Zeck, Part 8: Meat

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

The plains got dustier the closer they got to the border. Once they'd made it out of the valley of the Foke Farm, the wind picked up. The dirt and dust whipped across the land unimpeded. Here and there they'd cross a bare patch of rock before plowing into the dust again. It was a relief when one of the Tephra shouted, “Finally, a bit of rain up ahead. That'll keep the dust down.” Indeed, some sort of precipitation was falling just ahead of the column.

The relief was short-lived. “What the hell is that?” somebody said.

“Oh, sick!” said somebody else.

A chorus of voices erupted from the column of soldiers.

“Is it hail?”

“It's not rain.”

“Are we being bombed?”

“With meat?”

“What?”

“It's meat.”

“It's not meat.”

“Holy shit, it is meat!”

Colonel Destroyer had been silent so far, looking up at the sky until he spotted what he was looking for. “There!” he said. He pointed at something far above the column, partly obscured by ash and dust. “It's an Arterian hovercraft. No. Three of them.” He laughed heartily, a terrifying sound. “And they're dropping gobbets of meat on us! Have they disintegrated in fear at the sight of my visage? They just fell apart and threw themselves out of their ships in surrender?”

Chad opened up his horsehatch and peeked out. “Why would they drop meat?” he asked.

“Who knows?” Destroyer said. “Maybe it's infected. Fat chance of us catching ill, except maybe the prisoners. Burts, you'll be fine, you're full of nanobots. Meat! Meat for Meat Rom, I suppose. Perhaps they're attempting a trade.” He started to laugh again, but was cut short by a blood-curdling scream from the front of the column.

One of the Tephra was flailing his arm, as if trying to shake something off. “Cut it off!” he cried. “Burn it, burn it, get it off!”

It soon became clear what was happening. One of the gobbets of meat had landed on the soldier's arm. There it clung, spreading like a stain. It oozed through the cracks in the soldier's armor until it reached his flesh. The flesh, it consumed. The pink meat-like blob grew as it devoured. Soon it covered his entire arm. The soldier fell off of his horse and landed on the meaty blob. It made a squishing sound, but held its form. When the soldier stood up, his face was stuck to the pink mass.

“What do we do?” somebody shouted.

“Kill it!” said somebody else.

“Burn it!”

“Hold your fire,” said Colonel Destroyer calmly. “Let's see what we're dealing with here. Let it finish what it's doing.”

The soldier tried to scream, but was muffled by the pink mass. It looked like a slightly chewed wad of bubble gum with little dark blood vessels throughout. Soon the soldier stopped moving, though still he stood. The pink stuff grew faster and faster, quickly overtaking the soldier's entire body. A series of popping and cracking sounds came when the squishy mass started expelling bits of armor, pushing them to the outside of its form where they stuck like a cruel mockery of the soldier it had just consumed. Once all of the armor was in place, the bones started coming out. Broken bones protruded like spikes all over the thing. The creature's arms, if it could be said to have such things, undulated like crawling maggots until the soldier's femurs popped out of the ends like clubs.

“All right,” said Destroyer, “I've seen enough. Kill the thing. Kill it with fire. Burn all the meaty gobbets.” He drew his sword, turned around, and sliced through Burts's bonds. Burts ran straight for the heart of the battle.

The Tephra and Sparassa sprang into action. The Tephra sprayed the creature with incendiary rounds. Mostly, they pinged off of its armor. A few made it through, but they seemed to have no effect on the thing. No effect, that is, until it opened a hole that could be called a mouth and sprayed fire back at the soldiers. A few of the closest soldiers burned immediately. The rest returned to their horses and retrieved their As-Best-As masks, made from military grade synthetic asbestos.

The meaty gobbets had stopped raining down, but now they started again, striking many of the soldiers near the front of the column. The bits that had fallen into the dust started writhing and joining together. Within minutes, the front two-thirds of the column was surrounded by meat creatures, and the soldiers who were hit by falling gobbets started turning to meat themselves. The Sparassa used their spider guns to wrap the gobbet creatures with webbing, but the meat just oozed through the strands and reformed as if nothing had happened.

Some tried cutting off or burning the pink blobs that stuck to them, but the amount of fire it took to kill a piece of the stuff had the unfortunate effect of killing the soldier it was attached to. Dismemberment was just as lethal, and even less effective.

As soon as the fighting started, Sheryl turned to her prisoners. “Run,” she said. “As far from this as you can. I'll find you after the battle if I can.”

Steven and Matthew didn't hesitate. John said, “Good luck,” then followed the boys.

“One moment,” said Zeck. He reached under his shirt.

“Not another belly button bomb,” said Sheryl.

“Not a bomb this time,” said Zeck. He handed her a small yellow block. “Well, not exactly. You throw that on the ground, or against a hard surface, and it creates a small but powerful whirlwind. It doesn't last long, but maybe it'll help. Right, well, I'm off. Try not to get eaten.”

Zeck caught up with the wizard and the teenagers at the end of a good two hundred yard sprint. “You think we're safe here?” he panted.

“Where the hell have you been for the past couple days?” said John. “There ain't no safe places out here.”

“No,” said Steven. “Nowhere's safe, but some places are better than others. One of us shouldn't be here.” He pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Now?” said Matthew.

“There's no better time,” said Steven.

“The cigarettes with the genie inside,” said Zeck. He snapped his fingers. “Clever Dick. When you boys offered to wash the dishes, you snuck into the barn and stole them out of the evidence chest.”

“Just taking what's already ours,” said Steven.

Matthew held out his hand for a cigarette, but Steven shook his head. He pulled all of the remaining cigarettes out of the pack. He put his thumb and forefinger around them and stuck the bunch into his mouth, ten cigarettes altogether.

“What are you doing?” said Matthew.

Steven pulled the cigarettes out. “We don't have time,” he said. He put the cigarettes back in his mouth, pulled out his lighter, and lit them all.

“Stop!” said Matthew. “We had a deal; we're supposed to share.” He grabbed for the cigarettes, but Steven ducked out of the way, puffing all the while. “Give me half!” said Matthew.

John put his hand on Matthew's shoulder. “He's made up his mind, son,” he said. “You're not gonna stop him.

Steven smoked the bundle with surprising vigor, turning the cigarettes to ash within just a few minutes. His face turned green. He hunched over. There was just a sliver of unsmoked tobacco left in each cigarette. He let out a long breath through his nose, then inhaled as hard as he could.

The filters all vanished in a puff of blue smoke. Steven coughed long and hard. Bright blue smoke streamed from his mouth and nose. The smoke shaped itself into the form of a human man. He wore the remnants of a Tephra firesuit.

“All right,” said the genie. “Your wish is my command. Just one wish, now. What do you want?”

“First, I have a few questions,” said Steven.

The genie sighed. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“Is this wish going to have some kind of ironic twist to it?”

“No,” said the genie. “I was made for war. Ironic wishes wouldn't be of much use on the battlefield.”

“Healing would, though, right?” said Steven. “How well can you heal somebody? Can you cure disease?”

“I can heal any wound, knit any bone, and cure any disease, as long as the subject is still alive. I cannot bring back the dead, and I cannot guarantee that the person will never get sick again. After I've healed them they're on their own.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” said Steven. “Can you teleport somebody?”

The genie shrugged. “Yeah, of course. But just one person, and only once. Just one wish, remember?”

“All right, I know what my wish is.” Steven turned to Matthew. “You've got to go home and be with your mom. You don't belong here. I'd wish for her to be cured, but she'd probably just get sick again. Everybody in Rintburg gets sick. More importantly, I'm sure she misses you like crazy. Even if she was healthy as a horse, she'd be sick in her heart to lose you. This is probably it, Matthew. We won't see each other again. So this is the only time I'm ever going to say this. I love you.”

“But what about your dad?” said Matthew. “You got the cigarettes in the first place, you should have the wish. He's going to the gallows. Don't you want to save him?”

“Sure,” said Steven, “but I can't. Look, Matthew. I'm sorry I lash out at you sometimes. I have a bad temper. I get it from my dad. His is even worse than mine. That's why he's in prison in the first place. It's nobody else's fault that he's there. And if he went free today, even if he had a clean slate, a good job, anything he needed, he'd just be back in prison in a few months. We could free him, but we can't change the way he is. He's where he belongs. You're not. You should be back home with your mom.”

“But what about you?”

“My mum was an arsehole, and my dad's an even bigger one. My brother is shit. He's in prison, too, most likely, and if he isn't, he ought to be. I don't know my cousins, but half of them are in prison or dead, and the other half are probably ravagers. You're the only real family I ever had. I got no home to go to. You do.”

“For fuck's sake, son, listen to him,” said John. “Look at that nasty fucking battle happening over there. People are being eaten alive by gobbets of meat. We've got a choice between siding with the psychopathic colonel in the spider mask or the army of robots being driven by homunculi. Do you want to be here? You're fifteen. There's always gonna be wars, there's always gonna be adventures waiting for you. You're not always gonna have a mother and a good home. If you don't go home, I'm gonna send you to the freakin' beast dimension.”

Matthew looked at Steven and tried not to sob. “I love you, too,” he said. “And I'm sorry.”

Steven turned to the genie. “I wish Matthew was back home in Rintburg with his mom.”

In the blink of an eye, both Matthew and the genie were gone. Zeck put his hand on Steven's shoulder.

“Don't touch me, corsair,” Steven said. He turned to survey the battle. “Sheryl's in there,” he said.

Two of the Arterian hovercrafts were hanging low over the crowd. A purple tractor beam shot out of one and surrounded Meat Rom's silk-covered form. A whirlwind spun up on the belly of the hovercraft, seemingly out of nowhere, an inverted twister sprouting from its hull. The airship turned bow over keel and crashed to Earth, mere feet from the battle.

