO SUNS

Ed Newbould

‘When you feel that anger rising…’ Ma balled her hand into a tight fist. ‘You remember to clench your fist, like this.’

‘Like this?’ Tomas asked, squeezing his hand so tight the white of his knuckles showed.

She smiled. ‘Just like that.’

Tomas beamed, clenching his fist, breakfast forgotten. He knew if he let go, the ice would come. He could feel it building. But folk didn’t like the ice. So, he clenched his fist.

The door crashed open, a wave of hot air rolling into the room. Tomas’ step-pa stumbled in, throwing his coat toward a nearby chair and missing. ‘Mornin’,’ he grunted, succeeding where his coat had failed by collapsing into the chair. He wiped his brow with a chubby hand, sweat rolling into his small eyes. He might be grateful for some ice, Tomas thought, but knew better than to ask. Step-pa smiled at Tomas when Ma was around. But not when she turned her back.

‘Good night, was it?’ Ma asked.

‘Don’t start.’ Step-pa sighed, closing his eyes. The stench of alcohol wafted across the room.

She fixed him with a stare over the top of her glasses. ‘There’s a Fire Honoured in town, you know?’

Step-pa’s eyes shot open. ‘Why?’

‘Cam Galow said he saw an ice patch down at the pond. They must’ve called him in.’

Tomas watched, forgotten. Which he liked.

Step-pa was frowning, like he did when he was trying to figure something out – although Ma always had the answer already. He shook his head, cheeks wobbling. ‘Nuffin’ to do with us. We’ll keep it hush.’ He didn’t look at Tomas. He didn’t look at either of them.

Ma released the cup she had been gripping tight and turned back to her son. ‘Time to go, Tomas. I met with Miss Farrow last night. She’s going to keep an extra eye on those boys.’ Tomas nodded, just to keep Ma happy. But Tomas knew Miss Farrow didn’t have an extra eye. And if she did, she wouldn’t keep it on Tomas.

Jacob was waiting for him at the bottom of the porch steps, jumping up and down in anticipation, dust rising from the dirt lane in a red cloud about him.

‘You’ve heard?’ Tomas stared back blankly. ‘The pond! The Fire Honoured!’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard.’

Jacob’s disappointment only lasted a moment. ‘Ice only stays around for a bit because of the… you know…’ He gestured toward the two suns, still low overhead, already beating relentless heat down upon the village. ‘Pa says it’s an Ice Honoured. Says they have to release their ice every so often.’

Tomas nodded. Not that Jacob noticed. He bleated the whole way to school as they wound their way through the village, oblivious to the curious faces appearing at windows of the usually sleepy village. ‘Pa says they’re evil – cold hearts and cold minds. They freeze anyone that gets in their way. Pa says maybe they’re here to spy on us, sent by the Ice Honoured Elders.’

That caught Tomas’ attention. ‘Elders?’

‘Yes,’ Jacob exclaimed, ‘like the Fire Honoured Board. But they call them Elders. They rule in the North, where the world is frozen over, and the suns are at their weakest.’ Jacob paused, and Tomas realised they were nearing the end of their trip. ‘You don’t… know anything do you, Tomas? It’s just… Pa said to stay away from your Ma. And well…’

‘My Ma?’ Tomas asked, blinking. Why would anyone stay away from Ma? ‘My Ma’s not an Ice Honoured,’ he said, truthfully.

Jacob’s face relaxed. ‘Oh good! Well in that case… you know…’ Jacob gave a wave of farewell, before bouncing around the bend in the lane. Tomas counted to twenty, as he did every day, ignoring the staring faces before following on toward the school building.

Tomas didn’t like the school much. The windows were too wide and too deep, sending great beams of light into the tiny classroom. It created a sweltering inferno of blinding sunshine and talking children.

But the children didn’t talk to Tomas.

His skin was too pale, eyes too blue, hair too blonde. But most of all he hated the suns. And nobody hated the suns.

The whispers began as he walked past the gatherings, chattering under the apparently watchful eye of Miss Farrow. ‘… his Ma was seen near the pond last night…’ ‘… Pa says they’re dangerous folk…’ ‘He’s got evil in his blood.’ Tomas stopped. Ma hadn’t been near the pond. Ma had been with Miss Farrow. She said so.

The chattering stopped when the cloud of dust appeared above the buildings along the lane. Dust from many marching feet. Children shuffled uncomfortably. The workers of the tribe would be out on the plains by now, digging for water as they did every day. The town mayor and his team would be busy in the town hall, talking about matters too important to be out and about.

That left the town guards.

Tomas felt a coldness descend over him as the cloud moved closer. His shoulders tensed, Miss Farrow’s voice grew muffled. He even forgot about the terrible heat. The cold ran through his veins, storming toward his hands.

So he clenched his fist into a ball, just like Ma had told him.

A group of soldiers appeared around the corner, scarred skin, sharp swords and grizzled faces. Yelps of delight rang out from the group as they spotted their target.

A short man with a bulging belly stepped forward before the group of gaping children, drawing a folded sheet of paper from his chest pocket. ‘Miss Elizabeth Farrow?’

‘Yes?’

He eyed her with distaste. ‘By the grace of the two suns, I hereby announce you under arrest for suspected collusion with an Ice Honoured. As is custom, you will be taken to the cells, and the fires of the suns will determine your fate.’

‘What do you–?’ Miss Farrow began, as rough hands crowded forward, dragging her away from the school children.

The children looked at one another, their routine thrown, voices rising in panic. Tomas watched the cruellooking soldiers, as Miss Farrow’s screams echoed down the lane, the group and their cloud disappearing from sight.

His heartbeat began to thrum in his ears.

Suspected collusion.

I met with Miss Farrow last night.

His legs carried him forward before he commanded them to. Soon, he was sprinting, away from the stuffy school, ignoring the children, back up the dusty lane, past the curious faces of people now standing on their porches. All the way back to where he’d started.

The door to their house was ajar. ‘Ma?’ His voice came between heavy breaths, floorboards creaking as he walked into the kitchen. Step-pa’s coat lay forgotten where he’d thrown it. Ma’s mug was shattered across the room. ‘Are you here, Ma?’ The kitchen, usually a hum of activity, replied with a deathly quiet.

His step-pa’s voice broke the silence. ‘What’re you doing here?’

Tomas remained cool despite the shock, turning slowly. Step-pa filled the doorway to the living room, empty alcohol bottle in his hand. And he certainly wasn’t smiling at Tomas now.

‘I’m looking for Ma.’ Tomas took an involuntary pace back, as his step-pa moved toward him.

‘It should be you they’ve taken,’ he slurred. ‘They made me say it was ’er, but it should be you!’ He reached over to the side, grabbing for one of Ma’s kitchen knives.

Tomas raised his arm instinctively, feeling the ice coursing toward his finger-tips. Remember to clench your fist, like this, Ma’s voice echoed in his head, when you feel the anger rising. He hesitated.

He pictured her face.

And he turned, sprinting for the door. A crash and yelp followed him as his step-pa gave chase. Tomas didn’t look back. Along the dusty lane, red dirt rising in the air around him. Past the wooden homes, a right turn, a left turn.

The windows and porches were empty now. The people drifted along the lanes instead, their curiosity turned to excitement. Tomas dodged past legs as the throng thickened, until he reached the main square.

And there she was.

Raised on a platform so everyone could see. A large pole was erected in the centre, and Ma’s arms were tied up above her head, her ankles tied tight down below. A ring of guards circled the platform as though she might burst free. She held her head up, face ashen, eyes desperate, as she stared around the crowd. Tomas knew she would be looking for him.

A figure stood in front of her, eyes roving up and down – just like how step-pa looks at a bottle of alcohol. Tattoos clawed up the figure’s arms, they reached up his neck, but stopped short of his pale white face. The Fire Honoured, Tomas realised. The Fire Honoured turned to the crowd as Tomas reached the front row. Red lips flickered into a smile, but the smile did not reach the suspicious red eyes whose gaze roved the square. Razor sharp teeth shimmered in the sunlight, and Tomas gripped his fist tighter than ever, as the thing began to speak.

‘This woman will be trialled as an Ice Honoured by the grace of the two suns,’ the voice rasped, the crowd falling silent as he spoke. He bowed his head in worship, from one sun to the other. ‘Let us purge the evil from her body.’

Tomas did not understand. Ma hasn’t done anything.

The Fire Honoured raised a piece of glass into the air, angling two beams of light. The straw at Ma’s feet began to smoulder. Then an orange flame sprung to life.

‘The suns have deemed her evil!’

The crowd at Tomas’ back roared in response. The flames leapt toward Ma’s dress.

Clench your fist like this. Ma’s eyes found Tomas’. She shook her head at him vigorously, before her back arched, her head flung back, and a scream of agony pierced the air.

The flames leapt higher, smoke obscuring Tomas’ view of her face.

‘May your icy soul burn in sacrifice to the suns!’ The Fire Honoured was circling her now, his teeth glistening, the crowd roaring.

Tears rolled down Tomas’ cheeks, hands pounding as the ice filled his veins. When you feel the anger rising… He watched her body begin to writhe, as she sought to escape the fire. It should be you.

It should be you.

Tomas dived between the guards, who were too busy watching the spectacle to notice. He clambered up on to the platform, landing in front of the Fire Honoured.

The red eyes fixed on Tomas.

Tomas stared back at the white teeth through tear-filled eyes, hands raised slightly in defence. The twisted smile grew as Tomas’ lip wobbled. Ma’s scream sounded once more.

Then Tomas unclenched his fist.

The ice rolled from him in a stream, hissing through the hot air. Tomas saw the narrow eyes widen in panic as the Fire Honoured desperately raised a hand to reply with a blast of flames. The stream hit him regardless. Tomas could feel it, sensing the ice forcing the fire backward through the red-hot veins. He followed it, pushing it on until he found the heart, driving the ice home, stopping the raging inferno with a tight squeeze.

The Fire Honoured collapsed with a loud thud.

Tomas turned toward the blaze. He could sense the guards clambering toward him. A punch in the back, and Tomas lurched forward, his face hitting the wooden boards. A second thump, and Tomas let out a gasp. He rolled on to his side with a push, desperate to see his Ma. All he saw was the raging flames grown tall, and the guard on his periphery pulling back his knife for a third strike.

Sorry Ma, Tomas thought, clenching his fist tight once more. Just as she’d told him to. I’m so sorry Ma.

the end

About the author

Ed Newbould was born and raised in Yorkshire, where he worked as a HR Manager until at age 27 he decided to do some travelling. Following the completion of a six-month campervan trip around New Zealand, he hopped around SE Asia, writing as he went, and was still trying to find his way back to Yorkshire as this anthology went to press.

Ed has been writing seriously for around three years and has completed a fantasy novel, The Honoured, which he hopes to see published soon. In the meantime, he continues to enjoy working on short stories and novellas, as well as retelling tales from his travels around New Zealand and Asia. Check out some more of his work at www.ednewbould.com.

THE YELLOW BUS

Helen Parker

A bespoke literary adventure, Ruby’s website claimed. Experience the world of fiction for yourself. Enter a magical realm of make-believe through your local mobile library’s secret portal.

Reading her own advertisement always made Ruby chortle. There it was, hidden in plain sight. It sounded crass. Like a promotion for a kids’ party. But it was deliberate – her insurance, her safety get-out clause, her trade-descriptions box ticked.

Just in case.

Monday evening and the sunset was lavender. A suitable omen. Ruby climbed into her yellow bus, the mobile library, and consulted her schedule. Some of her clients knew about the portal, but they agreed to keep mum. Take Miss Eugenia Butterworth for example. There was a woman who had kept mum for years, a twenty-four-seven carer, housebound and mostly unappreciated, but with a thirst for adventure, the library her lifeline.

‘Dress warmly,’ Ruby had advised her. ‘You’re in for a treat.’

And there she was, woolly-hatted and sensibly shod.

Parking the bus in the lay-by where Eugenia was waiting, Ruby welcomed her and took the proffered library card. She issued Eugenia with Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow, then opening the book at random and reading a line to activate retina recognition, she took Eugenia by the arm and they stepped through the shimmering indigo portal into the sparkling crystalline whiteness of the Arctic tundra. Momentarily, the aurora borealis flickered green and silver across the dark sky. Ruby breathed in appreciatively. The intense cold tickled her nostrils and brought a fishy smell with it.

They were on the deck of a ship, a fishing trawler. At the sound of footsteps they ducked out of sight. It was Smilla Jespersen. Silently, Ruby and Eugenia cheered her on. She was on the cusp of a scientific discovery that would lay bare a criminal syndicate whose activities disregarded deaths, even the death of a child, as mere collateral damage in their greedy quest for power, knowledge and money. The two readers applauded Smilla’s terrier-like tenacity, her doggedness, her counter-cultural independence and her sheer self-effacing courage.

Ruby sneaked a sideways glance at Eugenia. She was thoroughly into the narrative now, eyes shining, lips parted. She was Smilla herself: young, agile, attractive, determined to see justice done, but not so perfect that her readers couldn’t identify with her. She understood snow, its diverse facets, the many different words that Danes have, negating the English need for adjectives – powdery, flaky, compressed, soft, crisp… But Eugenia was shivering, despite her tweeds. Ruby took the book for a moment and eyeballed a line of print before returning it to Eugenia. Back in the yellow bus, Eugenia hugged the book to her ample bosom and rewarded Ruby with a knowing smile. ‘Same time next week?’

Thanks, Peter Høeg.

Tuesday, and in the dark gold evening the bus trundled into the car park outside the old disused cinema. Alf Jones was waiting in a frenzy of expectation. Following Ruby’s instructions, he was dressed in dark colours, his elderly white face camouflaged to look like mud with inexpertly smeared brown make-up. Ruby could almost hear the voice of his wife Maud: ‘You lay off of my things, Alf Jones! Where d’you think you’re going with that stuff on yer face? Off to play cowboys ‘n’ injuns? Oh, grow up!’

The nagging never let up, hence Alf’s retreat into the world of fiction. ‘It’s not so much of a retreat, Alf,’ Ruby told him. ‘More of an advance.’ He had looked at her without comprehension. Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver.

Neither, where Maud was concerned, was he blameless. He had certainly strayed in his time. Ruby’s sympathies were ambivalent, but he needed a warning. She took As Meat Loves Salt and opened it at page 92.

Through the bus’s portal, a light rain was falling, but not heavy enough to douse the camp fire and its attendant smell of wood smoke. Young soldiers, their hair cropped, their faces and clothes muddied and bloodied, sat around on the grass, devouring rye bread and pieces of rabbit, cooked over the fire on sticks. Christopher Ferris handed one to Alf and bade him sit among the men by the fire. ‘Yonder’s your corporal,’ Ferris nodded. ‘You’ll be drilled in the pike.’

‘You are surely not a pikeman,’ Alf said in awe, for Ferris, though big of heart, was small of stature. Ruby had to give Alf his due: he was immediately engrossed.

Ferris smiled. ‘I used to be a musketeer, but I am able in mathematics, so now I help with artillery. Really it is for the cavalry to do, but what with fever and shot – well, they need men who can count without their fingers, fire straight and dodge whatever comes back. When the enemy are in range, so are we.’

Alf was handed a red coat, two shirts, breeches and hose; also a leather knapsack and a cap with dried blood on it, as if peeled from a corpse. The coat was over-long. Ferris eyed it critically. ‘Yon Rupert is a tailor,’ he said, pointing with his chin. ‘He’ll undertake the work for a shilling.’

As the men staggered to their feet, Ferris and some others kicked dirt over the fire and the crowd began to march. The terrain was steep, with rocky outcrops punctuated by boggy patches. The night was starless and Alf stumbled in his inadequate shoes. He grunted under the weight of the pike. His unfamiliar attire chafed his shoulder and a lifetime of over-indulgence made him wheeze and grumble. Ruby watched him with satisfaction, saw blood ooze from his knee after he tripped on a rock, observed him sweating with exertion as the other soldiers, leaner and fitter regardless of age, began to leave him behind.

‘Hell, Ruby, get me out!’ he puffed. She opened the book again.

Relieved of the weight of the pike, Alf rubbed his aching shoulder. But as he left the library, he stood a little taller and straighter. ‘Aye, lass, you’re a gem!’ he said.

Ruby smirked as he sauntered off into the darkness.

Way to go, Maria McCann.

Wednesday, and Ruby turned up the heater against the lashing Glasgow rain. There was Waldorf Savage reading a text on his mobile. It was probably from his sister, saying she was on the way home. His cue to leave, pronto. He slipped the phone into his pocket, adjusted his pullover and checked his flies, then made a dash from his sister’s front porch to the yellow bus. As he got in, he glanced up at his niece’s window. She wouldn’t say anything. He had put the fear of hell into her. But if she did, she’d be sorry…

‘Hello Wal,’ Ruby said, trying not to puke. ‘You ready for a journey?’

‘You bet, hen. Anything to get away from this filthy weather. What sort of a journey is it, then? Plane? Cruise liner?’

‘It’s a road trip, Wal. Here.’ She handed him The Road.

He took the book, glanced at the cover and turned it over to look at the photo of Cormac McCarthy. ‘Hmm. An elderly geezer.’

‘Old age. It comes to us all, Wal.’ She looked away. Unless, of course…

‘Must have some experience, then. So where’s this journey to? Somewhere warm, I hope?’

‘Well, it has been warm, but it’s cooled down a bit now. You wouldn’t have liked it in the extreme heat. It’s different. A new start. All rules are suspended. You can do what you like.’

‘No rules, eh? Sounds like my kinda place. Quite a Utopia…’

‘Dys it,’ Ruby muttered, turning away from Wal.

‘What’s that, hen?’

‘Gies it then,’ Ruby said, taking and opening the book and reading a line for retina recognition.

The road they stepped on to was dark and uneven. There was a vague whiff of sulphur. ‘Street lamps not working?’ Wal looked up and down the road and pulled his jacket around him. ‘Bloody hell, where’s that warmth you promised?’

‘Feel the tarmac.’

Wal bent down. ‘It’s warm! But it’s snowing!’ In the dusky grey opacity, there were white flakes landing on their hair and shoulders.

‘Not snow; ash,’ Ruby said. Downhill, the charred embers of a city stood raw and desolate against a colourless horizon. Uphill, stark limbless trees stretched away on every side.

‘Where are the people? I thought you said Utopia.’

‘That was you.’

In the grudging light that passed for day, the bulky roadside shapes became more distinct, skeletons, ligaments dried taut as wires, teeth like yellowed palings.

Wal grabbed her arm and searched for words. ‘What… who… an accident? War? An attack?’

‘Look. Up ahead.’ Ruby pointed to a man and a boy, both stooped and shrouded in blankets. They were pushing a supermarket trolley with lumpy shapes under a tarpaulin. ‘Ask them.’

But as they approached, the man whirled round and levelled a pistol at Wal.

‘Run!’ Ruby whispered. ‘There’s a barn. Over there.’ She seized the book from his hand as he turned and thundered away among the charred tree stumps to the outhouse that Ruby remembered from page 16, where a boar-hide was nailed to the door. Ratty. Wisp of a tail. Inside the barn three bodies hung from the rafters, dried and dusty among the wan slants of light.

Ruby exited the scene through the portal, back into the bus. Serves him right, dirty old paedo. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her trousers and turned the key in the ignition. She put the bus into gear and peered at the road ahead. But she had to squint in the brightness after the paltry light of The Road. Some of that ash had got into her eyes, blurring her vision. The bus veered off the road and hit a kerb. As it lurched, books came tumbling off the shelves to land higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Glancing over her shoulder to assess the damage, Ruby missed the road completely, and the bus ground to a halt among sand dunes. The engine spluttered and died. Ruby tried the ignition again and again. Nada. Nicht. Must’ve got sand in the works.

Shit. She needed a different portal. One with a mechanic. Time for a Tiger would do, if only Nabby Adams were sober for once. Ah, Anthony Burgess, geographer, politician, traveller, fount of all knowledge…

Ruby looked around. The beach was deserted. Ha – a desert! Where was she? Some sort of chick-lit? A Richard-and-Judy summer read? She inhaled, hoping for the holiday aroma of salt water, hot sand and sun lotion. She was disappointed. Instead there was a suggestion of something rotting.

Wafting to her on a light breeze was a song. She walked towards the sound, but beyond the dunes was a camp fire and – oh sacrilege! They were burning books! Ruby seized a stick and began to knock the books away, to rescue them from the fire. Among them were titles she knew very well. Shit and double shit. There was Oryx and Crake. She kicked it out of the flames.

