I crush the earpiece under my heel, then look around the dark alleyway, trying to control my breathing.
No sign of pursuit, either from within the sleek building I just exited at nearly a run, or from outside where my employers—whom I have good reason to believe want me dead—are
The shadows of rocky outcroppings stretched across my path as the sun lowered toward evening. It was dangerous to be alone this late—I knew it well. But my feet drew me onward, until the caravan was lost to the hills behind and even their voices and the noise of the camp faded.
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The windship settled in the clearing beyond the edge of the village. Grruha cut the engines, then sat in absolute stillness with his paws still on the controls. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the savannah from the viewports.
The village stood eerily quiet.
“Let’s see what emergency summons us!” Larru was already…
“Contestants moving to the final round of Galactic Best Bakers are…!”
The host, a green strellcat, paused dramatically.
Spotlights swirled then froze on the contestants, glaring right in Jareth’s eyes.
Jareth had watched every episode of the last three seasons of this, the most popular show in the civilized universe. Research was…
Gray sky. Gray walls. Black iron gate.
“Do your magic, girl!” Shouts harsh as gravel. “Stop holding back. We know you can do it!”
Dirt brown boot, crunching into her side. Dung-colored ground.
Whimpering, Alia pressed into the corner. One of her captors seized her by the hair and dragged her forward…
With a final cry, I swept the ogre’s foul head off his body and sidestepped as he crashed to the ground beside his two brethren. Before the dust settled, I bounded up the hill to their lair, whence black smoked billowed. They kept their ill-gotten treasures within—and their captives, who cried piteously
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“Again.”
The voice that reached Pulsar along the communications thread was neither impressed nor impatient.
Pulsar pivoted away from the smoldering target at the edge of the training field to face the figure near the far-off arsenal. “But Master U’drec—I executed the maneuver perfectly! Why—”
“Return to start position, Squire.”
Comforting scents of spice, herbs, and fruits filled the wood-paneled room, cozy enough to distract from the cold rain—and the woeful news. Mistress Millet dipped a carved cup into the pot simmering over her fire, then shuffled over and set it in front of Ivy, who wiped away a tear she pretended
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The first thing you notice is light—cool and soft white, pervasive and blank.
You are so comfortable and drowsy it doesn’t occur to you to wonder where you are or how you got there. The temperature is pleasant. There is no sound other than your pulse, no smell besides a faint,
“By my reckoning, it will be fifty years before I pose a significant threat.”
The letter was signed by Eldred Ballantyne, dated November 24, 1952, and left with a firm of attorneys who’d mailed it as instructed fifty years later. The Singer Biotechnical Institute president at the time was curious enough to open it,
You adjust your tie, unable to help first-day flutters. The nondescript Serpent & Dove offices are paradoxically soothing yet disorienting.
Trying to walk at a brisk and assured pace, you head toward the office you’re to share with your partner. Your desk is opposite the door, clean and without character. The other desk is
“Wish it was harder to believe you’re dirty, Ed,” the captain muttered, slapping handcuffs in place. “You made it easy for us.”
The case of laundered bills had given him away, but the insult still rankled.
Ed Johnson stewed on it the whole ride to the precinct, was still stewing as they led him
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