“It came in handy after all,” said Zeck.

Meanwhile, the second airship locked its tractor beam onto Meat Rom. Colonel Destroyer shot a rope of webbing at the ship, but one of the gobbet creatures spat fire at the rope, burning it away like spun sugar. Meat Rom vanished into a portal on the bottom of the ship. Its prize acquired, the hovercraft zipped away, leaving a trail of purple light. It was soon followed by another trail, high in the atmosphere.

“Well, the airships are gone, but they're still beset by meat monsters,” said Zeck.

“Have you got any salt?” said John. “Or any salty snacks, like potato chips or peanuts?”

“I've got a salt lick,” said Zeck. He pulled a white block of salt out of his satchel. “I was going to use it to lure some deer, but I can always get another one.”

“Lure a deer?” John said. “Never mind, I don't wanna know. Have you been licking this?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“It's all misshapen. Like someone's been licking it. Is it used?”

“No, it's fresh. It's not licked, it's just homemade. It's artisanal.”

“An artisanal salt lick?”

“Do you want it or not?”

John took the salt lick. “Fine.”

“Whatever you're planning,” said Zeck, “Isn't this a bit well-worn? A wizard coming in at the last minute and triumphantly saving the day?”

“Believe me, fellows, there's nothing triumphant about what I'm planning to do.” He pulled his staff from a fold in his robe and held it aloft. He licked the salt lick, then held it high in his other hand. The gem on the end of his staff began to glow with the usual otherworldly light. The salt began to glow as well. Zeck suddenly felt thirsty. The air felt drier. His skin began to itch. The sky darkened.

John said something in a language Zeck did not recognize. The salt glowed brighter and brighter until it hurt to look at. It was yanked from John's hand by a force unseen. It vanished into a hole that appeared above the wizard's staff.

“Is that a portal to the Raw dimension?” Zeck asked.

“Shut up, dummy,” said Steven.

Something was happening to the meat creatures. All at once, they stopped fighting the few remaining soldiers. They turned to face John, if they could be said to have faces. They quivered like jelly. For a moment, Zeck thought they were screaming, but it turned out to be the sound of the moisture leaking out of their fleshy bodies. It all came out, all of the moisture in all of the meat creatures. It rushed through the air, straight into John's portal, a flying river of water and blood. The meat things crumpled to the ground, dry sponge-like husks. Some of them crumbled to dust. The ones that had swallowed fire couldn't contain it anymore, and they burned.

The portal snapped shut. John fell to the ground.

*     *     *

“Well done,” said Colonel Destroyer. Only two Tephra and three Sparassa remained out of the whole company, not including Sheryl. Bob sat on the wreckage of a horse, looking dazed. They were all sucking on tubes of Medi-Gel. Zeck and Steven arrived on the remains of the battlefield, supporting John between them.

Burts stood at the edge of the wreckage, staring off in the direction the airship had gone. “Missing your friend already?” Colonel Destroyer said to him. “We'll retrieve him. With a fighter like you, we'll make short work of these upstarts.”

Burts spun on his heel and looked Destroyer right in his bulbous black eyepiece. Without a word, he ran at the Colonel, closing the distance in half a second. He grabbed the Colonel by the throat and squeezed, but the Colonel was too heavily armored. All Burts managed was to dent his neck guard. Destroyer shoved Burts away as if he was brushing away a stray crumb from his breakfast. Burts hit the ground with a smack, then popped back up onto his feet like his joints were spring loaded. With a flick of his wrist, Destroyer shot a wad of weavers at Burts. Burts sidestepped them easily. The Colonel shot five more spider wads, and Burts dodged each of them, stepping closer to Destroyer each time. Burts struck at the eyes of the Colonel's spider mask, moving so fast nobody saw it happen until his fist was millimeters from its target. Not even Colonel Destroyer saw it happen, but his exoskeleton did. The suit reacted faster than the Colonel could. It caught Burts's fist in its left hand and held it tight. Colonel Destroyer quickly caught up with his suit, and he laughed in Burts's face. He lifted him high into the air, keeping Burts at arm's length so he couldn't reach. He sent a secret command to his right glove, which extended a long thick needle from the space between his middle and index fingers. Too quickly for Burts to react, the Colonel lowered him just enough so he could jab the needle into his chest. Burts cried out, more in surprise than in pain. Destroyer dropped him.

Burts landed perfectly on his feet and lunged at the Colonel. Then he screamed in pain. He stopped screaming almost as abruptly as he'd begun. His jaw snapped shut. He dropped to the ground, his body tensing and shaking violently.

“What the hell,” said Steven.

“Is he having a seizure?” said Zeck.

“In a way,” said Colonel Destroyer. “I've implanted him with a device that allows me to remotely immobilize him at any time. It will also activate automatically if Fawth comes within a meter of my person. Only I can override or deactivate the device.”

Burts stopped shaking. He fell limp.

“Like so,” said Destroyer. “Give him a shot of glucose, would you Chad? You fought well, Fawth. Better than most of my men. I'm speaking of the battle, not your attempt at melee combat against me. That was impressive, too, but I'm simply better equipped than you are. I don't expect loyalty from you. I know how you feel about the Churls, and about me especially. You hate me, yet you fought for me. You couldn't help it. You were quite literally made for battle. And you three.” He turned to Zeck and the others. “John Derman. You may be old, but it takes a talented mage to pull off a trick like that. To suck the water from your enemies but not your allies? Quite a feat.

“Zeck Strauss. I'm just not sure about you. One the one hand, you strike me as a coward. Then again, you fight when you can. Teymore told me of your resourcefulness with the cherry bomb and the whirlwind. No, I don't think you're a true coward. I think you know what you're capable of, and you do that much and no more. Nothing wrong with that, it gives you an instinct for self-preservation.

“Steven Broyle. You're young and surly. I can work with that.”

“As you can see, our ranks have been sorely depleted. We'll need recruits if we're to launch a counterstrike. I could certainly do worse than you lot. Bear in mind, I'm not making an offer; we're at war, and this is a draft. Desertion is punishable by summary execution. Or I might be feeling generous, and inject you with the same implant I've given Fawth. I don't expect loyalty from you. Only obedience.” Colonel Destroyer's chelicerae came together in a way that almost resembled a smile. “Rest up. It's a long way to Antarctica.”

Zeck, Part 7: Tragedy at Fresh Air Farm

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

Zeck woke with a start. Something like a mixture of a lion's roar and a terrified shriek came from outside. “That sounds like a horse,” said Zeck. “But, like, a horse full of demons.” The sound of hoofbeats that followed was unmistakeable. “It is a horse,” he said.

Everybody else was already on the ground floor. Bob was wearing his mask. Sheryl had the curtain pulled back just enough to peek through the window. “It's time to go,” she said. “All I see is a big cloud of dust, but I'd know that whinny anywhere. It's Ouroboros, Colonel Destroyer's destrier. Let's go.”

Zeck descended the ladder. The hoofbeats were very close now. They slowed to a trot and then stopped. Sheryl opened the door and walked outside. Bob followed. “Colonel Destroyer. Sir,” Sheryl said. She and Bob saluted.

Zeck and the others stayed inside, but crowded around the open door and the windows so they could see what was happening.

Thirty-odd Tephra soldiers in full flamesuits and a dozen Sparassa soldiers in Huntsman spider armor sat on horseback, shrouded by the massive cloud of dust they'd stirred up on their ride. Leading them all was Colonel Destroyer.

Colonel Destroyer's horse was massive. Rather than a simple robot, Ouroboros was a fully integrated cyborg. His hair was coal black and shone like an oil slick. He was covered in chrome armor, with spikes on his face and shoes. His eyes were as black as his fur, but when they shifted they gave a flicker of red. He snorted and steam streamed from his nostrils.

Colonel Destroyer dismounted. He was easily seven feet tall, but his boots added another six inches. He wore a full suit of armor, too, made from tactical silk dyed black and red. Copper-colored carbon fiber plates covered his limbs and torso. His spider mask was much more elaborate than Sheryl's and Bob's. The eyes moved, or gave the appearance of moving, when he looked around. The chelicerae moved when he talked, and the fangs on the end looked razor sharp. His voice had been frightening over the radio. In person, it felt like a rusty saw blade slicing through your spine. “Lieutenant Teymore,” he said when he saw Sheryl. “Fancy meeting you here. I thought we'd find you farther North. You've made good time on foot.”

Sheryl and Bob saluted. The Colonel saluted back. “We marched all night until we found this farm. The Foke who live here agreed to a trade. Thirty rations in exchange for food and lodging. We've already eaten and rested, and we can be ready to go in just a few minutes.”

“We'll leave soon enough,” said Colonel Destroyer. “We've also stopped for a bite to eat. Ouroboros, to the cornfield.” He slapped his horse's flank and it took off at a gallop in the direction of the corn.

“Sir, the cornfield,” said Sheryl. “The farmers are working out there. Perhaps you should call Ouroboros back until they've cleared out.”

“You know very well that coming between Ouroboros and his meal is a sure way to lose a hand. He'll only eat the corn; he doesn't like cat.”

“Cat, sir?”

Destroyer looked up at the roof of the house. Barb was crouched up there, her haunches taut and ready to pounce.

“Sir, the others are chickens,” Sheryl started to say, but before she could finish, a cacophony of fluttering wings and clucking erupted from the edge of the cornfield.

“The children,” said Barb. She sprang from the roof and dashed after the destrier.