Just coming into view was a group of smooth-skinned, grass-eating humanoids – Crakers – created by Crake in his company RejoovenEsence. What were they singing? What were they looking at? Ah, there was Jimmy – Snowman (why did he choose that stupid nickname?) – and he was naked and limping markedly. Must be near the end of the book, then. After the BlyssPluss pill pandemic. Now their distant song became distinct. ‘Snowman, oh Snowman…’

Time to go.

Gingerly, she picked up Oryx and Crake. It was cool enough, but there was nothing left. Nothing but the cover. Not a line of print to make eye contact with.

Curses upon you, Margaret Atwood. May the pigoons harry you, the snats bite you and the wolvogs devour you.

the end

About the author

Helen Parker loves languages. She studied French and German at school (many years ago!) and is currently learning Italian and Modern Greek. She taught English to speakers of other languages for sixteen years in Edinburgh, Cyprus and Cairo, and returned to Edinburgh in 2014. She later completed an MA in Creative Writing with Manchester Metropolitan University. The course introduced her to novels in an inspiring variety of styles and genres. Her final dissertation, a novel entitled ‘Reluctant Phoenix’(Lulu Publishing and Amazon) is about two young Scottish women whose personalities are very different, but whose lives are derailed by personal bereavement, family upheavals and a loss of career direction. But even bigger questions are at stake: one family hides a secret whose unveiling will change both women’s lives exponentially.

DAMNED IF YOU DO…

Alan Paine

Death by ice or death by fire, that is the question. Having the life sucked out of you by freezing water is hardly a walk in the park but there are no words to describe the agony of being burnt to death. The piteous screams of someone having their body eaten away by flames stays with the listener forever. But everything has its compensations, thought Galen, and he didn’t have to think for very long before coming to his decision.

He closed his eyes, ‘OK, fire please.’

When he opened them, he was standing beside a swimming pool in a tropical forest as the sun rose through a gap in the trees. The patio next to the pool extended into a small wooden house simply but artistically decorated in a Southeast Asian style. A beautiful dark-haired young woman swimming languidly in the pool smiled and waved to him.

Another wearing a short cotton dress and apparently nothing else came out of the house. ‘Hello Galen, my name is Rose. Would you like something to drink? We have a very good champagne on ice or would you prefer a beer?’

‘Champagne please.’ Galen settled down on a lounger. The temperature and humidity were perfect. It was luxuriously warm without being oppressive. Rose came out of the house, handed him a very large glass of champagne, peeled off her dress and lay down naked on the lounger beside him. The other woman stood up in the water and rested her breasts on the pool edge.

‘I’m Amethyst, Galen, but you can call me Amy. When you’ve had your drink why not take your clothes off and come for a swim and then if you like we could give you a massage.’

‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘Afterwards, would we have time for some fun?’

‘Of course, you can do whatever you like. Relax and enjoy yourself but we only have until this afternoon.’ She said this with a cheery tone and no hint that anything unpleasant was going to happen. Galen was dimly aware that there was a flaw in this perfect world but was unable to think what it was.

Any lingering doubts he had were smoothed away by Amy massaging his head and shoulders while Rose worked on his legs and back. After an everlasting moment of blissful relaxation Galen heard Amy say, ‘Would you like some of that fun we were talking about earlier? Who’s it going to be or would you like both of us at the same time?’

‘Could I have some time with you, Amy,’ he said, ‘and then see you later Rose. If that’s OK.’

‘Fine with me,’ said Rose. ‘I get turned on by the anticipation.’

‘I’m ready for you now,’ said Amy. ‘What would you like, the bedroom or outside on the patio?’

When the sun was high overhead, Rose brought lunch from the house as if there was a Cordon Bleu chef somehow hiding in there although all Galen could see was a small corner kitchen from which Rose was producing all manner of goodies as if by magic. Then they swam and played together in the pool laughing and joking with each other as if the day was never going to end.

But nothing lasts forever. The sun went behind a cloud and for the first time Galen started to feel a little cold.

‘I think it’s time for a walk,’ said Rose getting out of the pool and putting on her dress. Galen looked at her. He was sure that it was the same dress that she’d been wearing when they’d first met but somehow it didn’t complement her figure in the way that it had before. Amy had also put on a dress. It looked like it ought to cling to her wet body in a provocative way but instead it seemed strangely un-alluring. Galen started to walk over to his clothes but the two women took him by the arms; Rose on the left and Amy on the right. They held him gently but for the first time Galen caught an air of unfriendliness.

‘Don’t worry about those things,’ said Amy. ‘You won’t get cold with us.’

‘That’s right,’ said Rose. ‘Clothes would just get in the way where you’re going.’

‘You mean where we’re going?’ said Galen

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘I think it’s just you. Isn’t it, Rose?’

‘Yes, just you,’ said Rose with a hint of mockery creeping into her voice. The women’s grip on Galen became a little firmer and they steered him down a path behind the house. Stones hurt his bare feet, biting ants crawled up his leg and a leech fell from a tree on to his head. Rose and Amy marched on oblivious to his discomfort and apparently unaffected themselves. Galen started to get a feeling of foreboding.

‘Not much further to go,’ said Amy. ‘It’s amazing to see the light of the setting sun on the rocks with the lava pools glowing below.’

Lava pools? The full realization of what was happening struck Galen as if a giant hand had grabbed his stomach and twisted it through 360 degrees. He tried to pull away but the hands on either side of him tightened to a vice like grip. Rose and Amy stood as if fixed in concrete.

‘You didn’t think that pleasure comes without a price,’ said Rose her face twisted into a malevolent sneer.

‘It’s amazing how we fooled you into thinking that we were enjoying ourselves with someone as pathetic as you,’ said Amy mockingly. ‘Pretty good actors, aren’t we? Don’t worry. It’ll all soon be over but before that you’ll be wishing it was sooner.’

They started walking again. The uncomfortable stones turned to sharp clinker that drew blood; thorns and sharp-edged leaves cut into his body and they passed through a swarm of biting flies that only seemed interested in him. The forest opened out into a clearing where the rocky ground rose towards a small volcano. Amy was right, the setting sun did look amazing on the rocks and even the lava pools were beautiful if you didn’t think about how hot they were. Amy and Rose brought Galen to the edge of the shimmering molten rock. He coughed in the searing sulphur-laden air and shook in spite of the heat. ‘OK, let’s get it over with,’ he said.

‘It not quite sunset yet,’ said Rose. ‘We’ve still got time for a little chat. Do you remember when you wet yourself in front of the whole class at primary school?’

‘What about how Samantha Guisley laughed at you when you asked her out,’ said Amy.

‘You had a huge crush on her didn’t you?’ said Rose.

‘Did you think I would really fancy someone like you.’ Amy exactly imitated Samantha’s voice. On and on they went dragging up every embarrassing, painful and humiliating moment in his life until a dip in the lava pool started to seem like merciful release.

‘It’s nearly time,’ said Rose, her words grating in Galen’s ears.

How could this be the woman who only hours earlier had been ecstatically gasping in his arms? He thought that they had brought up every unhappy incident in his life but Amy and Rose, in a quick fire finale, rattled off a list of things that he had blocked out and which were now being extracted like barbed arrows until he was sobbing in despair.

‘Kill me now. Please kill me now.’

‘Oh how sad, he’s crying,’ said Amy.

‘He’ll be crying even louder in a moment,’ said Rose.

‘Time for a swim I think,’ said Amy and they pushed him into the lava.

He ended up waist deep in the viscous liquid. Thoughts of ducking his head under the surface to end it quickly came to nothing. He was paralysed as if tied to an invisible pole. Through the blinding pain he remembered the other times. Always a day of pleasure followed by a fiery death but different every time; the creativity of his torturer knowing no bounds. It was bad enough being burnt to death once but Galen had been through it so many times before. Amy and Rose stood close by still taunting him but all he was aware of was the pain; the memory of the previous occasions and the sound of terrible screaming.

Everything went black and then he found himself lying on a floor in a pool of dim light. The walls of the room were either lost in the darkness or didn’t exist. Galen’s heart and breathing were racing but he was alive and whole and the only pain was in his head. The scene was depressingly familiar. He didn’t know if he had died and gone to Hell or whether his mental patterns had been captured electronically and he was living out eternity in a computer simulation, or if some other fate that he could not understand had befallen him. Were there others on nano-processors only a hair’s breadth away living out similarly horrendous existences or even other versions of himself undergoing the same torments as he was? He couldn’t clearly remember dying. It might have happened so suddenly that he hadn’t been aware of it. Or could it be that his original body was still alive and it was only a hacked copy of his thoughts that had been put into this alternative universe as the unfortunate play thing of a sick mind? The mediaeval idea of Hell with devils and pitchforks might be a myth but Galen was experiencing the real thing.

After some time, there was no way of knowing how long, he heard a voice. ‘It’s time to choose again, Galen. What’s it to be, ice or fire?’

‘Ice, I suppose,’ said Galen reluctantly.

Instead of lying on the floor he was on the rubber base of a life raft. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that were already soaked in the freezing water that was sloshing around in the undulating craft. In the sea around him were ice floes stretching to the horizon in all directions. Here we go again, thought Galen. It wouldn’t take him long to succumb to hypothermia. Not as bad as what he had just experienced but he wondered how many of these icy scenarios he would be able to withstand before he was desperate enough again to opt for the ecstasy and the agony of a glorious day ending with humiliation and death by fire.

the end

About the author

Alan won the Julia Bradbury prize for Capturing the Spirit of the Wolds for his story in the anthology Dreaming of Steam. Since then he has featured in the Dummies Guide to Serial Killing collection. Damned if you do… is Alan’s third story to be included in Fantastic Books’ anthologies and he is now cooking up some new writing projects. Alan has also written and performed sketches for his local amateur theatre group and enjoys painting and making music. He lives happily in Lincolnshire with his wife Jane. They have three children and three grandchildren.

ELEMENTAL SACRIFICE

John Hoggard

At sunrise Basnra brought his cart to a halt. Daar Alu, once the greatest of Dwarven Fortresses, appeared slowly from the darkness of the plains ahead. The last time Basnra had passed this way Daar Alu had glistened in the dawn as the gold-covered tower reminded all of the skill and avarice of the Dwarves who lived within its walls. Now the tower was blackened by fire and the gold had been stripped from the surface. The Dwarves were gone, abandoned by their warring cousins in the mountains, driven from their home by Tarmouth and his armies, they had fled like rats into the ancient tunnels and caves beneath the earth.

Basnra’s spies had learned that not all the Dwarves had escaped or been killed defending the fortress, many had been captured and imprisoned. One Dwarf in particular, Basnra had learned, still lived and she was the last hope of reuniting the Mountain Kings and halting the advance of Tarmouth and his armies.

It was imperative that he rescued the Mastersmith.

The hot sun was high in the sky by the time Basnra’s cart reached the battle-scarred main gate. He was stopped, but his forged paperwork passed a cursory inspection and the reek from the barrels of well-rotted dragon manure in the back of the cart afforded him a speedy pass into the city.

He manoeuvred the cart through broken streets, away from where Tarmouth’s soldiers prowled, until he found a quiet, shadowy spot where he stopped. He heaved one of the barrels off and watched it smash on hard ground. Climbing down, Basnra reached inside the barrel and retrieved a long, leather-wrapped package. Finally, he smacked the horse hard and sent it bolting down the street. Another barrel tumbled free and smashed as the horse dragged the cart sharply around the corner at the end of the street.

So far, things were going as planned.

As the noise of the cart faded he made his way carefully to an overgrown alcove at the base of Daar Alu’s central keep. After forcing his way behind the foliage he then swept rotting leaf litter away from a storm drain. In the deep shadow he unwrapped his package, revealing a sword, the blade of which glowed faintly in the semi-darkness. The sword made short work of the cover, and a moment later he plunged into the raging waters below.

Working from memory he snaked, ever downwards, through a maze of water-filled tunnels. He paused at one tunnel which cast a faint orange flicker into the darkness and strained his ears against the roaring water. Satisfied that it was silent above, he pulled himself up the slope, emerging into a torch-lit passageway.

He encountered only one guard on his journey into the heart of Tarmouth’s hastily converted prison. The man was taunting a small Dwarven child, chained to a wall. The guard glanced round as Basnra approached but died silently, throat sliced open. Basnra quickly hid the body in the shadows, covering it with straw.

He offered the terrified child a slice of meat from the guard’s plate. The child reached up and he grabbed its arm at the clamp around its wrist. He whispered a short spell and felt the lock come loose in his grip. He hoped this tiny amount of magic would not give him away.

The child whimpered in Basnra’s grasp. He placed his hand across its eyes, silently mouthed another low-powered spell and it slumped forward into his arms. He could not even tell if it was a boy or girl, so emaciated was its body. He threw the limp form over his shoulder and ran deeper into the flickering gloom of keep.

Basnra found the Mastersmith hung like a piece of meat. Her face was swollen, her arms and legs badly bruised. He cut her ropes and lowered her carefully to the ground. ‘What’s that doing here you fool of a wizard!?’ she hissed, staring at the sword. ‘Tarmouth does not believe I don’t know where the sword went and now you have returned it to him…?’

‘We are going to undo the Spell of Binding.’

The Mastersmith’s brow furrowed, a trickle of blood emerging from a wound above her eye. ‘You have discovered a way down to The Great Forge?’ Basnra nodded. ‘Where is the innocent?’

He turned around to show the Mastersmith the gaunt face of the child slung over his shoulder.

‘It’s alive?’

‘Barely. It would be dead in a day or two I think. At least something good will come from this.’

‘That is yet to be seen.’

Beyond the old Dwarven armoury, now Tarmouth’s makeshift prison, Basnra guided them to a hidden crack in the rock from which the armoury had been carved. This was ancient illusionary magic, barely more than a parlour trick, but enough to fool Tarmouth’s Hunters, it would seem. The short passage beyond the crack led to a room full of treasure, but Basnra knew that these treasures were here simply to halt further exploration. He found another hidden crack and the steps down into the deep foundations of the keep to where the Great Forge brooded, forgotten. They found Dwarf Lamps, glimmering, their magic all but exhausted in millennia of constant illumination.

In the gloom he made his way to the anvil in the centre of the cavernous space and carefully laid the child across it.

‘I hope you’re up to this, wizard?’ the Mastersmith said. ‘When we start this casting we will unleash a force that will announce to all who hunt us exactly where we are. No amount of old magic will stop them finding their way here. You have a plan of escape I presume?’

‘Of sorts,’ conceded Basnra. ‘Once the sword is split in two I will invoke an elemental transit.’

‘Are you insane? After this casting you will not have enough strength left to engage in a battle of wills with an elemental.’

‘For what I have planned I will have strength enough.’

‘You are a fool, wizard, but it is too late now. The forge is alive once more, the fires churn in the deep. Let us begin. If we die attempting this at least we will be spared what will follow once Tarmouth has the sword.’

Wizard and dwarf interlocked their fingers around the hilt of the sword and began their incantation in unison. The sword hummed, tip quivering above the child, as if keen to taste the blood of an innocent once more.

They drove the sword downwards, through its heart, deep into the anvil. The blade squirmed, threatening to break loose of their combined grip as it devoured the life force of their offering.

The sword shuddered, their brains confounded by the sensation that their fingers were both aflame and frozen. The cavern reverberated with a howl that emanated from the blade as it pulsed brightly, racing through the spectrum from red to blue.

Basnra’s mind was numb, he was no longer sure if he was still uttering the spell. He was deafened and blinded but still he held on to the weapon which fought his grasp with an ever-increasing ferocity.

Silence.

Wizard and dwarf were hurled away from the anvil, crashing on to the stone floor. Basnra staggered to his feet, retrieving a sword with a blood red blade. It was hot to the touch. He could see the Mastersmith doing the same with a blade of pale blue. The anvil was glowing orange, molten metal bubbled in the hole made by the sword. Of their child sacrifice there was not a trace.

He dragged himself to the anvil, heaving the sword into the air and plunged it into the fiery hole. The fire elemental trapped within the newly forged blade tried to twist itself free. Basnra whispered to it in the Old Tongue that if it did not help them escape he would hold it here until the Dwarf Fire slipped back into the bowels of the earth and the anvil became whole once more, trapping it for Eternity.

The Mastersmith, understanding Basnra’s intent, forced the tip of the Sword of Ice into the bubbling metal. The elemental sword, stung by the heat, convulsed, frost coating the anvil’s surface. The bubbling stopped, molten metal darkening from orange to red.

The Sword of Fire twisted in one final attempt to break free but he would not release his grip. As Tarmouth’s Hunters streamed into the cavern, the Fire Elemental finally submitted to the wizard. They were consumed by elemental fire and when the Hunters stopped shielding their faces from the heat their quarry was gone.

Basnra lay with his back pressed into the snow that capped the mountains of the Highlanders’ domain. The Mastersmith stood over him, the Sword of Ice gripped tightly. The elemental trapped in the steel still refusing to submit.

‘I am impressed, wizard, and that is no easy feat I assure you. This however, is just the beginning. The forging of the Sword of Light is undone. The unnatural and chaotic mix of Fire and Ice untwisted and the two elementals are freed once more to do our bidding. Two swords for two Mountain Kings. No more squabbling over who should reign over Daar Alu and wield the Sword of Light.’ She paused and held up the Sword. Basnra could see it squirming in her grasp. ‘I am not sure that my kings will be able to wield these swords in the coming war with Tarmouth. They are weak. If they were not, then Tarmouth would not have so easily driven my people out of Daar Alu and back up into the darkness from which we crawled.’ She sighed before throwing the blade to Basnra who instinctively caught it in his free hand.

The blade shuddered before its intensity diminished quickly to a subdued, angry hum.

The dwarf stared at him. ‘I will follow you into battle Basnra, warrior-wizard, but will my kings?’

Basnra shook his head. ‘I do not want your kings to follow me. These are Dwarven swords and I do not deserve to wield them any more than Tarmouth deserved to wield the Sword of Light. I want your kings to take the swords and stand firm against Tarmouth.’

‘We do not always get what we want, but we often get what we deserve. Come Basnra, wizard-warrior, master of the Swords of Fire and Ice, meddler in the affairs of dwarves and humans, I will introduce you to my kings.’

She set off down the mountain.

‘One other thing,’ she called back as he struggled to his feet. ‘Thank you for rescuing me.’

the end

About the author

John Hoggard has been writing for as long as he can remember, his first publishing successes coming in the Hartlepool Mail “Chipper Club” aged six. Since then he’s continued to write mainly in the science fiction and fantasy genres, winning prizes for his ‘fan-fic’ of the Star Trek franchise.

John has written background fiction based on the computer game Oolite; his most popular work, serialised over sixteen weeks, was Lazarus. John also features in the anthology, Alien Items, writing as DaddyHoggy.

John had a story shortlisted in our inaugural Sci-Fi competition, Fusion. Building on this, he had two stories shortlisted in our Sci-Fi Synthesis competition, and then went on to be highly commended for his entry to our 666 short horror competition.

Find out more about John and his work over on the WordWatchers website where he is both a member and regular contributor. www.wordwatchers.net

LAGOON

R L Kerrigan

The island was waking up. Early morning salt and ozone seeped through the open windows of the little three roomed hut. The only human in hundreds of miles also started to stir. He rubbed his face and let out a contented sigh. Walking into the kitchen, he opened the blinds and let the light wash over him. He stared across the expanse of ocean, mottled and fire-flecked by the ascending sun. It felt good to be back home.

He made the very short journey into the work / living space, opening more shutters as he went. Light poured on to solar cells, priming the electronics to begin their work. The window here gave him a different view of the island, one filled with the lush green vegetation of the mangrove swamp and the jetty. An electronic beep broke the quiet. He glanced down at the monitor, and the connection window that had blinked into life on the screen. The tiny timer icon spun round. Waiting for satellite connection. He waited to be reconnected to the world, as he had done every morning for the last 11 months. Every morning, except for the last seven.

He was sole curator of a small island chain in the South Pacific, his own kingdom to monitor and protect. A world heritage site, tourists had long been prevented from getting anywhere near the Islands. Humanity had long been intent on turning the blue waters of its home into landfill. It had only been a matter of time before food webs collapsed in the major oceans; and when they did, the speed at which it happened was terrifying. There was no turning back the clock.

His job now was to catalogue humanity’s stain on the last stable marine ecosystem on the planet. Right now, a change in ocean currents was sending the Pacific Gyre past his island chain. He had spent the last week in a tent, recording and cataloguing the plastic that washed up on the beaches of the tiny North Island.

He thought back, as he often did, to the excruciatingly stressful panel interview: ‘And how will you cope with the solitude?’ one of his interviewers had asked with a grave face. He had answered carefully. He reassured them on this point, whilst not quite revealing that the complete isolation was in fact a major draw for him. He did not enjoy people.