Clara shrieked. “Monster!” she screamed. “Monster! Fly, children!” The horse had started to graze at the corn, chewing and devouring entire stalks like an industrial mulcher. When he saw the chickens emerge, he gave chase. Four of the chicks had a good lead. They couldn't fly properly, but they used their wings to give speed to their run. Michael and Charles weren't as fast as the others, so Clara plucked them up in her talons and flew as hard as she could toward the house. Barb had reached the horse by then. She pounced, claws out, straight at the open spot between its helmet and its plate armor. She gave the horse a good gash and knocked it to its side, but it didn't stay down for long. It sprang up and kicked Barb in the chest, sending her flying across the yard. She landed like a ragdoll and didn't get up.

Meat Rom had been watching from a window. Now he dashed from the house. Burts tried to follow, but his leg still wasn't fully healed, so he was quickly left behind.

Ouroboros was back on his feet. He gained on Clara with frightening speed. She lost her grip on Michael, then dropped Charles trying to turn back for him. The horse was right there. There was no time. Clara threw her wings around Charles and closed her eyes. Michael cried out, “Mommy!” There was a sickening crunch. Clara screamed.

Meat Rom roared. He leapt clear over Clara and Charles, placing himself between the chickens and the horse. Losing no momentum, he punched Ouroboros right in his horse face. The horse staggered. The armor that covered his nose showed a dent the size of Meat's fist. Ouroboros gave another terrifying whinny. He reared up on his hind legs. His belly was covered by an array of gun barrels and nozzles. Meat Rom reached out to tear one of the nozzles loose, but another one spun toward him and fired. Hundreds of spiders sprayed out, covering the giant with webbing in an instant. The horse stamped its hoof on the ground in a pattern that sounded like Morse code.

“Yes,” said Colonel Destroyer, laughing. He applauded and strolled up to his horse. “You've captured Meat Rom,” he said. “Good boy. Good horse. Who's a good horsey?” He patted Ouroboros on the nose. “Aw, he dented your helmet, though. No matter, we'll soon have that fixed up good as new.”

“You monster,” said Clara. “He was only a child. What kind of person lets a beast like that run loose?”

“A beast like what? Like my horse? Or like that puma that attacked him? Some would ask who let you and your chicks run free. Not I, mind you. I've no prejudice against Foke. Still, there are safer places for your kind than out here on the plains. Secure communes where this sort of thing wouldn't happen.”

“Prisons,” Clara spat. “Labor camps. Why don't you just go. Your horse has fed. You've killed my friend. Forget the rations. Just go.”

“She's alive,” said Sheryl. She knelt over Barb's unconscious form. “Some broken bones, but she may be all right.”

“There, you see?” said Destroyer. “We'll leave you some Medi-Gel. That's generous of me. Your cat will be good as new. No harm done. Now, this being wartime, you are obligated to provide adequate food and shelter to soldiers, free of charge. I'm a reasonable man, though. Since my lieutenant has already made an agreement with you, we'll leave the thirty rations you were promised. And, of course, something for your child.” He waved to his squire. “Chad, bring the loot.”

The hatchback of one of the robot horses opened up and Chad the squire climbed out. He led another of the horses to where the Colonel stood over Clara. The horse was laden with chests and sacks. Destroyer set one of the chests on the ground and opened it up. It was packed with precious gems, gold coins, and jewelry. “Take a handful,” said Destroyer. “A talonful? Oh, hell, take two.” Clara didn't move. She didn't even look at the chest. “No?” said Destroyer. “Very well.” He scooped two big handfuls of loot out of the chest and dumped them on the ground. “Payment for your hospitality and recompense for loss and damages.”

Clara just hugged Charles and cried.

“All right, men,” Colonel Destroyer said. “Prepare to move out. We're heading South as far as South goes. Chad, pack up the loot. And find a horse strong enough to carry the giant.”

“Sir,” said Sheryl. “The Medi-Gel?”

“Oh, yes, take it out of the medikit. That's the horse with the apothecary symbol on its flank.”

The back of the medikit horse opened like a trunk. Sheryl found the supply of Medi-Gel. She took five tubes. Clara had returned to the house with Charles. Sheryl found her huddled in the loft with her five remaining children. “I'm so sorry about this,” Sheryl said. Clara didn't say anything. “I know this doesn't make up for what happened, but this Medi-Gel will heal Barbara. Smear it on her gums until she wakes up. Then have her eat a little at a time. One full tube should be enough to mend her bones and prevent any permanent damage. Save the rest of it for emergencies.” She paused. “Maybe give some to your cow. It might help with whatever ails her. Get her to start giving milk again.” Clara and her children said nothing. Sheryl left.

Zeck and Burts carried Barb inside and laid her on the downstairs bed. “How's that leg?” Sheryl asked Burts.

“Better, but not perfect. Like I said, I'm a fast healer.”

“Not fast enough for the Colonel. Your mount is unavailable. You'll have to walk. Hold out your hand.”

Burts did as she asked. She squeezed a little smear of Medi-Gel into his palm. “Eat that. It'll help.”

Burts nodded. “Thanks.” He licked at the bluish goop.

John and Steven sat at the table. Matthew was between them, his head face down on the table. “What happened?” Sheryl asked.

“We were watching out of the side window here,” said Steven. “When that horse ate the kid, Mathew fainted.”

“Can't say I blame him,” said John. “That was a nasty piece of business.”

Sheryl dug in her belt until she found a small capsule. “Smelling salt,” she said. “Hold his head up.”

When she cracked the capsule under Matthew's nose, he came to immediately. He buried his face in his hands and started crying.

“This is bullshit,” said Steven. “Do we really have to go with that fucking monster out there?”

“Honestly,” said Sheryl, “I'd much rather the two of you stayed here on the farm. Maybe even John, too. This morning, I asked Clara to keep you on as farmhands. But now, I don't think she wants to see any of us any longer. I know I wouldn't. If we asked, even now, maybe she'd let you stay. But you would be a daily reminder of what happened here today. Every time she looked at you, she'd see Michael's little face. I'll leave it up to you three. Ask her if you like. I'll be outside.”

Sheryl found Bob outside, asking around among the Tephra soldiers to see if there was a spare horse he could ride. “There's not enough,” said Sheryl. “You and I will have to walk.”

John, Matthew, and Steven emerged from the house. “I didn't ask,” said Steven. “You're right. We can't stay here.” Sheryl nodded.

Chad approached Sheryl with something in his hands. He gave it a quick wipe with a rag and presented it to her with his head bowed. “A Huntsman mask?” Sheryl said. Chad nodded. She took the mask. The chelicerae curved inward. The fangs on the end were sharp, though not so sharp as the Colonel's. Sheryl pulled up her cowl and attached the mask.

“That's more like it,” said Colonel Destroyer. He was astride Ouroboros once more. The horse's helmet had already been replaced by a spare. “Sheryl Teymore, in the Sparassa once more. We've missed you. Now, are you quite through with your ministrations? My men are ready. Chad has retrieved your horses and unloaded the promised rations for these farmers.”

“I'm ready, sir,” said Sheryl.

“And your prisoners? We have Meat Rom loaded up already. We really only need him and Burts. Do you still insist on bringing the rest along?”

“I insist,” she said.

“Very well. It'll be slow going with so many on foot. Burts, you're with me. Do stop babying that leg.” Destroyer swung his arm as if cracking a whip, though he held nothing in his hand. A long rope of spider silk shot from his glove. It wrapped around Burts's neck and stuck. Destroyer detached the end of the rope from his hand and stuck it to a post behind his saddle. “Chad! Cuffs.” Chad wrapped Burts's wrists tightly together with more webbing. “Do keep up, Fawth,” said Destroyer. “I know you can.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Burts. He spat, hitting Destroyer square in the back.

The Colonel only laughed and said, “Sally forth!”

Zeck, Part 6: Breakfast at the Farm

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

“It's just the sunrise reflecting off a hill,” said Bob.

“We'll find out soon enough,” said Burts.

“I'm telling you, it's a house,” said Meat Rom. “And there looks to be a barn and a cornfield behind it. That's a farm, and the only folk who farm out here are Foke.

“We'll find out soon enough,” said Burts again.

“It is a house,” said Sheryl, still at the lead.

“It may be a house, but there's no such thing as Foke,” said Bob. “It's probably just some hobos in a plywood shanty. I see what you think is a cornfield now, but it's pretty clearly just weeds that have sprouted in a patch of dust. We'd do best to steer clear of them. Hobos eat shoe leather and drink nothing but corn whiskey and rain water. They communicate exclusively with written symbols, and I only know the ones for 'policeman,' 'mean dog,' and 'there is no whiskey in this town.'”

“How would they make corn whiskey with no corn?” said Meat.

“We'll find out soon enough,” said Burts again.

“It probably is Foke,” Sheryl said. “You can see how much soil has blown in and settled in his valley. That happens over time, especially the closer you get to the border. Any time you find a nice dirty valley like this in the Hinterlands, you're likely to find a Foke Farm. They'll have built the house out of the wagon train that brought them here. They may trade with us.”

“They'll trade all right, if they're friendly,” said John. “If it's a mix of animals, they're more likely to welcome us in. Maybe even offer us some yaupon tea. If it's all one animal type, they'll be more standoffish, but they might still trade with us. I can do the talking, if you want. I've spent plenty of time with different Foke.”

“I've dealt with Foke before,” said Sheryl. “I'll speak with them.”

“Who or whatever it is,” said Bob, “we'd be safer simply avoiding them. Look at the ground. You said it yourself. Look at all this earth. We must be getting close to the border. Colonel Destroyer is probably minutes away.”

“Close is relative, Bob,” said Sheryl. “The dirt blows in from miles away, especially on a lava plain this old. We need to rest soon, anyway. These people might let us sleep in their barn. They might have things we can use, food and water to share. Even if not, it's best to let them know we're passing through their valley. People out here get edgy, with good reason.”

It was a farm, after all. The cornfield was about three acres. Many more acres lay fallow. The barn and the house were the only buildings on the property besides the silo, but they were both pretty large. Weeds and wildflowers grew rampant nearby, but closer to the house they were well tended. Nicely pruned yaupon shrubs formed a natural fence around the main house. A sign read 'Fresh Air Farm', with a smaller inscription below stating, 'Here you can breath free.' “That's promising,” said Sheryl. When the party was close enough to smell the fireplace and see the figures moving about behind the windows, Sheryl motioned for everybody to halt. “Take off your mask, Bob. They'll see that as a good sign. I'll go alone. If anything goes wrong, run away. Don't wait for me, just go. If they agree to let us stop here, I'll signal for the rest of you to come.”

A face appeared at the window. It was too far away and too dark for the rest of the party to see in detail, but it was clearly not human. Whatever it was, it looked out long enough to see Sheryl approaching and the group standing a ways behind her. It pulled a shade, shutting in the firelight. Sheryl rapped on the door three times, then stood back with her hands away from her body, palms open and visible.

A sliver of yellow light appeared as the door opened. A conversation took place that none of the prisoners nor Bob could hear. Sheryl pointed back at them a few times, then pointed in the direction they were traveling. The creature who had opened the door said something to Sheryl. Sheryl bowed graciously, then turned and waved for the rest of the party to approach.

The house was very spacious inside. Other than a loft that covered half the width and the entire length of the building, there was really only one room, but it was as big as a banquet hall. At the center of the rear wall was a large fireplace where a cooking pot bubbled with something sweet and rich-smelling. The area to the right held a long table and several chairs. The space by the far left wall was completely filled by a lumpy but tidy pile of hay covered in blankets and pillows. The sole extravagance was an upright piano that sat by one of the windows near the sleeping area.

The woman who'd answered the door was a mountain lion, easily six feet tall sitting on her haunches. She jumped up onto the table and sat there, motionless but for the swishing of her tail and her eyes, which carefully regarded each traveler in turn. As the prisoners and their Guards entered the house, they were greeted by a reddish-brown hen. She stood a little over five feet tall. She cocked her head to the side in order to look each guest in the face.

“I'm Clara,” said the chicken. “Welcome to Fresh Air Farm. We don't get many visitors out here. Your Sheryl tells us there's a war broken out, and you're making your way South. We don't care about no war, and we don't take sides. As long as you don't hurt nothing while you're here, give what you can and don't take more than you need, we'll get along all right. If we have any trouble, you'll have Barb to answer to.” She nodded her head toward the cougar. Barb purred and blinked her eyes at Clara. “You can stay here until you're rested,” Clara said, “but then we've gotta ask you to move on. We'd ask you to work a spell, but you're in a hurry and we don't want to keep you. We've got cornmeal porridge with honey, and there's enough for all, except maybe the big fella. You can sleep in the loft. It's dark up there, and there's plenty of hay. It's time for the chicks to do their chores anyway; Sun's coming up.”

Clara pecked her beak on the ladder that led up to the loft. “Coquina! Barbara, Amber, Michael, Perseus, and Charles! Morning comes!”

Six little chicken heads peeked over the edge of the loft. They weren't really chicks, as they had their feathers, but they were still quite young. Each was no more than three feet tall.

“We've got company, so mind your manners,” said Clara. She turned to the visitors. “Well, don't just stand there, cluttering up the place. Sit down, sit down.” She nodded toward the table. “Clear off, Barb. You're making our guests nervous.”

Barb looked smug about that, but she stood up, stretched luxuriantly, and hopped down from the table. She sauntered over to the lower sleeping area, pointedly brushing against each of the visitors on her way. She jumped onto the back of the piano and started playing a song, poking the keys discordantly. It was strange music to the traveler's ears, non-rhythmic and without a standard melody, but somehow soothing all the same. She soon lost interest in the song and started grooming herself.

There were enough chairs at the table for all of the humans to sit. Only Bob stayed standing, gawking rudely at their hosts until Sheryl pushed him into a chair. He stopped staring, but his look of disbelief remained.

The chicks hopped down the ladder one by one while Clara filled six bowls with porridge and placed them on the floor for the chicks. She filled eight more and set them on the table in front of each guest. She spread her wings. “Shall I fan 'em for you? It's piping hot.”

“No, thank you,” said Sheryl.

“Sorry there's no milk or butter. We've just the one cow, and she's taken ill.”

“I'm sure it's fine. This is more than enough,” said Sheryl.

Clara nodded and returned her attention to her chicks, who were each fanning their porridge with their little wings. “Coquina, after you eat, you and Perseus take the horses outside and put 'em in the stables. And don't touch nothing. They're robots, so there's no need to groom or feed them. Just get 'em into the barn.”

“Yes, mum,” said two of the chicks.

“Is that a real giant?” said one of the other chicks.

“Are they attercops?” said another.

“Is that man a pirate?” said a third.

“Amber, Michael and Charles!” said Clara. “What did I say about minding your manners? These people's business is their own. Folk is Foke is folk.”

“It's all right,” said Meat. “I ain't a giant, but I've seen one. You think I'm big? He was bigger than a mountain. Used whole trees as toothpicks. It took a thousand workers an entire year just to sew him a pair of pants. He slept in a hammock with one end tied to the North Pole and the other end to the South Pole.”

“Did he eat whole cows in one bite?” asked Michael.

“Nah, this giant was a vegetarian. He'd scoop up a cornfield in one hand and eat the ears like pistachios. He could eat a whole ton of broccoli in one mouthful, and every time he farted it caused a hurricane.”

The chicks giggled. Even Barb might have smiled, though with a cat it's hard to tell.

“One day he saw a lady giant, with hair like spun coal. Her clothes were woven by a trillion silkworms. Every time she sang, stars fell from the sky just to be closer to her. The giant wanted to meet this bewitching creature, but as soon as he approached her, she turned and ran away. Do you know why?”

“He was ugly,” said Charles.

“He was mean,” said Amber.

“As a matter of fact, he was very handsome. And he always tried to be kind to others. No, this was an issue of hygiene. His mother always told him to bathe every day, and to brush his teeth and comb his hair. But he didn't listen to his mother. He hadn't taken a bath in years. He stank so bad, skunks sprayed him to make him smell better. He smelled like a sewer dumped onto an onion farm. When the lady giant ran away, she was holding her nose and waving the air like this.” Meat made a face and demonstrated. The chicks giggled. “So the giant knew what the problem was. He was lazy, but he wasn't stupid. He uprooted an huge redwood tree and brushed his teeth with the branches. Then he found a nice lake, big enough to use as a bathtub. First, he washed his clothes and hung them on the Moon to dry. The water was all right for laundry, but when he dipped his big toe in, he knew it was too cold for a bath. He was very smelly, so he needed some nice hot water to scrub off all the stench. So he reached up into the sky, tore a piece off of the Sun, and dropped it into the lake, but he'd grabbed too much. The whole lake went whoosh and turned to steam in a flash. With all the steam, the giant couldn't see, and while he was fumbling around, he ran straight into his shirt tails, still hanging off the Moon. He yanked at his shirt, but the shirt was stuck, and he yanked the Moon right along with it. That piece of the Sun was still on fire, even after splashing into the lake, and it started melting right through the Earth, making a big hole full of fire and lava. The Moon, still festooned with the giant's clothes, went hurtling into the hole. It went straight down, all the way through the center of the Earth, and came right out the other side. It sailed up, up, up into the air, but not high enough to get back into the sky, and by the time it came crashing back down, the Earth had turned, and now the Moon was red hot from being inside the Earth, so it punched another hole and came out the other side again, and it kept doing that, over and over again, until the whole Earth was a mess of lava and fire and broken rocks. All because that giant didn't listen to his mother and take a bath every day.”

“But the Earth is still here,” said Coquina. “The Moon didn't destroy it.”

“Well, the end of the world isn't the end of the world,” said Meat. “The giant's friends came over and helped him put the Moon back in the sky, but now it's all mottled instead of smooth and pearly like it used to be. They threw water in all the burning holes, but there were a lot of holes, so now we've got oceans all over the place. But that giant never did meet the lady he had a crush on, because his clothes all burned to a crisp, so he just sits in his cave all day out of embarrassment.”

“His friends should make him some more clothes,” said Michael.

“They should,” said Meat. “Friends should help each other out.”

By the time Meat was done with the story, everybody had finished eating. Barb looked at Meat and blinked her eyes approvingly. He nodded back.

“All right, children,” said Clara, “The Sun is well high. Time for chores.” She opened the door for them. Michael, Perseus, and Charles ran to the door and crowed in unison at the rising Sun.

To the guests, Clara said, “Either help by cleaning up, or get up in the loft and out of the way.”

Matthew and Steven offered to do the dishes. “Thank you, boys,” said Clara. “There's a water pump around back of the house. You'll find a bar of soap out there, too.”

The rest of the travelers chose to get out of the way. Meat lifted Burts straight up into the loft.

Sheryl hung back for a moment and pulled Clara aside. “Those two boys, they're good workers,” she said. “I don't know what happened to the rest of your people, and I won't ask. But I think you could use some help on your farm.”

“You're asking me to keep them on as farm hands,” said Clara. “Humans on a Foke Farm.”

“They're good boys. They'll work hard. They don't care what you look like.”

“I'd be doing you a favor,” said Clara. “Whatever it is you're headed into, I can only assume you don't want those two there with you.”

“You're right about that,” said Sheryl.

“I'll admit it, we could use the extra hands. We came here in a wagon train with a pack of dogs. Mutts mostly, and one German shepherd. We built this farm together. Eight years we've been here. We were hit hard by ravagers last year. We lost all the dogs. Some they killed, some they collared. They tore up our crops, burned some of them. Took most of our livestock. I'll admit, it has been hard this past year with just Barb and myself. The chicks can do some work, but they're so young. If the boys want to stay, we'll keep them on. The old man, too, if he wants to. We could use a mage.”