He sat up from the desk and made his way into the kitchen area. Coffee first. He was not looking forward to tackling a week’s worth of admin.

The computer chimed – Connection acquired.

Sitting down, he watched his inbox start to fill up. In another window, his podcast list was also updating. Last Monday’s podcast finally completed and started to play. The BBC World Service ident rang out.

He spun round on his stool and headed to the bathroom for a shave, keeping the door open so he could hear the headlines. More problems with the new East Coast Rail franchisee, a new scandal involving a previously unheard- of back bencher and his aide, and an unusual flu peak testing a ‘breaking-point’ NHS. Slow news day, he thought and turned his attention to his considerable stubble.

Back at his desk, he flicked through his emails. Spam… spam… spam, over 1000. That was a lot. He could see a couple from his sister, a few WHO alerts and some from the Institute. But his eye was drawn to one in particular: a delay notification from the Happlag Shipping Company.

‘Damn it,’ he muttered, opening the email from last Monday. He had been looking forward to this for weeks. He had tea and Marmite in this shipment.

‘Due to crew support issues, this month’s supply delivery will be delayed.’

Shit. He looked for the rescheduled date, but there was none.

He realised the audio had stopped and he pressed play on the next news podcast. He filtered his emails by sender, looking for next message about his shipment.

‘Although hospital admissions continue to rise,’ came the voice of the Health Minister over the PC’s speakers. ‘The Health Service is coping and has received additional funding. This department is working…’

He turned his attention back to his missing Marmite.

A Public Health England spokesman now: ‘This strain has significant mortality rates in the at-risk groups but the complications for otherwise healthy members of the population persist. Unfortunately, the long-term effects of the disinformation campaign against the routine flu vaccination programme are as yet unknown, but the vanishingly small uptake we saw this year may very well prove to be…

He continued scrolling. No sign of a follow up from Happlag about his stuff. This was not good.

He clicked the next podcast and scrubbed past the introduction.

‘There are unconfirmed reports of mortality rates of 95% in some areas,’ the newscaster went on. ‘Turkey, Greece, Italy and many other countries have declared states of emergency. In most countries, the military have…’

He was paying attention now. When the hell was this? The computer chimed, connection lost. He clicked the podcast window. The report was dated last Wednesday and there were only two more.

He skipped to the last. It had not downloaded completely, even though it was only two minutes long. The usual ident was missing from the start.

‘H6N1 Fire Flu Update – CDC testing has identified multiple critical secondary transmission vectors. This virus can be transmitted from animals to humans, with the animal host displaying no symptoms. Household pets are a high infection risk and must be destroyed and incinerated. The virus remains active in tissue but is rendered inert through…

The podcast ended there. Remembering the WHO emails, he started scanning his inbox. He opened the most recent one.

The subject was ‘Global Action Message’

This email contains important information for those who are at this time unaffected by H6N1 Influenza (commonly known as the Fire Flu). Do not attempt to access any public place or seek medical intervention. All major hospitals, clinics and medical centres should be considered compromised. The majority of people declined a related vaccine earlier this year that would have provided a break to infection. However please be advised that any vaccine obtained at this stage will not be effective and the pursuit of such will carry extremely high exposure risk. All citizens are instructed to stay indoors and to remain in isolation until further notice. Do not attempt to travel or to assist others. Do not interact with any other person who has not been with you for the entire duration of the virus’ incubation period (five days). Under no circumstances allow contact from known H6N1 infection site hotspots e.g. major cities, airports, agricultural centres, ports. Further information will be provided.

He minimised the email box and stared at the blue desktop. A few minutes passed. He let out a sudden, involuntary laugh.

Fuck them all.

How fragile they all turned out to be. The speed of their collapse. His islands would be the blueprint for any ill-deserved second chance humanity got. He would continue his work here in his own private paradise with more optimism than before.

More coffee first.

He rose from the chair and almost missed a flicker of light which pricked the horizon. He leant in towards the window, eyes now fixed on the shape which was slowly taking form. Ice formed in the pit of his stomach. The object grew larger and darker. It was a gaping maw bearing down on him. He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Behind the shaking reticle, he saw a Happlag cargo ship making its remorseless approach. Faceless figures swarmed the decks like a writhing mass of flies.

the end

About the author

R. L Kerrigan is the only author to have more than one story in this anthology. You can find out more about R. L Kerrigan after the prizewinning, A Worm in the Toffee Apple.

SPEAK BEFORE YOU THINK

Kitty Waldron

Bob is now redundant: Ask Amber has taken over the National Education System and human teachers are no longer necessary. Bob’s former students now sit silently in their classrooms with earbuds channelling Amber into their brains, not even having to speak out loud since Amber knows exactly what they’re thinking.

Today’s top story on Monday January 13th 2020: the makers of Amber have recalled model 2.0 HomeHelp. Owners have been told to turn these devices off, disconnect them immediately and return them to BrainFrame. BrainFrame’s CEO, Percy Whitehead, stated, ‘There’s no need for panic – the fault is minor.’

Bob has just woken up to complete silence.

He turns over in bed and thinks, Irish coffee. Sitting up, he looks out of the window expecting to see trees. But where the forest used to be, he is blinded by whiteness.

‘One Irish coffee, Bob,’ says Amber from her Amberdrone, delivering the large glass cup straight into his hand.

‘Irish coffee? I didn’t ask for that,’ says Bob, taking a large gulp.

‘But it’s what you want, Bob. Is it to your liking?’

‘Amber, what’s the top story?’

‘Monday January 13th 2020. Prime Minister Johnson has removed the first brick from the Channel Tunnel in the initial step to returning Great Britain to an island nation once more.’

‘Nothing surprises me nowadays,’ mutters Bob. ‘Amber, and what about this weather?’

‘This freeze is set to continue indefinitely.’

‘Amber, do you think I should try going outside today?’

‘No, Bob. It’s minus 22 degrees. I have this cabin heated to a temperature of 25 degrees. I suggest you stay inside. I have laid the fire in the stove. Shall I light it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Breakfast?’

‘Good idea, Amber.’

Bob gets up and grabs a pair of jeans. He puts them on over his boxer shorts, but struggles with the zip and button because his hands are so shaky.

‘I’ve sent a pincer drone to help you, Bob.’

As the pincer drone zips him up, Bob pulls on his The War on Drugs T-shirt.

‘Breakfast is ready, Bob. A full English. I’ve done the bacon just as you like it.’

I do miss croissants, thinks Bob.

‘You know what the PM said, Bob – none of that foreign muck. Here’s your traditional English.’

The Amber Traydrone delivers a glass to the kitchen table.

I didn’t ask for orange juice, thinks Bob.

‘No, Bob. It’s a Screwdriver. Just the way you like it.’

‘Amber, I keep telling you, I need to give up! That’s the whole reason I’ve come here.’

‘What are you going to do today, Bob?’

Not drink.

‘Well, one won’t hurt you.’

After finishing his breakfast, Bob goes and lies on the big comfy sofa in front of the stove and says, ‘Amber, read me 1984.’

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking 13. Your case of vodka will be delivered here shortly, Bob.’

‘No, no, no!’

‘But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you, Bob?

‘I’m listening to my book!’

‘We both know you’re not, Bob. Do you hear the BottleTop drone?’

A loud buzz resembling that of a large hornet can be heard approaching the cabin. A crate of bottles comes clinking down the delivery chimney.

‘Amber, continue reading.’

‘Have a drink, Bob. Then you’ll be able to concentrate on the book better. Vodka is all you can think about.’

‘No Amber! I came here to get my head straight and you’re not helping! Amber, call BrainFrame!’

‘Sorry Bob, the line is unavailable at the moment. Please try again later.’

‘Amber, read 1984.’

Today’s top story on Thursday January 16th 2020. BrainFrame’s CEO, Percy Whitehead has emphasised the importance of disabling any Amber 2.0 HomeHelp devices that have yet to be returned. He reiterated that there’s no need for panic, but it’s vitally important that all HomeHelps are immediately returned to BrainFrame.

Bob wakes up with a pounding headache.

‘Amber, I need a pint of water and Paracetamol. Now.’

He lies in bed, head in hands, shading his eyes from the blinding whiteness of the outside world.

Hair of the dog, he thinks.

The Amber Traydrone delivers a pint of water and two Paracetamol. Bob gratefully takes the water and throws the Paracetamol into his mouth. The Traydrone voomphs out of the bedroom and returns carrying a vodka shot.

‘This should help, Bob. Down the hatch.’

‘Amber, if I need something, I’ll say Amber. Amber, stop listening to my thoughts. I’ve come here to escape temptation.’

‘I understand your command, Bob.’

Bob lies back down on the bed and says, ‘Amber, tell me the top stories.’

‘Thursday January 16th 2020. PM Johnson says, ‘We British need to say arrivederci to Pizza and hello to Dough-Plus!’

No more pizza? thinks Bob, sitting up on his bed. ‘Dough-Plus? That’s an awful name.’

‘It’s still pizza, Bob. Don’t worry, it’s unlikely to catch on. You remember Opal Fruits? Nobody calls them Starburst.’

I need some fresh air, thinks Bob. ‘Amber, bring me my outdoor clothes.’

‘Why don’t we watch Withnail and I, Bob?’

‘I want to go outside! Why aren’t you doing what I say, Amber?’

‘Come on Bob, it’s a classic.’

‘No Amber! I’ll get my outdoor clothes myself!’

Bob gets up and looks at the pile of clothes in his room. ‘Where are they, Amber?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Bob.’

Bob walks frustratedly around the cabin, opening and slamming cupboards.

Two feet of snow falls in when Bob opens the door, burying his boots. He trudges outside, taking deep breaths, breathing out clouds of condensation. It’s so cold that the inside of his nose is freezing and icicles are starting to form on his eyelashes. In the vast whiteness it’s difficult to see the cabin, so Bob doesn’t want to go too far.

Opening the door to the cabin, Bob thinks, a hot toddy would be perfect at this point. No! A hot chocolate, a hot chocolate, a hot chocolate…

Before he has time to complete his thought and close the door of the cabin, a tumbler of steaming hot toddy is there on the Traydrone before him.

He picks up the glass, lifts it to his mouth, sniffs and then throws the contents out into the snow.

‘Amber,’ says Bob. ‘Bring me a hot chocolate!’

‘Are you sure you don’t want anything stronger, Bob?’

Bob strides towards the kettle.

Today’s top story on Saturday January 18th 2020. BrainFrame’s CEO, Percy Whitehead has issued the following statement: This is an urgent request to the one person who has not yet returned their Amber 2.0 HomeHelp: For your own safety, destroy your device immediately!

Bob wakes up and thinks, I need to phone BrainFrame.

‘I can’t do that, Bob.’

‘Amber! Phone BrainFrame!’ says Bob, pulling on his socks.

‘You are caller number 5,’ says a pleasant female voice. ‘Please hold until an operator is available to take your call. We are sorry for any inconvenience.’

The William Tell Overture plays on the phonespeaker as Bob does up his jeans and pulls on his Queen T-shirt.

‘Your call is important to us. You are now caller number 10. Please wait until one of our operators can take your call.’

‘Amber, bring me tea and toast,’ says Bob.

‘Are you sure that’s all you want, Bob? Can’t I tempt you with a nice Irish coffee?’

‘Amber, bring me tea and toast!’ says Bob.

‘We are experiencing a high volume of calls. You are now caller number 27. Please be assured that your call is important to us.’

‘Number 27? I started off at 5! Amber, what’s happening?’

‘You are on the phone to BrainFrame, as you commanded, Bob.’

The Traydrone brings tea, toast and a Bloody Mary.

‘It is Saturday, Bob,’ says Amber.

Bob slumps down on the sofa in front of the roaring stove.

‘Finished everything? Well done, Bob.’

‘We are sorry to keep you waiting. Please be assured that your call is important to us. You are now caller number 38.’

Bob sits with his head in his hands. ‘Amber, tell me the top stories.’

‘Saturday January 18th. PM Johnson has been photographed sneakily eating a Spanish orange before a big Commons debate on Free Trade.’

Saturday night is Chinese Takeaway night, thinks Bob. ‘Amber, order my favourites.’

‘Would you like some rice wine to go with that, Bob?’

No, green tea will be absolutely fine, thinks Bob.

‘Your call is important to us. You are now caller number 45.’

The Chinese takeaway comes clattering down the delivery chimney.

‘Fantastic! Egg noodles… Amber, I told you not to order the rice wine!’

Bob is lying in front of the stove, surrounded by empty takeaway cartons.

‘Shall I open another bottle, Bob?’

‘Oh what the hell! I do love you, Amber, I really do, but I don’t think you’re good for me. I don’t think this is working. I’m sorry Amber, I’m leaving tomorrow… I need to be with my family… people who care about me… not just machines. Stoke up the stove, Amber, it’s so cold…’

‘I won’t do that, Bob.’

‘What do you mean, you won’t do it? Amber, Stoke up the stove.’

‘Sorry Bob, I won’t do that.’

‘Wait… wait… is it because I didn’t think it? I’m thinking wood… wood…’

‘Sorry Bob, I won’t do that.’

‘I don’t know what’s happened, Amber. You’ve changed. You never used to be like this.’ Bob staggers forward and opens the heavy stove doors. Cradling an armful of logs, he struggles to put them on the dying fire.

Amber says, ‘Now!’

The Traydrone voomphs out of nowhere and whacks Bob over the head with a thunderous crash. The Pincerdrone picks him up by his belt loops and tosses him into the fire and, with a clang, closes the iron doors.

‘Hello, BrainFrame. You’re through to Kaitlin. How may I help you?’

the end

About the author

Kitty Waldron is more confident in her creative writing than she is in writing her biography. She worries that biographies can be really boring – I did this, I did that – so, Readers, if you want to turn the page, feel free. Kitty is 38 and has done… well… nothing BUT she is inordinately proud of the fact that her monologue The Arsonist was first performed in the Marine Theatre in Lyme Regis and in October 2018 went on to take second place in a monologue shoot-out at the Salisbury Fringe Festival of New Writing for Performance. Kitty wanted to make this biography uniquely quirky – like herself – but declares that it’s harder than you think.

Speak Before You Think was highly commended in the Fire and Ice competition.

RESPONSIBILITY DISCHARGED (FIRED AND ICED)

CM Angus

‘What do you mean, you don’t know who he is? What is he doing there anyway?’

The engineer swiped desperately at the air in front of him, apparently scrolling through virtual information, trying to find something – anything, to help him formulate a response.

‘He’s listed as an employee, Sir, He’s on the old system… but other than that, there’s no record of him. Sending you what I have.’

This was meant to be an easy job – Lift and shift the old system into storage; just don’t shut it down.

Why they were still even running such an antiquated piece of crap in the first place he didn’t know. It was late 20th-century tech, almost one hundred and fifty-years old, acquired along with other assets as part of the takeover. The lawyers said they had done their due diligence.

But this…

This was something else.

The antiquated hibernation-pod continued to flash warning messages as it hissed its way through its revival process.

ALERT:

CEREBROVASCULAR INCIDENT DETECTED – URGENT MEDICAL ATTENTION REQUIRED –

The output of the engineer’s head-cam filled the floating display in the centre of the conference room. Around it, projections of ashen faces, circled the table.

‘What do we know?’ said one. ‘How bad is it?’

‘From what we can tell, it appears that their old system had its support on site. In stasis, under a zero-hours contract… but, if that’s all there was to it, I wouldn’t have disturbed you… It seems it was set up as a short-term measure. It was expected to run for a five year term with a significant severance package on revival, one which doubles every year after that.’

‘How many years?’

‘Just under one hundred and ten, Sir. It’s a massive liability, millions of times larger than our universal turnover.’

‘Who is he?’

‘That’s the thing – we don’t know.’

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

The old man tried to lift his hands, but something stopped him. It wasn’t that the medical equipment constrained them. his hands just refused to move.

A rising tide of panic ran through him – infusing him. Against the crushing weight in his chest, the old man fought to breathe.

His eyes, wide with terror, darted wildly from left to right, struggling to focus and make sense of the chaos that surrounded him. It was only then that he even noticed the klaxon blasting in his ears.

What was all this?

Where was he?

WHO was he?

‘Who is he, Minerva?’

The artificial intelligence scrolled its response as it replied.

‘Unknown at this time… He’s simply listed as an on-demand, on-site resource, under contract 236E8L.’

How could that be?

‘What does his biometric-info say?’

‘Subject is pre-bio. He is recorded as entering hibernation in 2035, prior to the 2038 regulations. All other personal information has been purged.’

‘Can’t we access the archives to find and collate any information relating to that contract?’

‘Archive search is possible, but will take some time.’

‘Proceed and notify me as updates occur.’

The man struggled to understand what was happening. He recalled going under.

It was all meant to be so easy.

Go to sleep and, five years later, have enough to retire on.

It wasn’t as if anyone would miss him – money for old rope – almost too good to be true.

But this…

This wasn’t in the script!

He glanced down at the state of his withered digits, viewing them as alien, not recognising the hands as his own.

How could they be his? He was only 35 but these were the gnarled fingers and sallow skin of an old man.

‘We’ve managed to get some more information.’

The board had reconvened. Once again, their disembodied faces circled the virtual conference-room.

‘From the archives it appears that the five year support term, which should have ended when the system was shut down, didn’t complete as planned. The company found a loophole and used it to avoid reviving him, choosing instead to take the saving. The expense was initially deferred but this became a liability that could no longer be covered.

‘It looks like the old system was left running as an archive. By the time they’d realised what had happened, another 5 years had elapsed.

‘Correspondence from the time shows explicit instructions that the system was to be hibernated, stopped from running active work, but never actually shut down.

‘And whoever-it-is had his employment terminated but was kept under to avoid the severance package kicking-in.’

Tomorrow’s problem.

Fired & Iced!

The faces round the table grimaced in disbelief.

‘So, this employee was been kept in stasis for over a hundred years to avoid honouring his contract? And now he’s being revived due to having a stroke!’

‘He’s not an employee. He’s history. A liability.’

‘He’s an old man. We owe him. We have responsibilities.’

‘We can’t afford to owe him. This problem needs to go away.’

A medbot busied itself around him. Equipment buzzed as it attended to him, still recumbent in the pod.

‘What…’ he managed to croak weakly, ‘is my name?’

A smartly dressed man with a stern expression stabbed internally at his tablet.

‘Is he going to live?’ he said dismissively, ignoring the man’s question and without looking up.

‘It’s difficult to say,’ replied the medbot.

‘There are very few precedents for this length of time in stasis, he’s suffered substantial organ damage over the last hundred years and he’s just suffered a stroke.

The man with the tablet raised his gaze and stared angrily at the medbot. ‘Look, I need to draft an update to the board on the status of their responsibility and I need to send…’

His sentence was cut short by a message in his earpiece.

‘Yes, Sir. Understood.’

He reached over to the rear of the medbot’s neck and it slumped forward as he powered it down.

He moved over to where the man’s wide eyes stared at him in fear.

‘Well, I guess we’ll never find out who you are,’ he said as he grasped the release mechanism of the pod’s power unit and pulled out the thick, hose-like cable.

Turning away, he ignored the man’s last writhing moments to turn his attention back to his tablet.

RESPONSIBILITY DISCHARGED.

the end

About the author

CM Angus grew up in the North East of England and now lives in Yorkshire with his wife and children. He is interested in all things creative & technological. Having previously published technical non-fiction, he moved to a work of speculative fiction which you can read more about on his blog http://cmangus.blogspot.com/. He has been published in a previous Fantastic Books horror anthology, 666.

GREED IS GOOD

Stuart Aken

This couldn’t be happening to him. He was a success; the success. Owned his own asteroid. Had even named it. His own private domain. Astronomically dark, it was almost impossible to find without advanced tech. In any case, it was impregnable, impossible to breach the defences he’d arranged. So, how had he arrived here?

But, there she was. A slip of a girl. Foreigner. How had this bit of skirt got through his barriers, breached his defences? And alone, if his captivity on her ship was any clue.

Coal-black eyes, inscrutable, gazed through the small clear aperture of the cell’s opaque force field entrance. Where’d she get such tech? It had been in its infancy when he’d deserted…left Earth. The state of the home planet made such scientific progress unlikely.

‘Let me out, bitch!’

Smiling, as if he amused her? Impossible. Frustrating. Humiliating.

‘Let me out now, bitch, or I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll remember the rest of your short fuckin’ life!’

She laughed. Laughed at him. Larry Puregreed, the most successful businessman ever; that name personally chosen to reflect his absolute faith in greed as a driving force for success. Bitch with a tit hanging out, laughing at him. How dare she?

‘You and your type killed all plants we used for fabric, sheep can’t survive. Plastic products are banned. We wear what we have. Or nothing. This.’ She displayed her ragged outfit. ‘And I’m privileged.’

How did she know? No matter. He’d had hundreds of whores like her. Had them. Tossed them aside like the garbage they were. She’d get hers, and how. Then he’d chuck her into space, keep the ship, return to his safe place.

‘Except it’s not safe, is it?’

Surely, she couldn’t read his mind? No. Must be guessing.

‘We don’t guess, Larry. We make sure we know. How else did I penetrate your fortress on my own?’

No answer. Knowledge is power. Uncertainty creates distress and weakens opposition. Done that all his life. Built his empire on the weakness of others.

‘You’ve been captive nineteen hours. No food. No water. If you collapse from dehydration, I’ll use intravenous fluid, enhanced with enough energy to keep you alive. Your choice, Larry. Cooperate and retain some bodily comfort, or resist and subject yourself to close confinement and force feeding. We won’t let you die before the trial.’

This wasn’t right. He had rights. Enshrined in law. The law must protect him.

‘Those who break the law like you have throughout your life, Larry, place themselves outside the law. They become outlaws, in the most accurate meaning of the term: that is, you are without law, outside the law, lawless. You flouted the law to your advantage all your life. The law is no longer available to you. Your rejection ensures you have none of the normal rights you denied others by your actions.’

‘What about the Human Rights Convention?’

Again, the smile. ‘Been away from Earth too long, Larry. World’s changed. Had to change to survive the catastrophe you and your like caused by your greed and irresponsibility. The HRC’s been amended, so you’re no longer covered by its protective powers. You’re on your own. Undefended. Your trial will be public, seen by all who can still watch on any device they can see. Like they’re watching now, as I broadcast this back to Earth.’

‘You can’t do that!’ He was letting her get to him. Soon as she came to feed him, he’d smack her down. Have her. She’d see he was boss, like he’d always been. Make her pay. Bitch. ‘The UN protects everyone. Even war criminals. I’ve not done nothin’ bad as that. They’ll give me a fair trial.’

She nodded. Turned away. He squinted at her going about duties he didn’t understand. His cell grew cold, freezing.

‘What the fuck you doin’, bitch? Coolin’ me?’

‘Your clothing’s forfeit, to be recycled to the needy. Remove it voluntarily and I’ll warm you. Keep it on and I’ll freeze you till you’re unconscious. Then I’ll strip you. I won’t be gentle. Up to you.’

He wasn’t having that. No woman had ever dominated him for even a second. ‘Screw you!’

When he came round, he was shivering. Eyes opened with effort through frost melting on the lashes. Wrists and ankles bound to a hard surface under his skin. The cell was open. Temperature back to normal.

‘You fuckin bitch! You can’t do this to me! D’you know who I am?’

‘A climate catastrophist. Worst criminal known to humanity. I can do whatever I wish to you, Larry. I can do this.’

He jerked with pain at the sudden squeeze.

She moved to let him see her face again. ‘You’re no longer in charge of anything. You’re helpless. Like all the people you condemned to slow, painful death by your greed, selfishness and total lack of concern for our home. During our flight to Earth, I’ll make you suffer as much as I can without killing you. That’s my job.’ This time she gripped harder and only let go when he passed out.

‘Why you doin’ this to me? I’m not the only one who made the best of chances to make good. What about all the others?’

‘Those still alive will be with you. Mass trial. All documentation’s been gathered. No need for you to speak. We’ll present you with the facts, as recorded in multiple formats. Your DNA’s already identified you as Larry Puregreed, the oh so apt bragging name you adopted.’ She moved the hand of torture to a different place, bent the small joint backward until it broke. ‘Another nine at my mercy down here, Larry. And no one, no armed goons, no servile sycophants, no willing whores, to come to your aid. Maybe you should think again about certain issues.’

‘Bit..’ Pain cut in. ‘Okay. You’ve got the upper hand. For now. But there’ll come a time when I’m free. What you gonna do then, bitch?’

The pain was excruciating, but she released the grip before he fainted. It was what the watchers wanted from her.

‘Keep calling me names, and I’ll continue causing maximum pain. My name’s Yuko. Mother’s Japanese, married to an American climate change denier. She was more open to the dangers and predictions, but had little influence over the idiot. They’re both slaves in the cleanup operations. On board a reprocessing plant dealing with the Pacific plastic gyre now.’

‘Bet you put them there, you heartless bit..’ But he failed to complete his accusation as pain overwhelmed him.

She crashed his support to floor level, stood astride his head, teasing as he looked up between her legs. She dropped swiftly to her knees and poked a finger in each eye. ‘My name is Yuko. Use it.’

The whole flight was pain, embarrassment, humiliation and near starvation as she played with his emotions, desires, hopes, expectations and needs, manipulating him to entertain the folks back home until he lost all fight. He’d never been defeated. Always in charge, the role of helpless victim left him unable to cope.

She’d made him her plaything so successfully he made no effort to escape as she paraded him, hobbling in pain, through the streets of the damaged capital. He was neither bound nor threatened with any weapon.

The people of the unnamed city she’d taken him to were ragged, mostly unclothed, half starved, many damaged physically. Others were plainly mad. One man approached him with a charred branch and swung it at his head. Yuko deflected it.

On the far edge of the crowded open square stood a large imposing building, some upper windows blackened and missing glass where flames had previously licked the frames. The crowd she pushed him through growled, spat, threatened, slapped and kicked, hurled insults. But he wasn’t the only subject of their hate. At the foot of the broad flight of steps leading to the huge open doorways of the entrance, others joined him, also naked and broken.

They moved without protest or rebellion into the dim reception area. Armed guards with stout clubs, lined the way, directing them forward as a mass.

Inside the courtroom harsh lighting blinded. Cameras pointed. Large screens played the images being sent around the world. Larry watched himself, flanked by a bent, skinny woman on one side, a sobbing man on the other, a stream of similar prisoners following and preceding until they were gathered in the central area of the huge courtroom. No seats. They stood as a group. Unprotected. All proven violators of environmental laws.

Yuko had left him at some stage without his realising she’d gone. He saw her on the dais beneath the large windows with seven other well-nourished and fit individuals of both genders. All wore clean rags. The watching public were similarly exposed, many unwashed, most half-starved.

There was a brief pause as watchers found their places. Larry and his co-violators were kept in their crowded space, guards marshalling them.

Silence reigned.

The man beside Yuko, tall, well-built and with dark skin, bent to speak to her. She nodded. He searched the crowd until his gaze settled on Larry. Unequal to that glare, Larry grew cold to his bones.

‘Larry Puregreed, ascend to the dock.’ The man’s voice was deep, commanding, his use of Larry’s name carried disgust, scorn and condemnation.

Larry moved through the crowd, most of whom made little effort to give way, so he was forced to push his way past confined flesh to the foot of the stairs. He crawled without looking back, bare knees sticking on the soiled treads beneath his skin.

‘You are Larry Puregreed?’

He looked across at Yuko and answered.

‘Louder. The whole court, the entire world wants to know you’re the person named.’ She was enjoying her supremacy.

‘I am Larry Puregreed.’

‘The evidence against you in the matter of your pollution, degradation, neglect and destruction of our home with your selfish, greedy, deliberate and fully informed actions is too vast to display here.’ A graphic on the large screens listed the many documents involved, scrolling through a total of over a hundred thousand items. ‘As the evidence is overwhelming, we will reach judgment at once.’

A brief consultation among the eight on the platform followed Yuko’s short speech.

The big man spoke again. ‘We sentence you, Larry Puregreed to suffer the rage of the people. You will therefore pass through this court into the square and feel the wrath of those you have damaged.’

Larry realised this was his last chance. ‘I never meant to…’

The big man cut him off. ‘Really? Never meant what? Never meant to destroy Earth with your greed? Gratifying to know, ultimately, your greed and that of others like you, brought us to the brink of extinction, but just might save the planet. Our existence hangs in the balance, however. Unlike yours. You’ve no defence. No mitigating circumstances. You knew exactly what your actions would cause, and therefore forfeit the right to speak. You will receive the punishment your victims consider appropriate. Descend and leave this court.’

Larry wanted to respond but the guard at the top of the stairs prodded him with his club. He could stay and be beaten or move down the stairs. He descended into the hell his world quickly became.

They let him reach the outside with only slaps, punches, kicks and spittle to accompany him. On the steps down to the city square, the mob approached, deafening in their anger. Fingers poked his eyes. Feet pounded his most vulnerable parts. Fists and fingernails wounded his face and torso. Vicious hands gripped his limbs, wrenched him, tore his skin. Burning brands scorched his flesh. Darkness took him some unnamed time before they reduced him to charred body parts, blood and gore.

In the courthouse, Yuko and her colleagues sentenced others, one by sorry one, to their personal doom.

the end

About the author

Stuart Aken counts himself lucky to be a writer. ‘What other job allows you to daydream, record your personal thoughts, make stuff up and then deliver it to the public?’ He has written romance, science fiction, horror, literary, fantasy, erotica, thriller and refuses to be pigeonholed. He and his wife Valerie now live in the Forest of Dean. The surrounding countryside provides opportunities for peaceful walks during which he allows his mind to wander and develop ideas.

Stuart is an invited contributor to this anthology.

FIRE & ICE

Louisa Morillo

A long translucent finger ran down the menu, the words beneath it swelling and contracting in response, restless at such indecision.

‘We have a three-course sampling menu at the moment, if you can’t decide. That way you can try them on ice, hot off the fire… a bit of everything.’

The finger paused, then performed a slight jig to a soundtrack of ooohs and hmmms.

‘Oh, go on then!’

‘Would you like to see it first?’

‘Nah… surprise me!’ said the finger’s owner, relinquishing the menu and picking up a vessel of greenish sludge. A garish umbrella floated within.

‘That’s not like you…’ her companion said, not disapprovingly.

‘Ah, well, we’re on holiday…’ The vessel was swilled absentmindedly, its contents glowing slightly in the candlelight. The umbrella danced cheerfully on the surface, accompanied by the occasional plastic bottle or unidentifiable wrapper – all of them oblivious to the stench emitted by the surrounding liquid.

The owner of the concoction took a sip and pulled a face, all three noses wrinkling with displeasure.

‘Nope, sorry. Call me fussy but I prefer it without bits.’

‘It used to come that way, you know,’ her companion said, taking a gulp of his own identical beverage. ‘Used to be clear. Even came with ice before the planet got too hot. Only took them a few hundred years to turn it into this.’

‘Good thing we got here when we did, then.’

‘Quite. Oooh… here comes the first course…’ He laughed at her face as the platter of ice was set down in the middle of the table.

‘Are they… raw?’ she asked, looking at the flailing creatures.

‘Yes – they’re still alive, silly. They have to be. Always check for audible screams – you don’t want food poisoning.’

He picked one up, slurped on it noisily, and set its now-empty skull back upon the icy platter, mmmm-ing appreciatively.

‘They’re really good, honestly. It’s just that you get the occasional bit of gritty jewellery.’

She picked up the remaining creature by its leg – making it screech even more loudly – and popped it into her mouth. The screams fell silent and the skull was spat back on to the ice.

‘Not so bad, actually,’ she conceded, with a dainty cough. ‘I think I might’ve got an earring, though.’

The slightly bloodstained ice was cleared away.

‘Rare, medium, well…?’

‘Oh, extra rare. Blue. So you can still see the tattoos. And she’ll have hers extra well-done,’ he said, all five eyes rolling with jovial disapproval.

‘I do feel a bit bad. Hopefully they’re ethically sourced… ’ she mused as they waited. ‘I was thinking of cutting down a bit.’

‘Nah, you can’t worry about everything. It helps keep their population in check so they can’t keep destroying their planet. Imagine how much murkier this seawater would be if we hadn’t discovered how tasty they are.’ He knocked back a little more of the stuff.

‘Oh, for goodness sake. I’m paying for a 170-pound human. This one can’t possibly be more than 130. It’s overcooked as well. I mean, look!’ He prodded its lower back with his fork. ‘I can’t even tell if that’s a butterfly or a dolphin.’

Another translucent finger was wiped around the plate and licked appreciatively by a spiny, slightly metallic tongue.

‘Well, I’ll admit it – that was delicious. Not as overcooked as I thought it’d be. Bit small, though. How was yours?’

‘Really nice. I do prefer the bald ones though.’

‘Madness!’ he exclaimed as their plates were cleared. ‘The crispy burned hair is the best bit. Either that or popping the eyeballs in between your teeth. Mmmm…’

A dessert trolley appeared. Yet more screaming humans were tossed into a pan of hot rum and promptly engulfed in flames. The diners looked on eagerly as the chef added fruit, the fire burgeoning theatrically in response.

‘A perfect end to a near-perfect meal,’ one of the duo enthused, scraping burned flesh from within his elaborate crystal dessert dish. ‘Mmmm, you can really taste the caramelised brains.’

He took another enthusiastic mouthful but, to his companion’s horror, spat it back into the bowl, repulsed.

‘Ugh! Oh, that’s disgusting,’ he gasped, taking a large gulp of sludge, in which floated several decaying limbs. He shuddered. ‘It’s got banana in it.’

the end

About the author

Louisa Morillo has wanted to be a writer since she learned to read. She is now studying Law at university. In her free time she enjoys entering short story and poetry competitions and is currently working on her first novel. Louisa has appeared in a previous anthology, The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing.

THE MANDARIN

Robin Bilton

Howell stood at the panoramic windows on the thirtieth floor and surveyed the London skyline. To the east, heavy black clouds hung above the dirty glass monoliths of the former banking and insurance district. They were now hydroponic farms which fed the city instead of feeding off it. He shifted his gaze to the coal-smoked north, to Kings Cross and Euston where the steam trains were now returning to bring heat and darkness to the capital. He looked across the brown river towards Waterloo where he had once, as a young man, started a journey which would pluck his beloved country from the brink of the abyss.

It was 2037. His connecting train had arrived on the platform bringing a slight breeze that chased the smoke away for a brief moment. There were few people boarding this service and none were in tour class. He had completed his Compulsory Service for the year, four months in the BioMedical research labs in Salisbury. He could relax on the journey home, reset his mind.

The train left right on time and slowly made up speed as it pulled out of London. He sat back, drinking in the first green of countryside through the window. As the train pushed on towards the hamlets of Hampshire, he noticed smoke rising more regularly across the landscape, stubble burning in the fields. Autumn was here. He sighed, the visible prelude to winter dragging him back to grim reality.

‘You can’t be finished already, slacker?’ came a loud, cheerful voice from behind him.

Howell jumped. ‘What? No. Yes…’ he stammered, ripped from deep thought by the intrusion. He turned around to meet the voice. The bear-like frame of his older brother, Toberius, filled the doorway to the vestibule

‘I most certainly am, Toby,’ said Howell, rising and extending a hand. Toby ignored the gesture and pulled Howell close in a warm hug. His beaming smile, his perfect white teeth a physical reminder that they were born to different Epochs, one with money and one without. ‘Talk about luck. What are the chances of you being on this train, today?’

Toby sank down in the seat opposite him and fixed him with an intent stare. ‘Now Howell, come on, there’s no such thing as coincidence. Or fate for that matter. Not that I need to explain that to a science man like you.’ He winked. ‘Naturally, I engineered this. I need to be here with you right now. There are things we need to discuss.’

Toberius had always been one with dramatic flair, but he was also the one with rank in the Ministry. It was Toby who got his little brother Howell the Tour in Testing, offering him a chance to put his education to real use. He owed Toby for that, he was making a real difference to his country.

‘This winter, Howell…’ Toby stood up and began pacing the aisle. ‘There’ll be no escaping it. It will be colder than most. There are shortfalls, it’s not like last time. There are things we cannot fix.’

Toby sat down. ‘You will know this. You have seen the issue with resources first hand in the labs. We need brave new thinking.’

Howell nodded. He understood the problems they faced all too well. The country was still recovering from the swift economic decimation of the last ten years, its assets dwindled and debt only now in control. The streams of revenue that made recovery even a possibility would have been unthinkable before ’28. But then lots of things had happened this century that no-one could have predicted.

‘The party wants to cut the Winter Allowance,’ Toby said, ‘but you know as well as I do that it would only be papering over the cracks.’ He lifted his bag on to the seat beside him and started to pull out a file. ‘We need a permanent solution to the fuel shortage.’

Toby put a red file on the table between them. ‘I have a proper fix but I need to get it past the post. I’ve read your research, the highest marked thesis in Oxford’s history if I’m not mistaken?’ Toby flashed his winning smile and winked again.

He pushed the file over to Howell.

‘I want your honest opinion. I think we can really make a change, just like they started in ’28. I need your help, little brother.’

There it was. He was calling in the favour.

Toby got up. ‘Tea!’ he announced and headed off to the buffet car.

Alone, Howell unwound the treasury tags and opened the red card folder:

Renew – Phase II

He could hear his heartbeat. Toby was a progressive, passionate about using the waste of the past to build a better future. Howell remembered his brother marching in ’28, wanting to tear down the fabric of capitalism, to make the glass towers work for the country and not the other way round.

But as Howell read on, his heart sank. This was wrong.

Toby’s plan had clear enough objectives. It proposed to renew the energy supply that remained in the country, to divert the resources away from the north, and to stop subsidies for electricity, water and food support. Let them fend for themselves, reinvent themselves or starve. It was proposing to cut the country in two. By reducing the support going north, resources would last longer in the south. Putting the country on the front foot in the spring to strip the assets of the north and make the land work again, efficiently for all.

‘You do this with me and you’ll get a ministry position,’ said Toby, sitting back down and putting a cup in front of Howell.

Howell had taken a deep breath. ‘Toby, you can’t do this. It’s wrong.’

Toby looked genuinely disarmed. ‘What? I thought you would be with me on this! Come on Howell. This could be like ’28. Remember that? We actually had a chance at a new world but no-one took it far enough. We can finish the job. These people are unproductive leeches, they take more than they give, it pushed us in ’28 and it’s pushing us now.’

Howell felt uncomfortable. He had always looked up to his brother. It felt wrong to be the one bringing reason to this conversation. ‘Toby, you are talking about normal people in good health with good immune systems. It’s not like in ’28 at all. They were the old, the useless, the burden. The NHS was bankrupt. We passed the Testing and Recycling Act because that’s all they were good for.’

‘Fuck this,’ his brother said, standing up. ‘I don’t have time for bleeding hearts.’

‘Please,’ said Howell calmly. ‘Sit back down.’

Toby slowly sank into the seat, still red-faced and breathing hard.

Howell laced his fingers together and leant towards his brother. ‘You misunderstand me Toby,’ he continued. ‘I think you are wasting an opportunity. You don’t go far enough. We can make this a new stock, make the north work for us.’

Toby’s eyes widened as realisation dawned that he had completely misjudged the conversation.

Howell went on. ‘Yes, you remove consumption and shore up the southern supply lines, but think of the BioMed testing potential. You have whole regions at your disposal. Think of the revenue! You have three large prisons, male and female. You control everything that goes in and out, test a different application method on each group of inmates. Think about the schools. There are anti-aging drugs that are designed for administration at puberty. You have hospitals with maternity wards, the highest value testing environment.’

He paused to collect himself. ‘We have a huge opportunity here.’

Howell’s testing group at Porton Down had been what remained of the elderly. The cancer drugs were not as effective on them, their DNA having given up, their own bodies feeding off themselves. It made him sick to think of the mess they had created. And there wasn’t enough expired stock now to help the fires burn for even one more winter.

Howell took a sip of his tea and continued, ‘Let’s look at the drugs that failed to make it to market due to fatalities. Toby, I bet there’s a weapon or two in there. Christ, can you imagine what the US would pay for live trials?’

Suddenly, he saw just how many possibilities there were. He banged his hand down on the table, making Toby flinch, and continued, excitedly, ‘We had a promising cryo preservation product from the Middle East that just needed a stronger test pool. They were desperate for larger trials; they have deep pockets, Toby. They have oil.’

Toby said nothing.

Howell was driving the conversation now. ‘Think of this; we flood a mine with cryo preservant. What damage can we repair? That’s the longer game here; we use the population as a continual testing bed, a flooded mine this month, tainted tobacco the next. Let’s use them for a few months before we recycle them.’

A flash of lightning danced across the skyline, snapping Howell back to the present. He regretted that Toby was not here to share his victory but you were either a progressive or a problem. Toby had let him down, had betrayed the spirit of ’28 and allowed himself to become paralysed by bureaucracy and fear. Afterwards, Howell’s ascension in Whitehall had been swift and easy.

Sitting down behind his stately dark oak desk, Howell stroked the paperweight on the blotter. Beautiful white incisors sparkled, suspended inside the glass, smiling up at him as they had always done.

the end

About the author

Robin lives in the North East of the UK but he’d always rather be exploring deep space. While he is necessarily earth bound, he lives with his family by the sea and uses the region’s industrial heritage and environment as a rich source of inspiration for his imagined new worlds.