“Thank you,” said Sheryl. She joined the rest of the humans in the loft. Steven and Matthew returned a few minutes later with a stack of clean dishes.

“I'll take the first watch,” said Sheryl when everybody was situated in the hay.

“You're just as tired as the rest of us,” said Bob. “And I thought you trusted these people.”

“I trust them, but one of us needs to stay awake in case something happens.” Sheryl took a pill from a pocket in her belt and chewed it up. “That'll keep me going for a while. I don't sleep much anyway. If I start to doze, I'll wake you.” When Bob didn't answer, she looked over and realized he was already asleep. Sheryl was the only one left awake.

Zeck, Part 5: Dream of Water, Dream of Snakes

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

Before they left, Sheryl and Bob laid Jim's body on the fire. His mask was cracked from his fall, but they took it off and laid it on his chest anyway. They took the ammunition out of his broken blunderbuss and laid the gun next to him. Bob and Sheryl both saluted.

Lastly, Sheryl activated the emergency beacon on the paddywagon. “This way,” she said, “maybe the Arterians will look for us here first. If they think we've stayed put, it'll buy us some time. We need to move, though. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Meat carried Burts piggyback style. Zeck was allowed to keep his satchel, minus acoustic pistol and anything else that looked like a weapon. John kept his staff.

Sheryl took the lead, setting a moderate but steady pace. Bob stayed at the rear, where he could keep an eye on all the prisoners. “Anyone tries any funny business, they get wrapped,” he said, patting his spider gun. The horses needed no one to lead them; their programming told them to flank the group on either side, providing cover from anything that might attack from the side.

They marched in silence for a while, conserving their breath while they put some distance between them and the wagon. Zeck was the first to break the silence. “What if it was an ashmara after all?” he said.

“What if what was?” said Matthew.

“The giant shadow snake,” said Zeck. “Ashmara are essentially nightmares caused by psychomagical static energy stored in volcanic dust that's blown across hardened lava. These plains cooled a long time ago, but we could still be susceptible to ashmara out here.”

“I'm not saying we couldn't all have ashmara,” said Matthew. “But that's not how they work. Maybe one of us could have a dream like that, or even a hallucination. I've even seen whole groups of people hallucinate at the same time. It's... horrible. And dangerous. But they all see different things. Maybe you'd see a giant snake and I'd see a wolf, and Stephen would see a cluster of spiders.”

“What about a wizard?” said Zeck. “John, do you remember what you were dreaming about before I woke you up?”

“No. I don't remember my dreams,” said John. “You want my opinion? You're all jumping at shadows. Somebody says, 'Holy shit, a giant snake!' and points at a dust cloud, swirling in the breeze. Somebody else squints at it and says, 'Oh, yeah, that does kind of look like a snake.' Then the more panicky types come over and ask, 'What are youse two staring at?' to which they reply, 'A giant snake, being ridden by a cyclops with a warhammer, and they're coming right for us!' Next thing you know, somebody's screaming their head off, waking up a tired old man right in the middle of a REM cycle. No hallucinations. No dust dreams. Just a shadow, blowing in the wind.”

“I don't jump at shadows,” said Bob. “It was likely a weak magical attack from the Arterians, targeted at our location. They can't spare any more Pneuma to attack us, so they sent that thing. It was meant to frighten us, but it only lasted for a few minutes before it went up in a puff of smoke. If that's all they've got, this war is going to be very brief.”

“I suppose that's possible,” said Zeck. “But suppose it was an ashmara?”

“Oh, here we go,” said Steven. “Give it a rest.”

“No, hear me out,” said Zeck. “John, you say you don't remember your dreams. Perhaps that's because, as a wizard, you're inclined to externalize them. It's been known to happen; there was an incident involving llamas at a school in New Mexico. Perhaps the psychomagical energy stored in the dust out here gave form to your dreams. You are a herpemancer. Perhaps you dreamt of an enormous snake, and the snake formed. When you woke up, the dream ended, and the snake vanished.”

John paused before responding. “I hate to agree with a chatty jackass dressed like a pirate, but you may be onto something,” he said.

“Even supposing that it was just a dream woven in dust,” said Zeck, “do you suppose you really could summon a serpent like that? Perhaps one that we could ride? It would make this trek a lot faster.”

“Ain't no snakes like that,” said John. “I don't create the snakes out of thin air. I summon them from another dimension, one that's chock full of snakes.”

“A lot of garters in that dimension, are there?” said Zeck.

“Bite my butt,” said John. “You think it's easy, plucking a creature from another world?”

“My apologies,” said Zeck. “Please, go on.”

“So, Feralda is what wizards call the beast dimension. It has its own name, but not one you can pronounce with a human tongue. All sorts of scary shit there. There's run-of-the-mill animals, like squirrels, beavers, coyotes. Bigger stuff, too, of course. Bears, lions, elk. There's also plenty of mythical beasts you don't usually find in our world. Gryphons, dragons, chupacabra, that sort of thing. But there ain't no snakes there that you won't find on Earth, except one. She ain't a snake, really, but that's the form she takes in Feralda. You might call her a goddess, but that ain't the right word for her. Some people call her the Mother of Serpents, but that ain't exactly right, either. Seraphanta is her name, or at least the name I can say with my human mouth. She's not as old as snakes, but she's older than humans. She didn't create them. She only looks after them when it's convenient for her. Or when they really need her. She mostly stays in Feralda, but she'll slip into our dimension from time to time. Some say she's looking for something, or somebody. Who knows? I've been looking for her for thirty years, following rumors across the continent. I've never seen her, but I've been close enough to hear her, and hear the screams when people see her.”

“Why are you looking for her?” said Meat Rom.

“It's a long story,” said John.

“We've got a long walk,” said Meat.

John was quiet for a minute before he continued. His staff glowed gently. “She mostly don't eat here. Seraphanta. She eats roc eggs in the beast dimension, and roc eggs are very filling. But sometimes she'll come here, and when she's needed by a great number of snakes, or when she's very hungry, or when she sees something she just feels needs to be eaten, she'll open her mouth and swallow it.” John paused. A tear rolled down his cheek, barely visible in the blue light of the Moon.

“You don't gotta talk about it if it's painful,” said Meat.

“No, it's all right,” said John. “It happened a long time ago. I had a little brother. Three years younger than me. We grew up in Delaware. After our mom died, I dropped out of college and we moved to Chicago and got an apartment together. We were both working two jobs to make ends meet, trying to get into comedy in our spare time. We did stand-up together. He was a lot funnier than I was, but we played off each other well. We had a pretty good act. He really could have made it, I think. He was a talented guy. Had a good head for business, too.

“When the war broke out, the Churlian War of Expansion, we both went straight down and signed up to join the army. We never would have considered it normally, but with the carnage and turmoil on the East Coast, we couldn't very well not join. A lot of people felt that way. Long story short, they took him, but they turned me down. I didn't pass the physical. This was at the beginning of the war, before they'd waived all those requirements and just started taking anybody who would join the fight. Anyway, he shipped off for boot camp, and I was stuck in Chicago, twiddling my thumbs. Kurt, that was his name, Kurt was all I had. Our dad was a deadbeat. He left when we were real young, and our mom passed a couple years before the war started. We didn't have any other family we were close to. It was just the two of us.

“When I found out they were shipping Kurt home to Delaware to fight the incursion, I couldn't just stay in Chicago and wait to see what happened. I went and joined the Pyroclasts.”

“What are the Pyroclasts?” asked Bob.

“They're a faction of magic users that formed when the war started. 'Pyroclast' means 'broken by fire.' The ones that started the faction had all been affected directly by the big eruption in Philadelphia. They lost their homes, their families, everything they had. Of course, they welcomed anybody who was willing to learn and had even a modicum of affinity for the magics. A lot of them leaned toward the elemental, particularly water and ice magic. I suppose they thought they could fight fire and lava with ice and water. And they could, to a certain extent.

“I joined a group of aquamancers. I took to it pretty well. I learned how to control the water nearby, turning it from liquid to steam, then back to liquid, then freezing it. Eventually we learned how to summon water from the Raw. Feralda is a world of beasts. Raw is a world of basic material elements, all just sitting around in vast deposits. Huge oceans of water, continents of all the minerals you could want, including gold. Precious rocks, like diamonds. Some people have tried to use it to get rich, though it's not as easy as it sounds. We didn't care about gold. We were focused on summoning water. We could make it rain on a sunny day. We could flood a room in a matter of seconds. Together, we could turn a valley into a lake. I thought we were all ready to fight the Tephra. Controlling lava doesn't do you much good if somebody can just come along and pour an infinite amount of water on it.

“Of course, as we learned during a training session with some pyromancers, if a fire is hot enough, water will just split apart into hydrogen and oxygen. At that point, you're just adding fuel. We had to learn something else before we were ready to fight. Something awful. We started with sponges. Soak a sponge with water, then draw all the water out of the sponge until it's bone dry. That's a misleading phrase, though. 'Bone dry.' Bones contain moisture, too. We found that out when we moved on from sponges to slabs of meat from the butcher shop. I tell you, it's hard to draw all the moisture out of a piece of meat without getting some blood and fat along with it. That's even truer when you're doing it to a live subject.”

“You practiced on living things?” said Matthew.

“That look you're giving me,” said John, “that look of disgust and horror, is a look I'm very familiar with. It's a look I saw on my own face in the mirror every night back then. I didn't like it then, and I'm not proud of it now, but you weren't alive during the war. Maybe you don't understand what it was like. I don't mean that as an insult. I'll be very happy if you never have to find out what it was like. Pieces of your country being eaten away by monstrous flows of lava, soldiers in spider masks marching across the place you used to call home. It seemed like the only response to horror was more horror. So I kept practicing, dessicating caged rats and chickens and other creatures. I didn't like it. I didn't like what I was becoming, but I didn't stop. I just stopped looking in the mirror.