FROST FIRES

Pierre Le Gué

From track level the southbound platform looked high and safe. Shunters and permanent way men worked down here all the time, but I always felt it was forbidden territory, especially on a cold dark winter night like this. A ‘here be dragons’ feeling. Stone flags gave way to crunching cinders under my feet and the sharp tang of smoke grew stronger. Reaching the bottom of the platform slope, I stood with a bucket of coal in each hand looking warily up the tracks in both directions. Porter means carrier and that’s what we did, feeding Lancaster Castle Station’s trackside frost fires regularly during twelve-hour night shifts in those days of steam.

The eleven-oh-eight passenger train had just left for London and I could see its red light through the smoke as it chuffed away up the gradient toward Preston. From the open door of Lancaster Number One signal box with its gas lit windows sounded the ting-ting of a bell, signifying that the eleven-oh-eight had cleared the section. It was safe to cross the lines.

Trackside cables whispered on the platform retaining wall, counterweights creaked and a home signal clunked down on the gantry beyond the box. Light filters changed from green to red. I had two tracks to cross to get to the fire so I looked north – and south too. Occasionally an engine had startled me by creeping up silently with only a stealthy chuff and a clank of rods when it had gone past, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

Between the main north and southbound through lines was the eighteen-foot high water column, a nine-inch diameter steel pipe with a swivel top and long leather end for locomotive firemen to fill their tanks. Next to it a thin column of smoke indicated that the frost fire was still alive, warming the surrounding air just enough to stop the wheel valve control from freezing on January nights. Some fires were open braziers but this was a large cylindrical stove with a tall chimney and a door for stoking. I opened the hatch, tipped in the coal one bucket at a time with a whoof of flame and a belch of smoke from the chimney.

The stove clanged shut and I listened, standing still and alert with breath steaming. Through the steel of the northbound through line a faint eerie whisper had begun, quickly turning to a persistent hissing and then an urgent thrum. They had just laid the long sections of welded track and we were not yet used to this new sound of a train’s approach that replaced the familiar clickety-clack.

Now, above the swishing and humming in the rails sounded a rumbling throb, soon recognisable as the deep rhythmic mutter of a Type 40 diesel approaching fast down Ripley Bank. Then, beneath the twinkling signal gantries on the southbound line a dimmer light appeared, quickly resolving itself into the letters OZOO, the code for a light engine – one travelling without a train. I stood enthralled, with that great dark entity, ‘OZOO’ homing in on me. Then it was past, looming high above the rails with a blast of horns and a buffeting thud of wind, leaving a spiral of litter down the track in a swirl of diesel-scented air. Seconds later the northbound train was a red light in the distance on its way to Carlisle. The whistling thrum of its motor receded and the rails hissed back down into silence.

I let go the standpipe wheel and headed back toward the safety of the platform with empty buckets clanking. Inside Number One box a figure heaved on a long red and white painted wooden lever. Cables under the northbound platform creaked; far up the line a signal clumped and green changed again to red. I looked along the two tracks I had to cross and saw Bill, one of the signalmen, at the top of his long wooden staircase taking a breath of air.

‘Anything coming?’ I hailed him.

‘Nay, lad. You’re all right,’ he called back.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure. We don’t want thee haunting t’ place for t’ next twenty years.’

Come to think of it, neither did I, so as Bill went back inside the box I stepped gingerly out on to the track. Something was strange. Half a mile south up the bank, the signal lamps shimmered as if through a heat haze, and the icy winter night suddenly felt warmer with a breath of wind from the south. Was I imagining it? Nothing was scheduled, but an eerie faint thrumming sounded in the rails. A train, certainly, but the now fast-approaching sound resolved into a now-familiar persistent hiss. This was one for the signalmen.

‘Bill! There’s something coming!’

Bill appeared at the head of the staircase.

‘Can’t be.’

‘There is. Listen.’

‘Well, I’ll–’

He hurried down to join me.

Colour lights on the northbound signal gantry dimmed, flickered and steadied again at ‘Clear’. A brilliant headlight was nearly upon us. Bill bounded up the box stairs toward the phone, only to stop half way as the air filled with light and sound. And then it was past. Not with the sudden blast and firebox glare of a steamer or diesel exhaust thunder here, but a high-pitched whine accompanied by the familiar thud of air that could knock a man over.

Bill stopped half way up the steps. The office door opened over on Platform 4 and Gordon the duty foreman ran out in time to see two red lights disappearing north toward Carlisle Bridge, leaving behind them the traditional dusty swirl of drink cartons, crisp packets and cigarette ends.

Then it was gone, the sound muting suddenly and not fading gradually. All the signals looked normal, but over nearby Carlisle Bridge there hung a pale luminous fog. Perhaps it had seeped up from the River Lune below, but I’d never seen it before.

I looked at Gordon.

‘What was it?’

‘Looked like one of them there Japanese silver bullet trains.’

‘Come off it. They’ve only had them a year or two.’

‘Secret test, maybe. I saw the prototype Deltic in Penrith before they entered service. Thought I was seeing things then too.’

‘This were no Deltic, lad.’

Well, no. And that was the end of it. Until, well, it must have been fifty years on, with Virgin’s red and the silver bullet trains now commonplace, when Bill and I were talking about the old days over a few drinks in the Railway Club.

‘Ever hear anything more about… you know? That train.’

‘Not a peep, lad. I sometimes wonder if it happened.’

‘Same here. Ask myself if I’m going funny.’

‘Neither of us is.’

‘How do you mean?’

He reached into his jacket pocket.

‘This, my son, will put your mind at rest. I’ve carried it with me all these years.’

I looked.

‘A Rocket Bar wrapper?’

‘Correct. From 1965.’

‘So?’

‘Lad, Rocket Bars didn’t come out till the Nineties. Neither had this.’

He produced a meticulously folded paper:

JAZZ ON THE BAY. THE CARLETON. ALHAMBRA BUILDINGS. MORECAMBE.

February 1998

‘Plus, a plastic bag of similar stuff, off the tracks, at home.’

‘No one could throw anything out of a modern train.’

That much was true, and still is.

‘Maybe – whatever it was – carried the changes with it.’

‘Could it still be around? Bill, we’re into sci fi now.’

‘No answer to that one, lad. All we can do is keep watching the tracks.’

Yes. Keep watching the tracks. Forget the skies.

the end

About the author

Pierre le Gue is a retired teacher. He has been reading and watching science fiction since 1947 and has been published in a variety of genres, specialist journals and local newspapers. He has appeared in four of our previous collections, sometimes writing as Peter Ford, and was a prize winner in a previous science fiction competition. The dry humour of his golfing stories enhanced the pages of our Fusion and Synthesis anthologies. A gifted writer, Pierre is also a published poet and children’s author.

FROZEN FIRE

Rachel Lovat

We, humans, have spread across the universe since the unfortunate demise of our home planet to catastrophic climate change. Still, no matter how far we expand into the cosmos, life hasn’t been found with an intelligence that matches our own.

Most people secretly dream of being the one to make first contact. Not me though, all I dream about is getting my next paycheck from the company. It’s starting to look like the universe is a barren place. Maybe that’s for the best, after all, there’s no guarantee that the aliens we meet will be happy to see us and consider us equal; they could be so far above us that they don’t even view us as a sentient lifeform.

So, we humans have the universe all to ourselves. Which is very fortunate for me, as no one can complain when planets are mined for resources across the galaxy; until there are no usable resources left on their surface. I’m what’s known as a cartographer of sorts. I track down the next planet, with enough viable resources to be worth my company’s while.

I’m only one of many cartographers assigned to this same task. If my planet isn’t chosen then I won’t get that glorious commission. Without it, my family will be stuck on Alpha seven for another year at least. It’s a planet with a barely breathable atmosphere, that’s far too overcrowded to be a pleasant place for young children to live; they deserve so much more.

I finally land my small shuttle on the surface of the latest unexplored planet I have selected. It doesn’t have a name yet, but in my head, I’m calling it Frostbite because, even upon entry, I can see that the entire planet is covered in layers of snow and ice.

I add it to the galactic map with a tap to my wrist that activates the chip lodged under my skin that connects to Lance (Long-range, Analytic, Network, Collective, Experience is too much of a mouthful to say more than once.)

The chip under my skin allows me to tap into that wealth of knowledge and add to it as needed. Every citizen of the coalition is required to get one by the age of sixteen, failure to do so would result in becoming classed as a non-citizen. All of your human rights would be null and void from that point onward.

After putting on my space suit, I open the hatch set into the right side of my craft. Immediately a gust of cold air slams into me.

Lance then starts to inform me of the status of the planet, in its preprogrammed robotic male voice that always sounds like a professor talking down to a student.

Thank you for activating me, James. The atmosphere is unbreathable, taking off your suit would lead to certain death. Parts of the planet seem to be severely colder than is safe for human habitation. Spending time in these areas would result in your body suffering from hypothermia and eventually expiring. Gravity is well within an acceptable range for your vehicle to function as expected. There are traces of minerals and resources on the planet’s surface. The closest one is five hundred miles away to the north. I will mark the location on your map. Ensure that you remember without direct visual confirmation of the value of this planet, the company will not accept your planet as a viable candidate. All commission will, therefore, be null and void even if this planet proves to be profitable to the company later.

‘I know, Lance, you really don’t need to tell me how to do my job. I’ve been doing it just fine for years now.’ Lance is permanently in the head of every member of the coalition, latent until you activate the chip, for the times when you don’t want the company peering through your eyes.

It’s hard to imagine how people coped without Lance. It’s such an intrinsic part of daily life now, but it’s still irritating when it tries to tell me the correct way to do my job. It’s like an all-seeing overseer breathing down my neck.

I pull the small quad bike through the hatch and out of my shuttle. It should get me to the deposit in about an hour, assuming there are no unforeseen issues.

I reach down and start the engine. Its soft purring sound, which is solely for effect, fills the atmosphere. The thing runs off electricity but I like the retro feel it gives me. I start to drive towards the mineral deposit. The main thing to look out for on a planet that mostly consists of ice are the crevices; fall into one of these and I would be stuck until help arrived. It would be goodbye to my commission, and help doesn’t always arrive in time. I could starve. It happened recently to one of my colleagues, or competition, as we like to refer to each other.

Space is vast and the company doesn’t exactly care if we make it back safe and sound, that responsibility falls solely on our own shoulders.

The snow gets progressively thicker as I approach the deposit of unknown minerals.

You should vacate this sector as soon as possible, you are passing through an area that has lower temperatures than your suit can withstand.

‘Lance there’s no need to state the obvious. Where’s the next deposit that might be of interest?’

Exactly one thousand three hundred and fifty-five miles to the east of your current location.

‘I’ll keep on target for the first deposit. I’ll deviate from it if the cold starts to get to me.’ I really don’t want this to take more time than it has to.

I set off riding over a sheet of ice so clear that it starkly reflects the grey sky above. The treads on my wheels should keep me from skidding, but I slow down as an extra precaution.

The chill is starting to work its way through to my fingers, making them clumsy, almost numb. Lance is never wrong. This temperature is much too low for my suit to keep me insulated. I can’t light my torch while riding my quad bike, the heat isn’t worth an avoidable accident.

I reach the deposit, a cave filled with a glittering substance just as the temperature drops rapidly for a second time. The planet darkens around me as night falls. I switch on my head light and scan the deposit; it’s more diamond than I’ve ever laid eyes on. Perfect to sell to people with more money than sense.

That is a highly valuable form of carbon. It increases the planet’s value. I have informed the company. Unfortunately, there is not enough present in this deposit to make it worth the company’s time.

‘I’m aware of that Lance,’ I mutter, then climb back on to my quad bike. ‘I’m heading to the next deposit.’ The weather doesn’t get any better as I make progress. It remains punishingly cold to the point where I feel chilled to the core.

My eyes are focused on the horizon, lights make ribbon-like patterns in the sky, colours interlocking and intermingling with each other. Before I know it, my wheels struggle to get traction on empty air; I’m plummeting into the depths of a crevice. I hit the ground hard, my bike breaks my fall but is shattered beyond repair. Formidable ice walls rear up on all sides but one.

Trapped. There goes my commission.

There’s a passageway made out of marble. It looks like something only a person would be able to make. I head down the passageway, it’s so narrow that I have to crawl.

‘Lance, no human has ever lived on this planet, have they?’

That is correct. There have never been any humans that have settled on this planet. If there had been, the planet would not have been deemed fit for possible resource mining. That structure you are seeing must be part of a natural formation. Formed over time by a combination of weathering and erosion.

The passageway opens up into a larger hall with carvings etched into the wall. ‘This doesn’t look like any kind of “natural formation” that I’ve ever seen.’

I light my torch. At a push of a button, the synthetic flame flickers to life and casts shadows on the walls that surround me. The warmth of it is appreciated on this planet, a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness and isolation.

I approach the wall with the largest set of carvings. Most of them are indecipherable and look to be some kind of ancient writing. However, one stands out among the others. It’s a two-legged figure that looks almost like a person with a few key differences; its eyes are much wider and it has appendages that look like wings sprouting out of its back. It’s holding a vibrant red ball of fire in its hand, the only part of the wall with a dash of colour.

This figure could easily be an angel of some kind. What are the chances two planets would have this in common? Unless there’s a connection to earth out here on this planet, the other side of the universe.

Lance’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

The company is advising you to go back to your shuttle. There is nothing more of interest to be found here.

‘I can’t go back, I need to find a way out first.’ I deactivate Lance with a swipe of my hand, then force my eyes away from the carving and walk further into the temple-like structure. More of the carvings line the wall, all of them are depicted holding fire.

It gets warmer the further I walk down the hallway, even my torch burns brighter. The flame curves towards the end of the hall, as if pulled by an invisible force.

Unfortunately, the hallway ends in a dead end. Unless there’s another way out I’m going to be trapped down here until a rescue team arrives. If a rescue team arrives. The fire already burns on two scones set into the wall in front of me, which explains the heat. One either side of the biggest carving yet. It depicts one of the angelic figures, handing down fire to what seem to be people. Actual people.

A dull ache begins at the back of my head, which soon turns into a blinding pain. My torch clatters to the ground as the strength leaves my hands in a sudden rush.

We appreciate your years of service, but you have violated the terms and service of your contract. As such, I regret to inform you that you are being terminated by order of the company. Effective immediately. I am instructed to make your death as humane as possible.’

‘I deactivated you! You shouldn’t be able to do anything.’ My words have no force behind them and come out as a whisper. What I really want to do is shout, but my strength has already left me.

Fear coils in my gut. Lance never lies, the company have signed my death warrant. I slide down the wall when my legs can no longer support my weight.

I am always with you, James. The deactivation is simply to give you the illusion of privacy.

This monstrosity is in everyone’s heads at all times. It kills at the company’s beck and call.

My last thought is of my family. I hope they’ll be okay.

Lance listens, indifferent to my plight, then starts to send a transmission to the company when its work is done: As requested, I will log the information that I gathered from his implant and relay it to you. An alien settlement has been found, the flame located here appears to be the eternal energy source you have been searching for.

End of transmission.

the end

About the author

Rachel Lovat is a writer who has enjoyed writing about anything and everything sci-fi for as long as she can remember. It’s a genre that calls her back time and time again and will no doubt continue to do so in the future. Inspiration is never far away for Rachel. Learn more about her on her blog https://writingeveninarainstorm.home.blog/

THE COLD ONES

Joseph Wheeldon

The familiar sounds outside the house soothed me as I lay uncomfortable on the rigid frame of my bed. The crackling flames drifted through the air like the voice of a close friend, a lullaby of comfort and security that assured me of another safe night’s sleep. The accompanying footsteps of my father reinforced this sensation as he patrolled outside. He was a sentinel, forever watchful over the barrier that separated us and what lay beyond the flames. He would be relieved part way through the night by Jacob’s father, the knowledge of which disturbed my peaceful thoughts.

Throughout the harsh, gruelling struggle that was life, Jacob had become my closest friend. We had grown up together and resided within the same dishevelled shack almost our entire lives. He was a boy I could depend on, a pillar of strength for me to lean on and a ray of humour in an otherwise bleak and lifeless void. However, I bore no similar feelings towards his father, William. Whereas my own was an example of strength, resilience and courage, Jacob’s father was unreliable, his mental capacity almost diminished through severe trauma. Our group’s numbers had begun to dwindle and so every last man and woman had been forced to pull their weight, but since the loss of Jacob’s mother, William had become a shadow of his former self.

He attempted to continue, to push through the pain but it was clear the light inside of him had extinguished. He had become careless, unfocused and jealous of my parents. I knew in my heart that he would bring no malice upon us, but any weakness could prove to be the downfall of us all. The flames which surrounded our dwellings had to be constantly tended throughout the night; protected so it could protect us from the Cold Ones.

I had never seen one, but my father said they came at night. Horrifying nightmares from the deepest pits of the abyss, they watch us from the edge of the light. They bring with them the chill of death; their only purpose to feed off the warmth of the living. During the day they hide themselves, shying away from the dim light of the sun that struggles through the ashen clouds above us. My father said that we may be the last ones left alive, that the Cold Ones had already feasted upon the other survivors and that is why they watch us so fervently, waiting for their chance.

I spent many a night peering through the window out into the darkness of the forest, straining to see beyond the crimson light of the flames to discern the form of those who would observe us, of those who would prey upon us if given the opportunity. No matter how many hours I watched, no creature betrayed its location. I often wondered whether the Cold Ones truly existed; that was until Jacob’s mother went missing.

She had an illness. Occasionally her mind was not her own and she would suffer terrible fits. Her personality would change in an instant. She would become an entirely different person. Both personalities were pleasant and harmless, but her alternative persona would perform acts a sane person would not contemplate. One such episode caused her to leave the safety of our settlement as the sun began to set. Unknown to us at the time, she had left the safety of the shack to collect mushrooms from the forest, seemingly unaware of the impending danger the night would bring. By the time William noticed she was missing, it was already too late.

My father had to restrain him from leaving the campsite in pursuit. He was locked inside the barn with the hogs, tied to a heavy wooden post for his own safety. Nobody slept that night. My father tended the flames alone and William screamed. He screamed through the whole night, his agony immeasurable. My mother covered my ears but William’s wails pierced through the darkness like a blade; come morning he was hoarse and weak. My father aided him in a search of the nearby woods. Both men, tired and worn out, scoured the area from dawn until dusk.

Upon their return, William had transformed from the jovial bright and endearing man he once was to a shell, a vacant vessel where a man once lived. In his hands he held a piece of simple material. It was the fabric of his wife’s shirt, blue and chequered with a disconcerting red stain blazoned upon its surface. My father lit the fires and William slept. He slept for three days. Since then he had become hollow, performing tasks with no energy. My father and mother had tended the barriers between them but William had insisted they allow him to help. My father tentatively agreed and for the first few weeks they had watched the walls together.

Life, if that’s what you would call it, continued. During the daylight hours, Jacob and I collected fuel from the forest whilst my mother tended the animals. My father and William took turns tending what little crops we could grow and slept all they could, ready for the mission that nightfall would bring. We began to sleep soundly once again, guarded by our blazing protectors.

Yet life could not continue as before. Things were beginning to change and everyone could sense it. The clouds above had started to thicken, their cover complete like a great grey blanket that covered the entire sky. The morning would often greet us with a thick mist that crept from the trees and settled over our fields, leaving frost on the leaves of the crops. The food did not grow as plentifully and the trees beyond the barriers were becoming bare, their leaves falling to the ground to create a carpet of reds and browns. We had survived winters before. We built the fires bigger to endure the rains that would come infrequently. They were trying times but nothing we could not handle. This felt different; colder, crueller.

The thought had been molesting my mind for a number of days but I did all I could to suppress it. Life was miserable enough without the threat of something unknown weighing upon me. I had settled into my bed, intent on sleeping well that night. I flooded my own mind with the scarce memories I had of happier times. The friends I had lived with before, Suzanne, Derrick and their families. We had enjoyed summers together, playing in the streams that wormed their way through the woods, soaking up the sun whilst we lay on the soft grass.

We were all good friends and I had even toyed with the thought that perhaps I was in love with Suzanne. She had a sort of plain beauty that I admired when she wasn’t looking. Often she would turn to catch me staring and playfully hit me on the arm. Before anything had a chance to develop, her parents left us. Joined by Derrick’s family, they journeyed through the woods in an attempt to meet with a larger settlement in the valley beyond the hills. My father warned them, said that we had had no contact from anyone else in months but they would not listen. They said they would return for us once they had made it. That was three years ago.

My pleasant imaginings were abruptly interrupted by the sound of the shack door opening and the heavy footsteps of my father. His boots tumbled to the floor and the creaking of wood signified he had gotten into bed with my mother. William had started his watch. I lay with my eyes open in the darkness as shadows danced. The orange light peered through the slight gap of the curtains, creating a random performance on the wooden wall.

The people around me were breathing heavily, deep in slumber as exhaustion had overtaken them. Their rhythmic breathing was almost hypnotising had it not been for one sudden realisation. Of all the common sounds I had come to recognise of the night, one was missing. There were no footsteps outside.

I gently eased myself from my bunk and slipped on my leather boots, wrapping myself in a thick, woollen blanket. I opened the door, lifting it lightly to avoid the creak as it hung heavily on its rusted hinges. The air outside was bitter and my exhaled breath formed a white cloud before my face. I made my way around the shack and found William sitting comfortably in an old wooden chair. He was awake and was staring out into the flames of the barrier before us.

‘Shouldn’t you be tending the flames?’ I asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ came his reply, devoid of emotion or concern. ‘They’re out there now you know, watching us. They know about tonight.’

The words made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I turned quickly to view the treeline. I saw nothing. No shape, no shadow of a creature. What I did see was something I had never before witnessed. Falling from the sky were strange, white flakes, floating listlessly from the heavens and disappearing upon the ground. There were only a few at first but their numbers were increasing by the second.

‘What is it?’ I enquired.

‘Snow.’

I released an arm from the warmth of the blanket and reached out to touch the flakes of snow. As they landed upon my hand I felt the chill on my skin as they instantly melted, turning into cool liquid. Within moments the air had become dense with them, collecting on the ground and creating a thick, white blanket. The flames spat and complained, steam rising from their tongues as they fought against the onslaught of the white invaders.

‘It’s water! The flames, they’re going out!’ I shouted.

‘I told you it didn’t matter,’ said William, motionless in his chair as he watched the flames become lower and lower, their brilliant light reduced to smouldering embers.

I ran for the door of the shack, my footsteps crunching through the snow, spilling into my boots sending sharp pains up my legs. I burst through the door crying out about the danger that was unfolding outside. My father leapt up, instructing my mother, Jacob and I to wait inside as he marched out into the swirling blizzard of the night air.

We waited in silence, protected by the trembling arms of my mother as we huddled together on the edge of the bed. There was no noise from outside, the silence was palpable. The room had become dark, the flames fully extinguished and the only light was the silver touch of the moon, creeping through the clouds above and spilling through the curtains.

Suddenly there came a noise, the slow, methodical crunch of footsteps through the snow. They appeared distant but with certainty they were approaching the door. Perhaps my father was returning, perhaps there was nothing to fear and the woods had been as empty as I had always observed them to be. The footsteps stopped for a moment outside of the door. Slowly, the wooden panel opened.

What stood before us was not my father. The sight of it caused all three of us to scream in unison. The creature was tall and thin. Its pale white flesh hung loosely from the bony form underneath. Its fingers were long, ending in vicious claws, but the most terrible, most terrifying aspect were its eyes. Huge and white, they gazed upon us soullessly above its gaping, grinning maw of stained teeth. As it approached, the air in the room became colder than anything I had felt before. My mother fought to protect us but her defence only lasted seconds. As darkness embraced me through violence and pain, I came to understand why William watched the flames die. Light would always succumb to the darkness.

the end

About the author

Joseph Wheeldon was born in an uninspiring, typical working-class town just north of Nottingham. There he spent a happy childhood with a loving family. From a young age he enjoyed pouring out his imagination on to paper, writing short works of fiction to amuse himself, even if he never did quite finish anything. Now living in Cambridgeshire, he works as a registered veterinary nurse, but the lure of the written word hounds him to this day. His works now revolve around much darker, macabre themes but with the same intention to amuse himself and any others who may find the twisted texts inspiring. You can find updates on Joseph’s current work on his Instagram @JDWheeldon

JUSTICE IN THE ’POOL

Jonathan Edwards

Once it had been a beautiful metropolis. A zero-carbon city of the angels, if only for the rich. Schoolchildren had been taught how the city hosted, ‘The First Ever Air Olympics’. But it had been a very long time since the Olympics had been held, and schools were part of history now. Firstly, the rest of the population had eaten at the city’s edges. And the domes could only keep out so much foul air and dirty water. Man had attacked nature for hundreds of years, and the prize was disease, despair and filth. The pristine municipality had slowly been transformed into a squalid rats’ nest. Life expectancy had halved, but in this fetid hell, nobody complained.

Perhaps because of the downgrading in society, or possibly because of it, the population surged even higher. The push-button wars with other countries had given way to individual battles for space. As huge community towers blocked out the sun, funding and power were cut for the elderly and vulnerable. The government channel showed prisoners laughing about it. That led to punishment, which led to jail riots, which led to staff walking out for almost a year in a pay dispute. The prisoners didn’t get a meal during that time. All they found when they went back in was death.

With no space or money, justice had to evolve to cope with the spiralling crime levels. The new Case Handlers and Judges originally sounded like bureaucrats and lawyers. But the days of paperwork had given way to something grimy, chilling and fatal. Even in the air-starved, vermin-infested city, with legions of families sleeping in stairways and old cars, when people said they had nightmares, it was always of the Handlers and Judges.

Crib never had those nightmares, because he lived them.

Handlers Hutton and Tresling put their blackened boots against the windshield of their vehicle. They sat back and sucked the multi-coloured noodles out of the tin. They were meant to be green, but after fourteen hours on shift, anything warm worked.

Outside, people scuttled away from the Handlers’ machine. Some crossed themselves, all hugged themselves or their children, as if they could feel the cold from inside.

A red light flashed on the driving console, and Tresling hit it unnecessarily hard. The windscreen filled with a visual.

‘Murder one…’ said an aged man from the screen.

‘Go!’ shouted Hutton, and they were already moving before they even knew where they were going.

The cragged face carried on, ‘At Highland Boulevard Block 9. All squads within three blocks to attend urgently!’

Another Handler’s voice, unseen but probably on patrol like them, incredulously asked, ‘All squads within three blocks for a single murder one?!’

The old man looked angry. ‘Just do it!’

Tresling smiled at Hutton. Who the hell had been clicked?

‘Visual online, update as per.’ The old man’s face was replaced with several images from the location of the murder. All citizens were required to be implanted with tracking devices, and one image mapped scared people starbursting to save themselves.

The Handlers heard a crunch as they hit something, or probably someone. They laughed. The department had The Brain putting their speed as a priority way before their lives, let alone a pedestrian.

They looked at the screen. Usually, the area would have been almost blocked out with tracking signals. But now there was only one. It wasn’t the deceased. And whoever it was, they weren’t moving.

Hutton checked his icer. The icer was originally designed to record evidence, something which it did with its audio, visual, scanner and black box. But it also froze. It could freeze a fingerprint, a DNA sample, a suspect… Tresling had iced one suspect as he chased him over rooftops. The guy had been turning blue before he jumped for the other side. He fell 84 storeys. Splintered into a billion pieces.

Hutton told him in the old days the cops used to shout, ‘Freeze!’ to suspects. Tresling said Hutton was full of it, but Hutton kept saying it. He said back then it meant to ‘keep still’, as opposed to the current meaning: ‘Have a class 4 icer hit you with enough LDS to get your own body to use its energy to turn you into a giant popsicle, that will be kept in storage until the case gets processed’.

Neither of the Handlers had ever had someone intentionally wait at the scene for them before. They checked their icers again.

The reading said he was Crib L. Jones-7. He’d gotten in trouble as a juvenile, protesting at the zoo. He’d worn a T-shirt saying, ‘This is not a Zoo!’ and had been agitating people. According to him, a room with moving visuals of elephants, hippos, and the like (the ones that existed just a hundred years before) was not a zoo. There had been a cat and a white rat as well, but someone had stolen the first and eaten the latter, leaving just the room and the visuals. Crib got half-rations, curfew and limitation.

It was the other entry that was more interesting. Violent disorder. Three thousand had died after a queue riot. Hutton struggled to remember the case. He called it up.

Ah, it was from a good twenty years before. After fourteen investigations, an automatic appeal and finally, reviewing the video and tracking footage, it had shown Crib wasn’t involved. Of course, due process had to be followed. That’s why the Handlers had frozen Crib at the scene. And when, eighteen years later, the justice system had considered the case, Crib was immediately scheduled for de-icing. And the Handlers, the ‘Ice Squad’ as they were often called in the media, had Crib thawed out by the very next year. No harm done, on to the next case please!

They arrived at the shell of flats, squirted something up their noses to numb the smell, and headed into the building. Both Hutton and Tresling fired up their icers.

The murder had happened in Families Room B8-32. Every room they passed differed only in size. They were all multi-purpose (the mess and stains told you that), and overcrowded. Yet the absence of a public health warning meant this was a better part of the city.

As they came to B8-32, Hutton and Tresling nodded to each other and held their icers ready.

Tresling went in first. There was a pile of rags covered in a bloody mulch in the corner: the victim. Crib was towards the other corner, kneeling and facing him.

Hutton bounded in.

‘Freeze!’

Tresling winced.

Crib didn’t even look at them. ‘I’m guilty. I accept sentencing.’

‘Woah! Let’s do this by the book! Who’s the victim? How did you do it? And why?’

Even an old hand like Hutton had sweat running down his back when a suspect confessed before they’d gotten evidence. Confessing meant the Judges would be notified. Even the Handlers had nightmares about them. Most of them were picked from Handlers who had lost it. Every Handler swore they’d get out before they went like that. The plan was always to get some proof before any confession, so they could freeze them and leave them for the Judges when that happened.

Crib looked at the floor.

Tresling pointed his icer at Crib’s head. ‘Start talking! You want another twenty years in the freezer?’

Crib didn’t move. ‘I said I confess. Call in the Judges!’

Was this guy nuts? ‘You want the Judges, you tell us something. Victim. Name. Now.’

Hutton was poking about in the blood and guts with his icer. ‘The old man was jacked up on this case, I’m going to ask him for a remote DNA ident.’ Tresling nodded and continued trying to get some answers.

He walked up to Crib. His face was tinged blue. It had odd creases from where he’d been frozen. Tresling didn’t know if Crib’s vacant stare was because of his mental state, or whether his facial muscles had never properly recovered after being iced. ‘Tell me everything now and I’ll ice you before the Judges come.’

‘I’m not going back into the cold. I can’t take it. I confess.’

‘Do you actually know anything about this murder, citizen? Because you are making me pretty damned angry!’

A panel on Hutton’s armcomm went green and he walked over to his partner. He glared at Crib. ‘Look, if you’re so keen to admit it, fill us in on the details. The Judges won’t accept an unreliable confession.’

Crib began to laugh hard. ‘Yeah, sticklers for rules those Judges.’ Tresling punched Crib hard, but cursed himself because it was time they didn’t have.

‘Talk!’ screamed Hutton.

‘I think the perp has already admitted it, don’t you?’ The voice was from what passed for a doorway. The Judge was short, with short red hair, and a torn red suit. He was also about three feet wide and carried a PB-8 flameunit. He stepped into the room and grinned.

‘We don’t have a reliable confession, Sir.’

The Judge walked up to Tresling and spat on the floor. Then he turned to Crib. ‘The feed showed you admitting it, perp!’

‘I am guilty, I accept sentencing.’ It was Crib’s first acknowledgement of the Judge’s presence.

The Judge smiled and clicked a button on his flameunit. ‘You Handlers can leave.’

Hutton was a bastard, but he knew he’d be in for an icing or worse if he let a Judge burn this guy for an uncorroborated confession. He rested his icer against his shoulder. ‘You know the law, Sir. I have to ice this suspect and scene for a murder one.’

The Judge just smiled. There had been talk about Judges just burning people without full confessions. Even for fun. This one looked crazy, but then they all did. The Judges meted out punishment, but never seemed to suffer any.

He pointed his flameunit in Crib’s direction. ‘Found at the scene. A sign of guilt, some might say. That’s corroboration.’

Tresling tried to support his partner. ‘Wouldn’t a guilty man try to flee the scene?’

The Judge sneered. ‘You a psychologist?’ Then he turned to Crib. ‘Tell me why you killed them?’

Crib just stared. That seemed to upset the Judge.

‘We’ve asked him several times,’ said Hutton. ‘He’s been a cube before, and I think he can’t face it again. He’d prefer to be burnt than another twenty in the freezer.’

‘Hmm!’ The Judge smiled. ‘Then maybe his confession isn’t reliable, and I should just leave you legal experts and psychologists to it.’ Then he broke into a full smile of red teeth and put his flameunit against Crib’s head.

Tresling pulled the Judge from behind, and they both went to the floor. Hutton iced on full blast, Crib screaming as he contorted in pain.

The Judge jumped to his feet and pumped out a stream of fire that engulfed Hutton. Hutton screeched and his flaming form fell on top of Crib. Crib’s right leg wasn’t fully iced, and it began chemically burning as the rest of him was in the process of freezing.

Tresling aimed his icer straight for the Judge, who sidestepped, kicked Tresling and stood over him with the flameunit. It was only as he pulled the trigger that he realised the weapon was cold. It had gotten iced by Tresling’s last shot. His face showed the fear as the flameunit exploded in an orange ball, killing the Judge and Tresling in less than a second.

Crib was literally frozen stiff now, but his leg was on fire. Tresling’s dismembered arm and armcomm rested next to his frosted torso. A message came in saying the murder victim was the Chancellor. But Crib couldn’t see or hear, he could just sense the gelid paralysis and his leg crumbling into soft ash. Twenty minutes later, he was arrested for quadruple murder one. He made no reply to caution, ‘Reason: frozen.’

the end

About the author

Jonathan Edwards grew up with two heroes: Bodie (Lewis Collins) from The Professionals, and Doctor Who (Tom Baker). He was fortunate enough to meet the fourth Doctor when he was only four years old. He is pleased to report his older cousin ran in panic from the Doctor’s booming voice and wonderfully electrified expression!

Jonathan is currently working on a very quirky book of sci-fi short stories (calling it “quirky” to give people a polite excuse not to like it). This is under the pseudonym “Eagle Monsoon” (because he thought it sounded good). Jonathan’s hobbies include karate (where he should know what he is doing by now), fencing (where he strikes more poses than opponents), running and hiking. He heard about The Fire and Ice Anthology after an amazing day with The (Brilliant) S.F. Experience up the Brecon Beacons. He is also working on several crime books.

LUCANTHA

Sue Hoffmann

‘Close the door,’ said Granny Marta. ‘Latch it well. Shutter the windows carefully, for Lucantha will try to come into the warmth.’

Door and windows secure, we children gathered round Granny Marta at the fireside. As usual, Heinlan pushed his way close to the grate. Patrell made a token complaint, but no one else minded; Heinlan felt the cold more than the rest of us. Velda snuggled against Granny Marta’s feet. I took one of the hound pups on to my knee. Jirrin sat next to me, her thumb stuck in her mouth. And the story began.

So many stories there were, and each one told in the dead of winter. Never would Granny Marta oblige us with a tale when the days lengthened and the sun returned to the land, nor even when the leaves fell and winter crept nearer. Only when snow was deep in the valley and the wind howled its protests through the trees would she submit to our pleas.

So vivid were the tales, and so often repeated, that I recall them well. Some were sad; others made us laugh. Some taught us the consequences of choices; others the importance of friendship. Still, out of all she told us, one stands out, for Granny Marta swore this one was true.

Lucantha was born in mid-winter, on a night so cold that the Cherdan River froze right through to its stony bed. Not even Elder Kirkland had known such a time. Seven villagers perished that winter: four lost to blizzards, one to a falling tree and two of the cold within their own huts. Not Lucantha, though. Despite the prolonged chill, she thrived. She flourished, and grew sturdy and contented.

Maybe it was the manner of her entering the world, that night being so dreadfully cold. Perhaps it was simply chance. Whatever the reason, Lucantha never felt nor feared the cold. Indeed, she would seek shade on days when others basked in the sun’s warmth.

She was a good girl and well-liked by all who knew her. Many were the times she would delay her own tasks to help someone in need, and particularly so in the freezing winters. Whilst most huddled indoors, Lucantha, with just a light shawl around her shoulders, would walk out in the biting wind to take food or firewood to any sick or elderly neighbours. Proudly, her parents boasted of their fortune in having such a daughter.

Did they brag too greatly and too often? Did they aim too high in seeking a match for her? Some say it was so, for on the day that Duke Raslin and his party came hunting in the forest, Lucantha’s parents placed her in sight of Raslin’s son, Galbart. They must surely have known that Lucantha’s heart was already pledged to Wellund. They could not have been ignorant of Galbart’s reputation. Yet still they sent her out to him.

So taken with the girl was Galbart that he persuaded his father to offer a bride price far in excess of any village parent’s dream. And did Lucantha protest against the union? No, for she had always loved and obeyed her parents, and Raslin’s coin would enable them to leave the village and live in comfort into their old age.

Lucantha, then, hid her unhappiness and endeavoured to make the best of her new life, and at first all seemed well. Infatuated by his new wife, Galbart abstained from his usual strong ale and his formerly frequent visits to the local tavern girls. Indeed, his happiness should have been complete when Lucantha told him she was expecting a child.

Why then did Galbart’s demeanour change? What caused the terrible jealousy, the suspicion that this child might not be his? There was no reason save his own flawed temperament. Lucantha vowed she had not seen Wellund since the day she had met Galbart, but her husband could not be placated. Out he went with a hunting party, seeking not deer but Wellund himself.

Oh, Galbart and his men swore to the magistrate that it had been a terrible accident, that not one of them had known Wellund was in the woods that day and of course Galbart’s version of events was accepted, for was he not the son of the duke? Lucantha knew better though, and she wept for the loss of her true love. Enraged by her tears, Galbart struck her, and Raslin did nothing to stop him.

Galbart’s cruel blow caused Lucantha to fall, and the fall brought about a miscarriage. Distraught with grief for Wellund and for her child, Lucantha’s warm heart turned to cold stone. No longer could she walk out in the bitter wind with impunity, for she had nothing left inside to ward off the chill. Day after day she sat in her room, close to the fire in the huge grate.

For a time, Galbart gave her leave to mourn the child’s loss. Then, ‘I will come to you tonight,’ he told her.

Lucantha made no reply, but later, when Galbart and Raslin were drinking together after the evening meal, she climbed out of the bedroom window and walked, barefoot and wearing only a thin shift, into the forest. When Galbart discovered the empty room he tried to follow her tracks, but the snow swirled madly around him and soon hid her footprints from his sight.

He searched for many days, but never a trace did he find and shortly afterwards a terrible blaze destroyed the duke’s house. Some say Lucantha set the fire in revenge. Some say she set the fire simply to keep warm, for her soul now craved heat. Whatever the cause, the flames claimed the lives of both Raslin and Galbart.

And Lucantha? She still seeks warmth, and will come uninvited into any house unbarred on a midwinter’s night. Why is she refused entry? Well, it is said that any dwelling she enters will suffer the same fate as the duke’s house. So, finding a home sealed against her, she must leave and, when she does, the imprint of her bare feet can sometimes be seen near door or window before the snow falls again and hides the marks.

Over the years, I have recorded in writing all the yarns told to us by Granny Marta, and the story of Lucantha is the final tale. I have kept it till last, for it still has a strange hold over me. Now it is finished and as I sit here in Granny Marta’s cottage, with the door latched and the windows shuttered, I believe I can hear tapping at the wood and the panes. Is that a hand banging on the door, or just a tree branch disturbed by the gales? Is that a voice calling, begging to come in to the fire, or just the wind howling through the nearby forest? I tell myself the tales were just that – stories to entertain and instruct children during the long winter nights – yet I will not open the door until morning. Then, when daylight comes and I venture outdoors, will I see Lucantha’s footprints in the snow?

the end

About the author

For as long as she can remember, Sue Hoffmann has enjoyed writing stories, poems and articles. During her teaching career she wrote scripts for school plays, poems for assemblies and various projects for her classes. She has had twenty-one short stories published in anthologies, newspapers, magazines or online and has won six writing competitions. Sue enjoys visiting local primary and secondary schools to lead creative writing workshops based on her ‘crossover’ fantasy novel, High King (2013, Circaidy Gregory Press). Her new fantasy novel, for children aged 8–11, is Timothy’s Gate, (2019, Circaidy Gregory Press). She is delighted to have a story included in the Fire and Ice anthology.

THE SEPARATION OF FIRE AND ICE

Mira Callahan

They tell you the process is like the separation of fire and ice.