“I finally got to fight the Churls, but that's another story. That's something I ain't ready to talk about, and maybe I never will be. I fought right up 'til the war ended, and I probably would have kept fighting, like some people did. I didn't care much for that treaty then, and I don't care for it now. I would have kept fighting Churls until they burnt me up and buried me in lava. But when the courier brought signed orders for us to lay down arms, he also brought some letters and packages he'd managed to get from what remained of the postal service at the time. There were a few letters in there from my brother, which I read right away. And then there was another letter. A form letter, with my brother's name and a few other details filled in where it was appropriate. They sent out millions of those letters.”

“He was killed in combat,” Sheryl said.

John nodded. “I didn't find out until later how it happened, but it didn't matter right then. As soon as I opened that envelope and saw his name there, all the fight went out of me. I guess for some people it might have had the opposite effect. I don't know. I just didn't have anything left to fight for.”

Zeck handed him a clean handkerchief from his satchel. John took it, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

“I'm sorry,” said Sheryl.

“It ain't your fault. You weren't even born when it happened. None of you were. Or if you were, you were just little.”

“What does all this have to do with the snake?” asked Burts.

“Like I said,” John said, “I didn't find out until later how Kurt died. The official report was sealed. I got the story second and third hand in bits and pieces. I found one soldier who was there when it happened, but he was so shell-shocked I didn't believe what he told me. I thought he was nuts, until I heard a similar story from an army doctor who worked on the wounded from that battle. Finally, I found a reporter who'd written a piece on the battle, but the Empire had come and confiscated it and made it very clear he wasn't to publish it anywhere. I pulled in a favor with a mesmerist to get the story out of the guy.

“Kurt's platoon was part of an operation meant to take Mount Philada. It was one of the last maneuvers the North American alliance attempted. They had intelligence indicating that Philada was where the Empire housed its most powerful mages. The Americans thought if they could take Philada, they could turn the tide of the war. Taking out their best mages would be a huge blow to the Churls. They'd lose a major part of their offensive and defensive capabilities. Maybe they wouldn't even be able to control the lava anymore. Of course, not all of that was true, but the Americans didn't know it then. They just hoped.

“Turns out the Churls saw it coming a mile away. They had better spies. Better mages. And they had something else, too. It has a thousand names, most of them in languages long dead. Scythe of the Ether. The Blade of Everwhere. The Key and the Lock. The Pyroclasts just called it the Bugger Knife. I've never seen it, and nobody agrees on what it looks like. We know it's a blade, and it has a handle. We know it was forged a very long time ago, maybe not even on this world. We know it can be used to cut a hole in the fabric between dimensions. When wizards summon beasts or matter or magical fields from other dimensions, they're tearing a tiny hole in that fabric. It's in the natural order of the universe to seal those tears straight away. It takes a great deal of energy and strength to keep them open for more than a few seconds. The Bugger Knife can make a hole of any size, to anywhere you like in any other dimension, and keep it open. The hole only shuts when somebody uses the blade to uncut it.

“The mages atop Philada had this blade. They summoned minor beasts and warriors and shades to keep the American soldiers on the mountainside busy. The mages lured them in, made them think they were putting up a good fight. They waited until the mountain was covered in soldiers, thousands of them on all sides. Then they took the Bugger Knife and opened up a massive doorway to Feralda. The most savage beasts poured out, mundane and mythical alike. Wolves and bears, but also werewolves and bearskinners. Scorpions and wild boars, but also dragons, manticores, unicorns. And yes, snakes. Vipers and constrictors. All hungry, all angry, all confused because they'd been torn out of their world and hurled into chaos. Where so many snakes cried out in anguish, Seraphanta couldn't help but follow. She didn't come through the same way; she makes her own doors. She came from the bottom of the mountain, and devoured her way up, swallowing everything and everybody in her path, including my brother. That's why they never sent his remains home. They were... not available.”

John fell silent. Everybody walked in silence, waiting for him to continue, until it became clear that he wasn't going to.

“So, what happened then?” said Zeck. “What about Seraphanta? What about the mages of Philada?”

“Heh? Oh, er, the mages saw her coming up the mountain. They didn't mind, because she was eating so many of the soldiers that had come there to attack them. So they waited until she got very close to the top. Then they closed the door to Feralda and opened one to the Raw. Rained down sulphur, which they set alight. Seraphanta vanished, taking a bunch of the snakes with her, I suppose.

“I wasn't there, of course. By the time I found all this out, I'd left the Pyroclasts. They'd scattered to the winds, anyway. The war was over, so they had to disband, or appear to disband. Most of them got jobs doing magic for domestic purposes; hydraulic power, garbage incineration, Las Vegas, things like that. I was ready to give up magic altogether, get a job driving a cab or something. Maybe try to get back into stand-up again, but nothing seemed funny anymore. Nobody felt like laughing for a while after the treaty. When I finally found out the truth about what happened to Kurt, I changed my mind about magic. I'll never truck with aquamancy again, that's for sure. I don't even like drinking water anymore. I've gotta eat loads of salt and dry foods to make myself so thirsty I can't help but drink. Otherwise I choke on it. I turned my back on the elemental schools, and developed an interest in something a little different.

“I couldn't stop thinking about what happened to Kurt. I had visions of Seraphanta swallowing him up, along with his whole platoon. He's trying to run away, turning this way and that, but no matter which direction he goes, she's right there behind him. Then darkness swallows him up. This was before I learned to forget my dreams. I'd wake up screaming from nightmares. Even worse, sometimes I expected to wake up, but I couldn't.”

“And then the nightmare would start all over again,” said Sheryl.

“Yes,” said John.

“Or you'd think you'd woken up, but you were still dreaming, and then you'd wake up again, relieved, but you were dreaming still,” Sheryl said.

“Over and over again,” said John. “And you'd finally wake up in the morning more tired than when you went to sleep.” He paused again. “There was nowhere to turn but herpemancy, but I couldn't think straight most of the time, let alone learn a whole new branch of magic. I met up with a friend from the Pyroclasts. The same mesmerist who'd helped me with the reporter. He understood. I asked him if he could hypnotize me or something to stop the nightmares. He said he couldn't, but he'd been dabbling in somnambulism. Not sleep walking, but dream walking, mind you. He said there wasn't really an easy way to stop nightmares, but he told me he could go walking in my dreams, and if he could find a certain door in there, he could shut it, and it wouldn't stop the nightmares, but it would stop me from remembering them. I didn't hesitate; I said yes. It took a few tries, but it worked.

“He and I moved in together for a while. It was a little apartment, smaller even than the one Kurt and I'd shared. We helped each other study. He, his dream walking. Me, my herpemancy. I drove a cab for money. He'd trained as a massage therapist before the war, and he did that, freelance. It was all right for a while. We got along good. We didn't talk much, but we already knew what each other would have to talk about, I guess, and, well...” John trailed off. “Ah, anyway, he just up and disappeared one night. We went to sleep, and when I woke up in the morning, he was gone. A few of his outfits were missing, too, and all of his belongings except for a little wooden carving of an owl he always kept on his bedside table. I was surprised, I guess, but I knew what had happened right away. He found a good dream, or he made one, and he went walking, and he kept walking, and he didn't come back. I knew it would happen some day. He never said it, but I knew.

“I had nothing left to stay for then. I took my robes, my books, and my staff, all the cash I had, and the owl, and I just took off. I've been rambling ever since. Looking for Seraphanta.”

“It's very dusty out here on the plains,” said Zeck, wiping his eyes.

Nobody said any more about the snake. Nobody said anything for a while.

Zeck, Part 4: A Message From the Colonel

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

John went to sleep soon after he got back from relieving himself. “No reason to stay up,” he said. He pulled his hood down over his face and curled up on his side, using his arm as a pillow. Within a minute he was snoring.

A whirr of fans and gears, accompanied by uncountable beeps and boops spilled out of the cab. A cheer went up.

“They must have the computer working,” said Bob. John snored on, but Zeck helped Burts hobble up to the cab. Bob and Matthew were close behind. “Huzzah!” said Bob.

Meat Rom sat on the floor of the cab, tubes from the console inserted into each of his ears.

“If we bounce the signal off the volcanic shroud, we should be able to reach halfway around the world, even if we can't access the cloud,” said Steven.

“Let's hope so,” said Sheryl. She flipped a switch and tapped a few keys. Right away, the speakers started blaring with synthesized horns and sirens. She reached over and turned down the volume. “That sounds like a distress signal,” said Bob.

“It is,” said Sheryl. “Not just one. Dozens of them. Automated distress signals from Churlian satellites, military satellites from friendly nations, airships, even a few that we've picked up from ships at sea, broadcasting on emergency bands. It looks like they started just a few minutes after our computer blew out. Hang on, it's taking a minute to process all of these messages. There's not much information in them; mostly just automated signals indicating that the targets are under attack.”

“Which targets?” said Bob.

“Too many to count,” said Sheryl. “The homunculus was telling the truth. The Arterians must have been planning this for years. We're on our own out here. Whatever's left of our forces are going to have their hands full. This isn't a war; it's a massacre.”

“That's impossible,” Bob said. “I'm open to the idea that the Arterians have survived all these years at the South Pole. I mean, we saw them firsthand today, so I can't deny that. But to think that they've built an army or fleet capable of attacking the Churlian Isle, let alone every military target on Earth? It's absurd. I'd have a much easier time believing that we've been betrayed by a friendly nation. They must be in league with somebody. The Americans, maybe,” he said, throwing a meaningful look at Burts and Meat. “Or the Chinese. Or Greece. Or space aliens.”