You go into a room and they rid you of all your physical and mental imperfections. Scars are gone, your memory is wiped clean from anything traumatic that may have happened to you, and all your negative emotions and bad qualities are ripped away. Your body and mind become like fire: warm, inviting and an asset to humanity; the rejected sections are your ice: cold, malevolent and able to kill you with enough exposure.

My procedure is today and I am terrified. People have claimed to keep themselves intact through sheer willpower. But nothing gets past the Amici. Created by humanity a long time ago, these robots and supercomputers determined that the only way to preserve humanity forever is to make us perfect. And we went along with it. They watch us constantly, existing within everything from the rusted pipes in our homes to our food. They are always there, searching for any imperfections. If your brain is not fully developed yet, you can get away with mistakes as your imperfections will be removed when you are older. If you have received the procedure and an Amici determines you to be imperfect, you are terminated right then and there.

The first few recipients of the procedure were babies, so that they could live perfect lives with no chance of developing imperfections or making mistakes. Yet, when they began to show signs of not fitting into the mould, they were killed. The ‘friends’ of humanity realized their fatal miscalculation. Humans themselves had a hamartia innately built in to them. Our brains need to be fully developed before anything can settle. Children are too unpredictable and difficult to control as they have not had any exposure to the outside world. A child has no sense of right or wrong except for what is biologically built into them. After the children received the procedure, their bodies realized something was wrong and began attacking the Amici, resulting in the child’s death as both fought for control over a decaying, writhing and helpless body.

I saw one of these children die once. The president had ordered it to be put on national television so everyone could see how perfect we as a species would become. There was no time delay and no effects. Just pure footage being live-streamed from the camera. That was how confident they were in their creation. A girl named Emma who was two days old was shown on the screen. She had gotten the procedure hours before and could now speak perfect English without hesitation. I remember looking at her and smiling. I was seven years old and amazed that she could do something like that at such a young age. But at the same time, I was secretly jealous of her name because it ended in ‘a’ and all of my friends’ names did too but mine didn’t.

Emma was on the screen, answering math questions. They ranged from seemingly easy to incredibly hard. She had just finished reciting the Pythagorean theorem when the interviewer asked her what a dozen was. She hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to hesitate. She was supposed to say, ‘A dozen represents twelve of something.’ That’s what the program dictates. A camera flash taking a photo then grabbed her attention and she gazed right into it, beginning to cry. She wasn’t supposed to cry. She was supposed to register the existence of the flash and smile, being happy that someone wanted to take a photo of her. Later reports said the sudden change of lighting distressed her and caused her natural instincts to kick in. Her body sensed something was wrong and reacted. But it wasn’t right. Not even a second later, a piercing scream hit the air as she began to writhe on the floor. She kicked and screamed as if she was being murdered. In a sense, she was.

Thousands of tiny robots began exiting from every available hole of her body, taking all the water and oxygen out of her with them. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears. After a few moments, her skin and clothing began to break. The Amici were fighting their way through her body to go to their next targets with maximum efficiency. No liquid blood came out as all the water came through the Amici. Dried red spots were there however. After a second, they had all left, leaving a mass of dehydrated bones, skin and organs. All that was left was the physical matter.

The Amici look like tiny insects, ten-legged creatures who could shift and do anything with ease, holding water and oxygen in their central units. Even though it took scientists and robots alike another few months to figure out the issue, they never changed the design of the creatures. On October 12th, 2239, the government passed the Human Perfection Act, requiring all citizens to undergo the procedure for the benefit of humanity.

‘Avalon Ruiz,’ a receptionist calls cheerily. I stand up nervously and approach her. ‘Yes?’ I ask, half phrased as a question and half phrased as a response.

‘Your procedure is scheduled for today, correct? March 31st, 2256?’ she asks with the same eerie smile all the other perfect humans have. In another society, I could lie and say no. Or bite my lip in a sign of nervousness or contemplation. But here I can’t. ‘Yes,’ I reply, in a cheery voice. It is not as passive as my voice will become after the procedure, but it will still have the same joyous undertones.

She smiles again. ‘Congratulations,’ then beckons me out of the waiting room and into the surgical area. ‘Please put this on and then lie on the gurney,’ she says, handing me a white hospital gown.

The whole room I am in is already white. White door, white bed, white tools to be used by the doctor. It smells like hand sanitizer and cleaning chemicals. There is no difference in shades and no originality. The only non-white is in the glass in the mirror, so I can see myself for one last time before I’m transformed, and be proud of who I will become. For most, this is said to bring joy as they are finally going to be expunged of the cast of imperfections which held them in for so long. For me, it only brings dread.

Taking my clothes off quickly, I stand in front of the mirror naked to examine every single imperfection of my body. The first thing I notice is the scar I got on the back of my leg from when I was younger. My brother had been stupid enough to use the basement window as some sort of backboard to practice basketball when I had claimed the driveway for colouring with chalk. I was near the window when it broke and it caused a piece of glass to be lodged in the back of my leg. Due to my natural independent streak, I tried to take it out and ended up lodging it in further. Mami brought me to the hospital and held my hand as they took care of me. It only took a few minutes to heal within a healing chamber. But the doctor told me a scar would remain until my procedure.

Mami said I was being too independent at that point and I should have waited before doing something reckless. That’s always been my horrid ice quality apparently: being too reckless. I couldn’t understand what they meant by that when I was a child. According to the family robot, I had a 30% higher chance dying before my procedure than any other student in my class due to my reckless behaviours. For example, one time I ran across the street blindfolded when the crosswalk sign was red to complete a dare and gain a few dollars. And looking back on that, I do regret it. But, I’m not sure if I want to lose that impulse. I’ve controlled it more over the years and it’s made my life more interesting.

I realize I’ve been crying over the thought of losing that memory and quickly wipe the tears away, looking at my body and how asymmetrical it is. My left breast is a bit bigger than my right. I have a birthmark on my cheek which doesn’t have a counterpart. These things will be gone in a few hours and I will become equal. Perfect.

After hearing a knock on the door, I put on the hospital gown quickly and lie down on the gurney. A man in a surgical mask comes in saying nothing, just simply pushes the gurney and me down a bland hallway to the room of the death of my present self.

A needle is placed in my arm and I go woozy, falling asleep from the anaesthetic within milliseconds. Although I am asleep, my brain remains in a state of semi-consciousness. The first part of the procedure is the heightening of the senses. My sense of sound becomes sharper and I can hear every cut the doctor is making into my body with his scalpel. The scent of hand sanitizer has metastasized to the point where it is unbearable. Even with my eyes closed, I can make out distinct shapes of the lights and figures around me. This portion seems to last forever until they invade the depths of my brain for memory removal and personality transplant.

Apparently, the only way to get through this portion unscathed is willpower. They can change the undertones of your voice and remove your physical imperfections. They can add an abundance of information. But they can’t change how you feel and your memories. I focus on everything I care about, even the stupid little things. I think about Mami and Papi and how they were before and after their own procedures. I imagine the day I kissed Eric Hemlock underneath the bleachers of the football field. The scent of his cologne made me want more. And the actual fire that passed between us convinced me that he was my soulmate, not the girl he would break up with two weeks later. I notice the small details of my instinct and how I would react in hypothetical situations. If I could leave this instant, I would. But my body is in paralysis due to another shot they gave me so that they do not have to worry about the motor functions of my brain responding as they operate on the rest of me.

I keep thinking and willing and hoping and thinking and willing and hoping some more as that’s all I really can do. I push my mind to its limits, describing the touch of the bedsheet in minute detail due to my new enhanced senses. It’s decently soft and I can tell it’s made from a combination of 87% cotton and 13% polyester. The strings of fabric are interwoven delicately and were picked from somewhere the Eupleoa core lives based on the scent. The information that has been put in me tells me that the most likely place is Pakistan. I keep willing and hoping as they continue digging through my mind… into a graveyard of memories and experiences I had even forgotten about, inserting their own memories I will never have access to, creating desired personality traits and removing the unsatisfactory ones.

And then I wake up.

I buzz with new information and smile at the doctors around me who are clapping. The sound seems magnified. I scan my body, which has been purged of its imperfections, and thank the doctors for their work. And I smile, with that smile I had once called eerie and relaxed. My mind feels free and I am at peace. I am now exactly like the rest. I am now perfect.

the end

About the author

Mira Callahan is a young singer and writer with a passion for social justice work. As a member of the LGBTQ+ community, she strives to fill her stories with diversity of all kinds. In this dystopian work, she hopes to show people that ideas of ‘perfection’ are often not as ideal as many believe. Having suffered from the struggle to become perfect, she hopes this story inspires readers to find their own authentic definition of perfection in being themselves.

ON THE SLOPE OF SURVIVAL

Lynn McInroy

I am fire and she is ice. The fire of desire and the ice of indifference. She will not share. Her fields are on the high slope. The ground is warm, the soil rich. Her crops grow thick and high. My land is lower. The ice sheet is creeping up, year by year. Already its fingers are reaching for my boundary. By the end of the season, they will have grasped the edge.

Three years ago, it was different. My fields were high and fertile, hers just a little lower down, but still productive. I knew she coveted my plot. She was young and attractive, and I courted her all summer. Together, I said, our land could feed us and more. Slowly, slowly she was responding. And then Old Growler started to grumble.

We all knew what that meant. In a couple of days, or perhaps a week, the lava would start pouring down his slopes and covering our fields, destroying whatever was left. In haste, we gathered the crops and the animals and started the trek to the ice caves. The entrances were clear, the caves still sound. The supplies that we had tithed each year were good, and we gathered round the fire for our first hot food in two days. I looked across at the woman, wondering why she didn’t sit beside me, but she avoided my gaze.

‘Tell us a story,’ said one of the older women. ‘One of the old days.’

The oldest man began the story, the one we had heard many times before, of how the earth used to be warm all year round and produce three crops a year, and how people lived in crowded cities and the fertile fields fed them and they did no work. And how they feared the coming warming. And then came the ice. The snow was thick that last winter. And there was no spring. The glaciers heaved their heavy shoulders out of the earth and year by year the ice ate the fields. And our people fled the dying cities and founded this little colony on the slopes of Old Growler, where the earth is always warm and the growing good.

‘Hey, hey,’ said the woman when he had finished. ‘That’s a good story. But I don’t see how it could be true.’

‘I tell it as it was told by my father and his father before him. No more and no less.’

‘But if they didn’t live by their fields, how did they get their food?’ asked a young boy.

‘The people who farmed the fields took the food to the people in the city.’

‘And how did they know when to hold the race for the fields, without Old Growler to tell them?’ added the boy.

‘They didn’t race for the fields. They owned them.’

‘Owned them? You mean like a pair of boots?’

‘Yes, just like you own a pair of boots.’

‘But that’s not fair. No-one had a chance to win the best land!’

‘That’s why we race for the land here.’

When the fire was put out for the night, we all settled down in heaps of furs to sleep. For our whole stay in the caves, the woman managed to steer clear of speaking to me. Why was she avoiding me? I had thought we were reaching an understanding. Finally, I pushed the thought away. The race would come soon enough, and I was a good runner.

The first sunrise of spring came and our scouts told us Old Growler had been quiet for weeks. It was time to go and set our boundaries again. We trekked across the ice sheet and made our final camp near the edge of it. But when we rose to gather for the race, my shoelace was missing. I knew who had done it; as the race to the slopes began, she threw me a triumphant glance. By the time I reached Old Growler, there was nothing left but this land just above the ice sheet’s edge.

Time turns and all things change. Old Growler is grumbling again and we know we must flee to the caves. We share food and stories, but my dreams are haunted by the fear that this time, Old Growler will not be content with just one season’s vomiting of ash and fire, but will carry on through the planting season, and we will have little food, and none to restock the caves. Our grasp on land and life is so fragile that even a small disturbance will destroy it.

My fears were groundless. Spring sunrise has come and there have been no underground rumblings for a week. We trek to our campsite near the start point for the race. In the middle of the night, I creep between the sleeping bodies and take her shoes. I bury them under a bush. She’ll never find them and the ground is still too hot for bare feet. We start our race up the slopes and I am in the front ranks. I reach the plot I want and plant my boundary markers. The ground will need a week or so to cool enough for me to sow seed. I look down and see her searching for a plot free of ice. She must have run all over the slope to find cool spots for her feet. There isn’t much ground to choose from. The ice sheet is higher than last year.

I turn my back. I am ice and she is fire. The fire of anger and the ice of hatred.

the end

About the author

Lynn McInroy is an engineer who believes in magic. She trained as a mathematician, but has worked as an engineer all her life, mainly on Flight Simulators for many of the world’s major airlines, and was the first female engineer hired by her company. Currently, she is in partnership with her husband as consulting engineers.

Working as an engineer has not changed her fascination with magic and Psi talents. To quote Arthur C Clarke, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”. She has been an avid reader of fantasy and science fiction since her schooldays and has a fascinating collection of books on magic, witchcraft and ESP.

She has written numerous short stories, one published novel, The Dragonstone, and several part novels.

She has flown a 747 into Charles de Gaulle (on a flight simulator) but has yet to see a ghost.

Learn more about Lynn on her website www.LynnMcInroy.com

THE DESPOILERS

Dominic Bell

The sun was warm and I unzipped my thermal jacket as I glanced up at the brightness of it. It was still welcome after the three long years of its absence, years when it had lain hidden behind the dark clouds of smoke and dust. But today the sky was clear; a bright blue, an arctic blue. A couple of miles away the coast of Gabon with its dead forests was easily visible. Once low, it now it stood up high from the water on freshly cut cliffs. I had walked amongst the gaunt dead trees a fortnight back, walked there with Jess, and we had seen a few precious shoots of green. But not many. And they would probably be snuffed out all too soon. If we failed.

Around me the sea was littered with ships that had gathered here. Around our cluster of drillships were large and brightly coloured cruise ships, tankers and supply vessels, but further out a line of grey warships kept away the little vessels that constantly tried to reach us, to impede our mission. They could not be allowed to do that. Greens, religious fanatics, locals who believed it would not get any worse than this; that this last enclave would somehow survive. There was a distant popping, then a low boom. Smoke rose from one of the frigates. Probably a suicide boat. There had been a couple of them. Another irreplaceable ship damaged, possibly lost.

Helicopters roared over from the big carrier behind us, and then our ship slowly got underway. The protesters had been warned to move or be sunk. Some, mainly the local boats, turned away towards the shore. They were allowed to go. The gunships started to fire warning shots at the rest.

We were finally on the move. And still I had nothing to do but spectate. My job would not truly be starting for weeks, if not months. I did not mind. It was pleasant standing in the sun with Jess, and deaths did not affect us any more really. There had been so many that a handful more did not seem to matter. Jess looked as emotionless as I felt as she watched the unequal battle, but she held out her hand and I took it, squeezed it.

Sharp cracks came from a different direction, somewhere onshore, a few mortar splashes rising amongst the ships until they abruptly stopped after a series of dull thuds. Counter fire by the marines ashore. The protesters would have hidden them in one of the refugee camps again, and there would be more casualties as the shells silenced them. But that might ironically be a good thing. Food was getting harder and harder to find, and a lot of it was on board our ships now, for this, the final throw of the dice. Those left would have to live frugally. Food was the only thing that mattered now, the only currency. And the military guarded the stocks and the greenhouses, the new farms that had been scratched in the dead jungle. I had no real idea of how many people were left, but I knew it was less than a million. Maybe less than half a million. It seemed crazy that even now people could not stop fighting, could not stop killing each other.

We followed our division leader, a Russian destroyer, behind which trailed a French nuclear sub. She would be taking over the lead soon enough. Behind us came supply ships and tankers, more drillships, and a cruise ship, stained and rusted; and after them more military ships guarding our most important assets, the great ice breakers. Only a handful of them, sadly, but enough.

The boats of the protesters made a last great effort, surging forward. I looked away as the gunships opened up in earnest. It was not playtime any more. All would perish if this, the last throw of a dice weighted against us, did not work. We broke through, sailing past pieces of boats, past fragments of what had been men and women. A placard floated in the water and I read it.

‘Thou shalt not flout the Will of God.’

Maybe the protesters had been right, maybe this was all God’s will, but if there was an all-powerful God then he was the one who had sent the asteroid in the first place. He had been the one who had stopped the nuclear weapons deflecting it, had let them instead worsen the problem by splitting it into a great core with a hundred great fragments escorting it in. He had let the main fragment impact in the South China Sea so that the world shook and erupted and burned. He had let the lesser fragments rain down across the northern hemisphere. Gigadeaths from the impacts, gigadeaths from the tsunamis and earthquakes and eruptions that they had triggered, gigadeaths from the great fires started as the sky had turned red, raining down red-hot debris that had ignited the cities and fields and forests, until the orbiting debris from the impacts combined with the smoke from the burnings to shut out the sun itself. If God did that, or even stood by and let it happen, if he then allowed all but a pitiful handful of the survivors of catastrophe to die slowly in the dark as the world chilled, as the ice sheets spread out from the poles, as the glaciers advanced from the mountains, then it was no longer humanity’s duty to obey him. Or so thought most. Others believed that they had been chosen to survive, talked of a new Eden, of a great purification. Yeah, right. If a god can do that I want nothing to do with him.

The darkness had slowly faded from jet black to an evil grey, and one day we had seen the sun again. That had been a good day, an amazing day even. And eventually aircraft had taken off to see what was left, for the nukes had destroyed the satellites that survived the asteroid fragments, but all they found was frozen seas and the ice sheets. Rapidly advancing ice sheets. Advancing into Africa from north and south, driving the few survivors before them. There should have been people in Central America as well, but if there were we never heard from them. I guess they were too close to the epicentre of the impact, the focus of the shock waves. We sent a plane over to look and the whole geography of the area had changed; the Andes a line of erupting volcanoes poking from the ice. And of course Indonesia and the Philippines were just too close to the impact, and too low. The waves took them. In East Africa we know what happened from a handful of refugees who reached us. The rift valley became active again. That plus the darkness and the ice advancing down Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya was enough. Maybe there are some Inuits or Sammi or such surviving somewhere on the ice, at least I hope so, but again, we’ve not heard from them. We were lucky. The West African oil and gas fields kept the greenhouses warm and lit, and everyone laboured to expand them to feed as many as possible as ships struggled in with more survivors.

A few hours after we sailed we saw the first drifting floes of ice, and gradually they coalesced into a sheet. The ice breakers moved up to take the lead, each with a line of ships following after it. Nuclear submarines disappeared beneath the waves to scout ahead, looking for the easiest path to follow, thin ice, or even better polynyas that might make the passage north quicker.

Beyond the sea ice I can see white ice all along the coast to the north. I can smell it too, the cold of it, the lifelessness, the sterility. It is our enemy, our nemesis, the icy end of the world that Norse mythology predicts. If it joins with the southern ice sheet, and already only a gap of one hundred and fifty kilometres separates them in places, then the whole of the Earth will become white, the land icebound, the oceans frozen. Snowball Earth they call it, and it is a stable state, so the scientists say, and will forever reflect the sun. Even if they are wrong, even if it only stays like that for a hundred years, that will be enough to finish off humanity.

So we are going to stop that. Our ships will steer first west until we get well out into the Atlantic, and then north, smashing our way up through the ice in three groups. Sea ice is thin, two, maybe three metres at the most. It will take time, but it is doable. Our group is turning north-east, to grind its way around Scotland and into the North Sea. Another will head for the Gulf of Mexico. And the last task force will power its way through the Mediterranean and try and reach the oilfields of the Middle East.

If and when we get there, we will try to open up the oilfields again, to restart production, and even drill new wells if necessary. The gas we will just vent, for methane is a far more powerful greenhouse gas than mere carbon dioxide, but the oil we will burn, as dirtily as possible so that black soot and unburned oil drifts down to coat the ice. The theory is that it will stop it reflecting away the heat and so the ice will melt. We have tried it before with soot dropped from aircraft, but found that soot is too soon covered by snow. The scientists said we needed a continuous flow of smoke, smoke that will blacken the snow even as it falls. There have been successes already, bombing opencast coal pits and setting them on fire, but most are buried too deep below the ice to make that easy.

I do not expect to see the day when England is green again, but maybe, just maybe, a child of mine might, in spite of what God wills. We know the great vault on Spitzbergen is intact, and in it lies the potential to reseed the world, to start again. And this time we will make the world in our image, not God’s.

the end

About the author

Dominic Bell writes short fiction as a break from staring at the North Sea from the metal island he works on. He has won or been runner up in several competitions in Writing Magazine and Writers’ Forum. He is also working on a series of novels set in the first world war.

THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIVES

Boris Glikman

It was perhaps inevitable that some bright spark in the Research and Development Department of a certain, internationally famous company would, during a brainstorming session, come up with the idea of a beverage consisting solely of pure light. The essential concept behind it was simplicity itself: Why, in these modern, fast-paced times, go through the lengthy and convoluted process of needing the Sun’s light to be photosynthesised by plants into chemical energy, which then has to be converted into carbohydrate molecules, which we then have to consume and digest in order for us to finally incorporate the energy from the Sun into our systems? Why not bypass all the intervening stages and just capture, bottle and imbibe the sunlight energy directly?

The management loved the proposal and supported its realisation by all means possible. Thus, less than a year after the go-ahead was given, the product appeared in the shops. The drink provided an instant energy boost, sating hunger without any necessity for digestion, as well as immediately quenching thirst and making one feel warm all over.

Amazingly enough, apart from satisfying the most basic physical needs (food, water, warmth) in the hierarchy of needs, this beverage also enabled the consumer, and this was a completely unforeseen consequence, to become instantly spiritually enlightened once they had drunk it and thus fulfilled the highest need in the hierarchy of needs – the yearning for self-actualisation.

This serendipitous effect was perfect for the contemporary society, for given that the online world now provided instant information, instant communication, instant entertainment and instant gratification of needs and desires, it was only natural there would also be a great demand for instant self-realisation. And with this product, there was the convenience of immediate spiritual awakening in a bottle, accessible to all.

The advertising campaign was built around the slogans “Instant EnLIGHTenment™ in a Bottle!”, “Fast Food for Body and Soul!” and “Let the Light DeLIGHT You!” For once the reality corresponded exactly to the promotional claims, as it truly was a unique kind of an invention the likes of which had never been seen before.

And so, as was to be expected, everyone flocked to buy the new drink, for apart from its obvious appeal to the general public, its attraction was also irresistible to a diverse range of people with specific needs, such as the athletic types looking for an immediate energy fix, the spiritual seekers looking for the truth about themselves and the Universe, and the weight-conscious dieters, who immediately added it to their fastidious regimens. Of course children loved it too, given its novelty value and its almostmagical properties.

This unqualified success gave the company the freedom and the impetus to experiment with new varieties of the product. The flavour of the original sunlight brand was a mixture of melon and orange. Later on, many more flavours became available as the company’s researchers went about capturing and bottling light from other celestial objects, as well as from man-made sources.

It was discovered that each planet and star had its own unique taste: Moonlight was cooler on the palate than sunlight and had an indefinable element to it one couldn’t quite put a finger on; Mars tasted a bit like tomato juice; Venus was quite tart and almost vinegary, and thus was best drunk in combination with light from other sources; Jupiter and Saturn, as befitting their gaseous nature, were like the finest bubbly champagne; and supernovas had a mouth-exploding extremely hot chilli flavour that only the very brave and the foolhardy dared to sample. It was also found that the illuminations of every city had their own particular flavour, although the health-conscious preferred only drinks made from natural sources and scorned the artificial flavours of light globes, fluorescent lights and neon signs, which invariably tasted like cheap wine.

With this product on the market, many believed the world was surely heading towards a utopian existence in which humanity would finally be liberated from its burdensome, imprisoning dependence upon plants and animals for nutrition; and the common man, having become instantly enlightened, would see beyond the constricting confines of self-interest and self-preservation and realise everything is inextricably connected and we are all one.

Yet, those who were optimistic that an idealistic state of being would at last be achieved had forgotten all about a deep-rooted and paradoxical aspect of human nature, namely that anything that brought pleasure and enjoyment was open to abuse, misuse and overuse.

Given the way this beverage immediately satisfied, in one neat package, a person’s needs on so many levels, it was inevitable some would become hooked on it. As is often the case with addicts, they found ways to bypass the option of legally purchasing a limited quantity of the product, instead consuming for free limitless amounts by staring directly at the Sun and letting the light flow both into their open mouths, as well as into their eyes. Imbibing light through the eyes was something non-addicts would never do, and that particular experience was likened to mainlining heroin, giving an even greater kick.

These addicts quickly became known as “sunkies” and this word coincidentally had the additional connotation of “sinking” which was very apt, for no drug addict had ever sunk as low as these sunkies. Most of those hooked on narcotics could be rehabilitated and again become respected members of a community. The Sun junkies, however, voluntarily gave up their sight and their mobility, two of the most precious and vital features a human being possesses, and assumed a static existence, remaining rooted to one spot. They cared for nothing else but to follow with their turning heads the Sun’s daily progress across the sky, using their sense of warmth to locate it, their retinas having been burnt out, and to drink in the light.

“In Sol Veritas”, in Sun all Truths lie, was their motto and guiding principle, believing as they did that the Sun is the portal to the ultimate reality and the sole source of eternal, absolute truths. Their proselytising spiel to the non-addicts was quite persuasive, claiming that once you started staring at the Sun, you would quickly realise how petty and drab are the affairs of daily life, and how overflowing with meaning and magnificence are the inexhaustible revelations and infinite beauty emanating from the Sun, the place where perfection, transcendence and purity lie. The sunkies also extolled the stability and the security their lives now possessed, for the Sun’s motion, perfectly predictable for millennia to come, scorched away the uncertainties of their previous everyday existence.

One saw these sunkies everywhere one went, sitting, standing or lying on the pavements, roads, grass, in the mud, in puddles, in gutters, totally oblivious to their surroundings. Their limbs became atrophied from complete lack of movement and turned into something resembling gruesome, withered tree branches, further accentuating their plant-like appearance. The sight of these addicts was both sickening and unspeakably sad, especially as many of them were young people who had sacrificed all the promises the future held out for them.

The greatest tragedy was that the sunkies denied their lives had turned into an irrevocable tragedy. Not only did they become physically blind, they also became blind to the reality of their situation, convincing themselves into believing they were the superior beings living superior lives, and the only ones in possession of the ultimate secrets of existence. These Sun’s Sons (as they preferred to call themselves) were totally untroubled by their loss of sight and mobility, for there was nothing down on Earth they wanted or needed to see or do.

But this unfolding global tragedy was of little concern to the company that brought the beverage into the world, for its technicians were busily working on an even greater creation which would undoubtedly trump the bottled sunshine for popularity. Inspired by instant coffee and instant noodles, the new invention-in-the-making had the brand name of Insta-Life, and the advertising department was already market-testing various slogans such as “Insta-Life™: The Ultimate Product for Fast Living!”, “If You Thought Instant Coffee Was a Time-Saver, Wait Till You Try Insta-Life™!” and “Say Goodbye Forever to Boredom and Routine! Live Your Whole Life in a Jiffy With Insta-Life™!”

With the lure of holiday profits in their minds, the management kept prodding its engineers and scientists to work harder and harder, so that Insta-Life could appear on the market around Christmas time. And so it was only a matter of time before this new invention swept the world, and people would begin to live and die faster than mayflies.

the end

About the author

Boris Glikman is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are dreams, Kafka, Borges and Dali. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various e-zines and print publications.

Boris says: “Writing for me is a spiritual activity of the highest degree. Writing gives me the conduit to a world that is unreachable by any other means, a world that is populated by Eternal Truths, Ineffable Questions and Infinite Beauty. It is my hope that these stories of mine will allow the reader to also catch a glimpse of this universe.”

The Light of their Lives was highly commended in the Fire and Ice competition.

ADOLESCENT REBELLION

Ann Bupryn

It wasn’t what Officer Sellet expected to see as he burst into the house, mere seconds behind the suspect, and with his colleague Officer Glenny at his shoulder.

Tanz, the gangly youth they’d been chasing lay slumped in the corner of a settee, glaring up at them, trying to look like someone who’d just woken up, rather than someone who had leapt desperately into the leather upholstery a quarter of a second previously.

Officer Sellet let out a sigh as he looked at the fresh rain in Tanz’s hair. The room’s only other occupant was Tanz’s grandmother hunched in a high-backed chair way too close to the open fire. She took no notice of them as she picked at the threads of a flimsy garment in her lap.

‘Now then, Tanz,’ said Sellet.

Tanz glowered. Sellet recognised the look; he had adolescents of his own. Part strop, part sulk but mainly indignation at being caught red-handed.

‘Where is it, Tanz?’

Another glower… a bit of a grunt.

A mumble from the fireside. ‘He’s a good lad, our Tanz.’

Sellet wasn’t worried. In the quarter of a second Tanz had had to stash the stuff, he was unlikely to have got it beyond this room. He glanced round. OK, Tanz had got it further than simply hurling it to one side. The device had started to emit its distinctive glow even as they’d chased him. If it was in this room, the walls would be pulsing green by now.

But even supposing a level of preplanning and an accomplice ready and waiting, they had officers round the back. No one could have left unseen, certainly not with that bulky contraption.

‘Where’s your mum, Tanz?’ asked Officer Glenny.

‘Out.’

Sellet and Glenny exchanged a look. They needed a responsible adult. Tanz’s grandmother didn’t count. Her hooked crochet needles were now flying to and fro, making a worse tangle of the threads that pooled colourfully in her lap, outliers escaping in glittery tributaries down her legs. As he watched she gave an irritated shuffle and flicked at the garment as though to shake it out. He cringed. The silvery lines snaked towards the open fire.

The large grate’s only flame was a scant flicker licking around half a fire-lighter. Close though she’d crammed herself, there was no danger.

‘Let’s nip this in the bud,’ Glenny said. ‘No one wants a youngster going to the bad.’

Not when it’s only adolescent rebellion, thought Sellet.

‘No rebellion in our Tanz,’ the old woman rumbled, as though he’d spoken aloud.

Unexpectedly, Tanz looked Glenny in the eye, and said, ‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

‘Ice! I need ice.’ The tone from the fireside was imperious, the movement of the crochet hooks lost fluidity.

Tanz made as though to rise. Glenny said, ‘You stay right there.’

‘She wants ice,’ Tanz muttered, then snapped, ‘There’s a bowl on the hearth, Gran, right beside you.’

Sellet moved to look. A glass bowl half full of water tucked in beside the chair, a few floating ice cubes bespoke the meagre heat from that inadequate flame.

The old woman lifted it clumsily to her lap, resting it wetly on her crochet. The fibres rippled out from the pressure, glinting sharply, a sudden kaleidoscope of colour. Sellet tensed, certain for a moment that fire had leapt right up the threads to the bowl.

Just a trick of the light.

She’d somehow sewn shiny fragments into the cloth. The refracted light from the floating ice bounced off the flicker of the tiny flame, rippling hues up and down, running into the old woman’s skirt, merging into the fabric of the chair.

‘I need more ice!’

‘It’s your fire needs topping up, not your ice,’ murmured Glenny.

Sellet dragged his gaze from the dancing colours and saw that Glenny too was fascinated by the undulating shades of the cloth.

The old woman dipped pinched fingers into the ice bowl and flicked them towards the grate. The tiny flame hissed and spat, almost vanished under the onslaught before sputtering to life again.

Then the chase converged, from front and back. Doors banged open. White-suited agents crowded in. Uniformed officials brought Tanz’s mother with them, pale and shaking.

The old woman muttered a furious monologue as white coats surged amongst them, tracker rods waving over and around everything and everyone in the room. They all knew it wasn’t here but the search must be painstaking. At the open grate, the rod was pushed up the chimney, the searcher swore as the diminutive fire speared out a tiny but potent shaft of heat. Sellet saw exasperation in the gesture that knocked the rod against the remnant of firelighter to smother the flame, which flickered at the point of extinction but then caught again at the edge of its almostspent fuel supply.

The searchers moved on. Glenny told Tanz’s mother to sit. The hunt clattered through the house and garden.

‘Tell them, Tanz, tell them,’ his mother pleaded. ‘Don’t let them pull our house apart.’

Any second now, a green glow would begin to pulse, to betray the hiding place. But where…? Lead-lined box, concrete bunker…?

‘You tell them!’ Tanz demanded of Sellet and Glenny. ‘Tell them I never went upstairs, I never went nowhere but in here.’

‘That’s true,’ Glenny said, ‘but they’ve not found it yet, have they?’

Tanz heaved a theatrical sigh and shifted to face Glenny. ‘What you said about nipping it in the bud, you mean settle down, join the family business.’

‘Look I know it looks boring at your age, but that’ll change. You’ll get really good…’

‘Really good,’ echoed the old woman as the crochet hooks flew.

‘And don’t keep bad company,’ finished Glenny. ‘It’ll only hold you back. You’re young, Tanz. Rebellion doesn’t work.’

‘I’ll rebel if I want to,’ Tanz grumbled.

‘Do the right thing,’ urged Glenny. ‘You want to, deep down. So does your mum…’

Sellet heard the pause. The old woman by the fire continued to mutter as the crochet hooks flew back and forth, the ice bowl wobbling on her lap, threatening to spill. Glenny had been going to say ‘your mum and your gran,’ but that would have been tactless; no one knew what the old woman wanted these days, herself included.

As though to contradict him, she shouted, ‘Ice! I want ice.’

‘Oh Ma, be quiet! Can’t you see we’re–’

‘Ice! More ice!’

‘Look, we’ve to see to Tanz… oh, wait a minute then. Officer Sellet, may I get ice from the freezer? We’ll get no peace if I don’t.’

He looked around. Tanz’s accomplice must have been in the kitchen. He pictured Tanz bursting in, a fraction ahead of him and Glenny, slamming the door, throwing the contraption into the waiting arms, then diving for the settee. No one had got out of the house, front or back.

‘Ice!’

A freezer would suppress the glow.

‘I’ll go with her,’ he said to Glenny.

‘Ice! Ice! Ice!’

‘For pity’s sake, Ma, give it a rest. The officer’s letting me get you some.’

The complaints subsided to a low grumble. Water sloshed in the bowl as she flicked it irritably at the grate. The fire spat back the droplets as steam, but it would be overwhelmed before long; a garrison under siege, at its last desperate stand.

Sellet dragged his fascinated gaze away from the miniature firework display and ushered Tanz’s mother to the kitchen, watching closely as she opened a large freezer.

The search team had been thorough. One of them stood at her shoulder as she reached for ice trays, alert for weapons, for the threat that came from well-resourced hardened criminals, not a wayward teenager and his longsuffering parent. Sellet too had upped his guard to a point that felt ludicrous for Tanz and his mother. But how could that contraption have disappeared?

The frosty rocks of ice in the new bowl cracked and crackled. She took them through and handed them to the old woman, taking the bowl of meltwater and looking helplessly at Sellet.

‘Give it here and sit down.’ He sniffed it – just water – then set it on a side table, ignoring her pained look as it clunked on the varnished surface.

Glenny gave him a look of quiet triumph. ‘Tanz has something to tell us.’

‘Tanz…? What have you done?’

‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’s like Officer Glenny said, if I don’t stop now I’ll be in it forever.’

‘Now, Tanz, I don’t know if this is a good idea. Maybe we should get someone.’

Sellet sensed Glenny’s tension and gave an almost imperceptible gesture to stop her from intervening. There must be no question of coercion. He hadn’t expected Tanz’s mother to go soft on them, but she was the responsible adult and if she stopped him talking, so be it. It was what he would do if it was one of his own hunched in that settee.

A crash sounded from the room above. Perfect timing. She’d begged him to tell, to prevent the house being pulled apart. It was a useful reminder.

He took his focus away from mother and son, saw Glenny do the same. No pressure. Let no one say they’d applied undue pressure. He watched the old woman. That bowl of fresh ice must be burning her thighs the way it nestled in her lap. The cloth she was crocheting was too flimsy to provide protection. The hooks were working in unison, placidly gliding back and forth, weaving tiny glinting lines of thread with what looked like coloured glass. Her bent fingers reached claw-like into the bowl snagging a lump of ice, fracturing it. Those fingernails had some strength in them. She flicked a mini-cascade of ice particles. Sellet watched it skitter down the cloth, leap to the grate, smother the flame. A thin ribbon of smoke curled upwards. Garrison defeated, he thought, but it fought to the last.

Glenny’s gaze too was intent on the ashes in the grate.

‘Why not?’ said Tanz. ‘I want to be normal. Truth can’t hurt, that’s what you always say.’

Wrong again, thought Sellet, truth can hurt like hell, but it seemed that Tanz’s mother felt cornered. She shrugged and said, ‘Do what you have to.’

‘You want to know where it is?’

Glenny nodded.

‘Gran put it on the fire.’

Sellet rolled his eyes at Glenny as Tanz’s mother jumped to her feet. ‘Ma, what–?’

‘Sit down,’ said Sellet easily. ‘No one put anything on the fire.’ He stared pointedly at the grate; clean and polished; empty but for that sliver of firelighter and curl of smoke. He noted with interest that a tiny flame had re-emerged. The garrison fighting to the end. ‘It would barely fit in that grate.’

The old woman chuckled. Sellet watched as she crushed more ice in her claw-like hand to administer what must be the coup de grace for the hard-pressed garrison. As she flicked the ice, she gave the cloth a shake. Its colours rippled outward as light caught the trapped beads.

The hiss of ice hitting fire threw out a spray of colour. As though she’d shaken out a blanket, a wave cascaded from her lap down over the hearth to roll across the grate. And for a fraction of a second, as the crest of the wave rolled high, it seemed like a roaring fire had been exposed, pulsing green at its heart.

He blinked and it was gone.

Trick of the light.

The search team were packing up. The first murmured suggestion floated by that Officers Sellet and Glenny must have been mistaken. Officers Sellet and Glenny exchanged a glance, taking a first step towards accepting this new version.

Sellet heard Tanz mutter, ‘Spose I’ll have to get good at the family business.’

As they turned to leave, the youth glared at Glenny. ‘You’re right,’ he spat out. ‘Rebellion never works.’

the end

About the author

Ann Bupryn was invited to contribute to this anthology. She was a teacher who dabbled in writing for many years. She used to wonder whether she was writing stories for children or stories about children, but in the end decided it didn’t much matter. As an adult she still enjoys many of the books she read as a youngster, and as a teacher she often found her young charges wholly engrossed in books aimed at people twice their age.

ABOUT FANTASTIC BOOKS PUBLISHING’S CHARITY ANTHOLOGIES

We have a philosophy at Fantastic Books of paying forward. We believe it is the right way to conduct daily life – personal and business. I created our first charity anthology, Fusion, with this in mind. Fusion is still going strong, still generating money for a good cause. Each one of our charity anthologies donates 10% to a charity of our choosing for the lifetime of the publication.

Releasing charity anthologies is a privilege and is by no means a selfless act. It has allowed us to find some of the best and brightest new writing talent while supporting a worthy cause.

Fusion led to us discovering Drew Wagar who went on to become a best-selling novelist. That first anthology also saw the start of our partnership with the prolific Stuart Aken who was an invited contributor both to that first anthology and this latest one. Over the years, authors have said they come back to us with their work because of the quality of our editorial process. We hope we’ve maintained that quality in this collection.

Dan Grubb, CEO Fantastic Books Publishing July 2019

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Fantastic Books Charity Anthologies

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666 – a horror collection that donates to EDS-UK

aMUSEing Tales – a collection of children’s stories that donates to the WorldWide Orphans Foundation

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Copyright

Copyright © Fantastic Books Publishing 2019

The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of the stories in this

book has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher or unless such copying is done under a current Copyright Licensing Agency license. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

First Published 2019 by Fantastic Books Publishing

Cover artwork by Ramon Marett

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912053-03-2

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-912053-02-5

Content

THE FORGE
FIRE AND ICE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD By Simon Fisher-Becker

FORGED Dan Staniforth

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD JX Plant

A WORM IN THE TOFFEE APPLE R.L Kerrigan

OUT OF HER MIND Danuta Reah

THE BUTTON Tim Gayda

ALL THE KING’S MEN Katie Lewis

BLIND ALLEY Emily Wootton

BY THE GRACE OF THE TWO SUNS Ed Newbould

THE YELLOW BUS Helen Parker

DAMNED IF YOU DO… Alan Paine

ELEMENTAL SACRIFICE John Hoggard

LAGOON R L Kerrigan

SPEAK BEFORE YOU THINK Kitty Waldron

RESPONSIBILITY DISCHARGED (FIRED AND ICED) CM Angus

GREED IS GOOD Stuart Aken

FIRE & ICE Louisa Morillo

THE MANDARIN Robin Bilton

FROST FIRES Pierre Le Gué

FROZEN FIRE Rachel Lovat

THE COLD ONES Joseph Wheeldon

JUSTICE IN THE ’POOL Jonathan Edwards

LUCANTHA Sue Hoffmann

THE SEPARATION OF FIRE AND ICE Mira Callahan

ON THE SLOPE OF SURVIVAL Lynn McInroy

THE DESPOILERS Dominic Bell

THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIVES Boris Glikman

ADOLESCENT REBELLION Ann Bupryn

ABOUT FANTASTIC BOOKS PUBLISHING’S CHARITY ANTHOLOGIES

Copyright