“Regardless of who's behind it, it's happening,” said Sheryl.

“What about the Corrigan? We were supposed to deliver the prisoners to them.”

“I don't see any distress signals from the Corrigan, but it's an aircraft carrier. They'll be occupied, if they're still afloat. The same for any airships that could have come to pick us up.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do, then?” Bob said.

As if in answer, the computer's speakers started blaring again. This noise was less annoying than the distress signals, but sounded no less urgent.

“Another message?” asked Bob.

“A live feed,” said Sheryl. “It's addressed to me. It's coming through on a secure channel with redundant encryption.” She typed in her password, then looked into a lens in the console that scanned her retina. The computer chimed, and a video chat opened on the screen. The console's camera captured only a tight shot of Sheryl's face, excluding Steven and Meat Rom from the picture. The person on the other end of the call wore a spider mask like the Guards', only much more elaborate and detailed. The chelicerae on his mask curled inward, rather than hanging straight down. For just an instant, Sheryl's face betrayed something that looked like fear, or disgust, or respect, before her stoic facade returned.

“Captain Teymore,” said a voice like tin foil being scraped along the strings of a piano. His chelicerae moved when he spoke.

“Colonel Destroyer. Sir.”

“We have been trying to locate you. We were beginning to think you had been killed.”

“We were attacked by a platoon of Arterian Pneuma. We took out all of the soldiers, but their hovercraft had an automated emergency protocol. We hacked it, but it sent a feedback loop that damaged our computer. It took some time to conduct repairs.”

“I assume you've seen the distress signals, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An impressively coordinated attack on our entire military force, including military bases on the Isle itself. All of our satellites, offensive and communicative, were destroyed or disabled. It seems we underestimated the Arterians.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn't know anything about that. Sir.”

“No, indeed, it's a shame you walked away from the task force. This might have been avoided.”

Sheryl didn't say anything to that.

“No matter, what's done is done. Do you have the quarry you were dispatched to apprehend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. You were meant to be briefed upon your rendezvous with the Corrigan, but she's been sunk and circumstances have changed. Those are no mere fugitive scofflaws you're escorting. Yours is a mission of vital importance to the Empire. Of course, this mission comes with a promotion. You may once more consider yourself a lieutenant.”

“What do you mean? Why have I been promoted? I requested this post. With all due respect, sir, I must decline. I'm not fit for the Sparassa. Service in the Guard suits me just fine.”

“Nonsense. Do you think I'd let someone of your skill ferry miscreants back and forth for the rest of her life? A gun is made to be fired, a sword thirsts for blood, and a soldier of your caliber is wasted as an attercop. You've been selected for a very important task, doubly important now that the war has broken. The Arterians would love to get their mutant hands on Fawth and Rom. We mustn't let that happen. These men are products of an experimental American biomechanical enhancement facility called Woulf. They've been altered genetically, mentally, and mechanically. The Americans had been keeping this facility secret from us, but they came begging for help when Fawth and Rom escaped. That's how important they are; the Americans have risked severe punishment in order to request our assistance. Is your paddywagon operable?”

“No, sir. It was damaged in the attack. The horses are fine, but the wagon has a broken axle. Irreparable with our current supplies. Our spotter was killed in the attack, but Captain Jaut and I are unscathed. Fawth was injured, and cannot walk faster than a hobble.”

“You'll have to set him on a horse with the supplies, then. Might as well wrap him in silk; he'll give you less trouble that way. Rom might be too much for a horse to bear, unless you leave half your supplies behind. We've managed to get a fix on your location through triangulation, but there are no airships to spare. I'll be on horseback with a small company of mixed units. You'll have to walk. I'm sending you the coordinates now. Just make your way in that direction and we'll meet somewhere in the middle. You mustn't tarry. The Arterians are occupied at the moment, but it's only a matter of time before they come back for you. How many prisoners are you escorting, including the two fugitives?”

“Six prisoners, sir. Mostly minor offenses.”

“All alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Bring the other four along if you wish, but they'll only slow you down. This being wartime, as ranking officer in your locale, you have full jurisdiction. You have authority to dispose of them. Or pardon them, I suppose, and allow the Hinterlands to dispose of them for you. I'll leave it to your discretion. Your priority must be the deliverance of Fawth and Rom. I expect to see you on the morrow. Do not cause me to wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On a personal note, Lieutenant, I look forward to serving with you again.”

The transmission ended.

“You know Colonel Destroyer?” said Bob.

“He was my commanding officer at one time,” said Sheryl.

“The Colonel Destroyer? What's he like in person? Did you meet his horse?”

“I used to feed his horse,” Sheryl said.

Bob tried to say something else, but he only managed to squeal.

“All right, fan boy,” said Sheryl. “We need to get moving. We have a long way to go. Make sure your guns are loaded. Keep your mask set to full spectrum night vision. You'll have to be our lookout.”

“Lookout for what? This is Terra Nova. It's empty.”

“No, this was Terra Nova thirty years ago. Now it's the Eastern Hinterlands.”

“But it's just an empty lava plain. Nothing lives out here.”

Sheryl sighed. “As you know, Bob, the Churlian Empire produces new land by harnessing magma from deep within the Earth. Sometimes they split the Earth, wrenching two places apart, and fill in the cracks with lava. Sometimes they simply let the lava flow over the landscape. The land we're on now is a little bit of both. But it's been here for years. The Empire has no interest in building on it or turning it into arable land. All they want is more land that reads, 'Churlia,' on a map. But empty land isn't going to stay empty forever. People start to creep in. People from the fringes. Outcasts, criminals, drifters, wild animals. Foke. Some are good, most are bad, so we need to be alert. Load your guns, and keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Bob said. He saluted Sheryl, then ran to carry out her orders.

“The rest of you can help pack the horses,” she said.

“Do you think we should disconnect Meat Rom now?” Steven asked. “I think his hair's starting to singe.”

Meat Rom still sat on the floor of the cab with the tubes in his ears. His eyes were shut. A faint whirring sound came from his head. The hairs on the very top of his scalp were indeed starting to burn. “Oh, shit. Get those tubes out,” said Sheryl. She rushed to the cargo hatch that held the rations. A moment later, she returned with one of the bottles from the Meat Rom box. “Here,” she said, “drink this.” She held the bottle out for Meat Rom, but he didn't take it. His eyes remained shut. The circle of singed hair spread wider. Sheryl twisted the cap off of the bottle and held the opening under his nose. He didn't respond. “We left him plugged in too long,” she said.

“Squeeze the sides of his jaw and tilt his head back,” said Burts. “Just pour it straight in.”

“Won't he choke?” Sheryl said.

“He didn't before. It'll work, trust me.”

Steven squeezed Meat Rom's face. His mouth popped open like a fish. Steven tilted the giant's head back. Sheryl upended the bottle and poured its entire contents down his throat.

Meat Rom's eyes opened wide. He belched, sending waves of alcohol fumes through the air. “Me hair!” he said. He rain to the water tank and splashed a handful of it over his scalp.

“Are you all right?” Sheryl asked.

“Well, I look like Friar Tuck now, but my hair's out and I've got a little hooch in my belly, so I can't complain too much. That's strong stuff. That's what moonshine drinks when it wants to kill itself.”

“How much of the conversation did you hear before you started to overheat?”

“I heard all of it, I just couldn't move.”

“As far as I'm concerned, this doesn't change anything,” said Sheryl. “I still have a duty to escort you to the proper authorities, and an equal duty to protect you from harm. Protecting you from harm may include restraining you so I am not forced to injure or kill you if you do something stupid.”

“I'm prepared to do everything stupid,” said Burts. “You think we're just going to march along with you so your government can put us in a lab and turn us into weapons? What the hell do you think we just escaped from?”

“That's just it, though. You escaped. You are fugitives, and fugitives are hunted. If it's not the Churls, the Americans will find you. If not them, the Arterians will, and believe me when I say you don't want that. But you've already been captured, so that choice has been made for you. Your choice now is between riding on the back of a horse, wrapped up in spiderwebs so you can't even move, or riding upright with a little dignity intact. Flip a coin if you want. Either way works for me. But those are your only two options.”

“Look,” said Meat, “I can almost guarantee that Burts is gonna do something stupid, but it ain't likely to be something that necessitates killing him or tying him up. Our beef ain't with you.” He turned to Burts. “Look, mate, she's not wrong. If we try to make a run for it, the Arterians will snatch us up before we even get out of the Hinterlands. And we'd be all alone with no guns, no backup, and your bum leg.” He turned back to Sheryl. “I'm not gonna say I like it. In fact, I hate it. I've heard stories about this Colonel Destroyer, and I'm not too keen on meeting him. I'm even less keen on what he plans to do with us, but as you say, we ain't got much of a choice. We'll go with you, and we'll play nice. And I'll carry Burts so we have more room for cargo.”

Sheryl nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“I see something!” said Bob. He was out on the edge of the firelight, surveying the landscape. He pointed off into the distance.

“What is it?” said Sheryl.

Bob shook his head. “I don't know. Something big. A caravan, maybe. It almost looks like a freight train, but I can't make out individual cars.”

“Are you sure it's actually moving? Maybe it's just shadows on a hill, shifting in the firelight.”

“It does look like a living shadow,” he said. “It's huge, but it's definitely moving. I can't make out what it is, though, no matter how I tune my eyepiece. It's just a big dark hulk slithering across the ground like a snake. Oh! Maybe it's a snake.”

“Well, keep an eye on it,” Sheryl said. “Let me know if it comes closer.”

Sheryl and the others finished packing the horses. The horses were robots, so there was storage space inside as well as on top. They managed to pack all of the remaining rations, the water tank, the evidence locker, and the first aid and emergency roadside kits. There was even space to stow the broken Rover.

“Um, I don't want to alarm anybody, but I think the snake thing is coming our way,” said Bob.

“I still don't see anything,” said Sheryl.

“I kind of see something out there,” said Meat. “Could just be dust swirling in the wind.”

“It's not dust,” said Bob.

“Perhaps you're hallucinating?” said Zeck. “Maybe you got a dose of that purple smoke.”

“I see it now,” said Sheryl. “It's big.”

“It's big as a house!” said Bob.

“Could it be an ashmara?” said Zeck.

“No,” said Matthew. “We've got ashmara back home. They're not like this. They mostly happen while you're sleeping, and I've never heard of a group of people having the same one. I see it now, too.”

“It's coming this way,” said Bob. “It's getting faster. Oh, shit, it's gonna swallow us all!”

At the sound of Bob's cries, John sat up. “Time for a whizz,” he said.

The form in the darkness vanished.

“It's gone,” said Bob. He fiddled with the controls on his eyepiece. “It's just gone. It was there one second, not half a klick from us, and now it's disappeared.”

“Perhaps it was an ashmara,” said Zeck, “but the wizard dreams outside rather than in. When he woke up, the dream ended.”

“Or maybe he summoned it, intending for it to eat us all, but I broke his concentration,” said Bob.

“Gone is gone,” said Sheryl. “Discuss it on the road if you want. We're wasting time.”

“What the hell are you people babbling about?” said John.

“Phantom snakes. Visions. Hallucinations. Dust clouds. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter; we need to get moving.” Sheryl told him about the distress signals and the orders from Colonel Destroyer. “I have no intention of executing any of you,” said Sheryl. “I do have the authority to pardon all but Burts and Meat. If we were back in Rintburg, I'd do just that. Your offenses are all pretty minor, and we won't be seeing the Ruby Court any time soon. But If I pardon you, I'll have to let you go. It's wartime. I'm obligated to direct all the resources I can to the war effort, at the expense of humanitarian aid if necessary. If you remain prisoners of the Empire, I can protect you. But I need cooperation. There can be no argument. We move as a unit. If I give you an order, you will carry it out. Do we understand each other?”

Everybody nodded. A few said, “Yes, Ma'am.” Bob said it loudest of all.

“Good,” she said. “I suggest everybody grab an emergency blanket. It's cold out on the plains, and we're not stopping to build another fire.”

Zeck, Part 3: Smokes

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

Captain Teymore wasted no time. “If any of you knows anything about computers, I need an extra hand,” she shouted. She jumped into the cab of the paddywagon and flipped open the computer console. Steven climbed down from the back of the wagon, followed by a hesitant Matthew and a very weary looking John.

“I can hack anything with a tube,” said Steven. He hopped up into the cab next to Teymore.

“Good,” she said. She handed him the homunculus.

“Ugh,” he said, but he took the creature. It writhed like a worm in his hand.

“Pop it into that tube, headfirst,” she said, pointing at one of the computer's ports. Steven did as she said.

The homunculus flailed its arms and legs. “Nooooo,” it screamed, but was quickly silenced when its head went into the tube.

“We need to subvert its protocol,” Sheryl said. “Use the homunculus to spoof their ISP and set up a proxy server. That should reverse the polarity of the tractor beam.”

“Got it,” said Steven. His hands flew across the keyboard in a blur, typing and hacking as only a surly teenager can. Sure enough, the tractor beam's color turned from purple to green. Meat Rom's body stopped for a moment in midair, then started descending gently back to Earth.

“Huzzah!” said Sheryl. She gave Steven a high five with her good hand.

The computer screen flashed white. A countdown clock appeared onscreen, displaying thirty seconds. It started counting down immediately. “Shit,” said Sheryl. “It's a self-destruct mechanism. That airship is going to blow up right over our heads. We'll have to tandem hack this one, but it won't be easy with only three hands.”

Both of Steven's hands and Sheryl's good one hammered the keyboard until it was nearly smoking. The clock flashed twenty.

“Every time I get through a tube, it reroutes to their firewall,” Steven said.

“I'll clear the cache,” said Sheryl. “That should break the encryption.”

Ten seconds left.

“A key popped off,” said Steven.

“Leave it; it's the tilde.”

Nine seconds, eight. The homunculus burst into flames.

Seven, six, five.

“Their firewall's down.”

Four, three, two.

“Invert the motherboard!”

The clock stopped with one second left. The computer console made a sizzling noise, then a pop. The screen went dark. The hovercraft rose into the sky, then shot away into the murky twilit haze, leaving only a purple trail that soon faded.

“Damn!” Sheryl said. She pounded the computer with her fist.

“What are you mad about?” asked Steven. “We stopped the destruct sequence.”

“If it had hung around a minute longer, we could have attempted to hijack it. We really could have used an airship. This wagon's not going anywhere with all flat tires and a broken axle. It looks like they fried our antenna with a feedback loop, too. I'll try rebooting the console, but I'm sure we'll need to make some repairs.”

“Once we fix the antenna, we could try to boost the signal to the cloud, see if we can ping their GPS and reroute the backdoor encryption. We could turn the airship around and make it come back for us.”

“No,” Sheryl said. “Those things are fast. It'll be halfway to Antarctica by now. We do need to boost the signal, though; I need to contact headquarters, or at least access a news feed. If what the homunculus said is true, we might have bigger problems than a broken axle. First things first, though. We could all use a bite to eat.”

*     *     *

A painful resetting of the bone and a generous dose of Medi-Gel got Sheryl's arm in more or less working order. She applied some of the healing aid to Bob's scalp and helped him stick patches onto his cowl.

Everybody pitched in who was able, and they finished piling the remains of the Pneuma soldiers and squids on the fire just as the Sun went down. They laid Jim's body at the front of the wagon. Meat Rom still lay supine on a small hill, snoring lightly.

“Any advice on what to do with your friend?” Sheryl asked Burts. He was back on his feet now, but he walked slowly and with a severe limp. “He may be severely injured. The debilitator venom should wear off in an hour or two, but it may be sooner with a man his size. Or later, considering all the beer he drank in the bar. We need to move him, but I can't see you picking him up and carrying him in your current state, even with your super healing powers.”

“I wouldn't have thrown Meat Rom if I thought it would really hurt him. I've got Woulf blood. He's got the same, plus a layer of synthetically grown organic cushioning under his skin. His bones are infused with an experimental material they originally developed for self-healing concrete. His skull and spine have some kind of fluid running through them that protects and heals his nervous system at the same time. He could tell you more about it than I could. My point is, he'll be in better shape than any of us. Being an experimental super-soldier has a few perks, at least. Came in handy when we broke out.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Sheryl asked. “I could have guessed that you were a super-soldier from your blood and your weird strength, but why tell me the rest of it?”

“I figured you already knew,” said Burts. “I thought you were some elite secret forces soldier, undercover as an attercop. They didn't tell you who your targets were?”

“I'm just a Guard. All they told us was that you and Meat Rom are fugitives, and that you stole military grade weapons.”

“Those weapons would be me and Meat. Look, I don't know why your people kept you in the dark. Or maybe the Americans are keeping the Churls in the dark. I don't care. I'm not the one trying to keep my existence a secret. All you need to know is that my beef is not with you. Look, I'll be honest. I had a plan to escape, but if what that little baby man said is true, the plan's changed.”

Sheryl nodded. “We'll all think better with some food in our bellies. I assume you and Meat will need extra rations?”

Burts nodded. “These upgrades come with a hell of metabolism. Two meals for me, three for him. Thanks.”

“Returning to the subject of moving him,” Sheryl said.

“Not a problem,” said Burts. “He's running in safe mode. There's a specific frequency that signals him to boot up.” He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill, warbling whistle that pitched higher and higher until none of the humans could hear it anymore. Meat Rom sat straight up. He looked around, taking in the remains of the chaos. Burts beckoned him over. “I'll bring you up to speed, mate,” he called.

Bob seemed to regain his composure once he put Sheryl's spider mask on. He opened the hatch on the port side of the wagon. “There's some damage in here,” he said. “Some rations were crushed. The water tank is okay. Oh, no. Rover's broken. He won't even power on.”

Sheryl looked over Bob's shoulder at the electric bloodhound. “We might be able to fix him,” she said. “It looks like only the casing cracked in the impact. I think we can get him working. Looks like we have rations for about a week. Let's hope that's enough if we have to hoof it.”

“Why is there a box in here with Meat Rom's name on it?” Bob said. He opened the box. Inside were several dark colored bottles labeled 'To be administered with meals.' Wedged down on the side was a smaller box. Inside that box was a tranquilizer gun with several cartridges and a note reading 'Just in case.' “What is this?” said Bob.

Sheryl unscrewed the cap on one of the bottles and gave it a sniff. “I have a hunch,” she said. “Let me take care of these. Just serve dinner for now.”

“All right, everybody, form an orderly line,” Bob said. “Dinner rations consist of a nutritive gel, a packet of whole grain crunch bites, and a pouch of multi-purpose chocolate powder. I like to add texture to the gel by mixing in the crunch bites. Mix the chocolate powder with half a cup of water for a milkshake consistency, a full cup for chocolate milk, or, if you really want to have fun with it, mix it with the gel and pretend you're having dessert for dinner.”

It was hard to tell with his mask on, but Bob seemed genuinely excited about the possibilities afforded by the dinner kits. The prisoners were less enthusiastic. “The Guard take humanitarian treatment of their prisoners seriously,” said Bob, “and these meals will provide all of the calories and nutrition you would get from a balanced meal.”

“How about a cup for water?” Zeck asked, taking his ration.

“There's a collapsible drinking cup in the ration pouch that will hold liquid for up to one hour before dissolving. Help yourself to water, but please use all you take.”

“Cheers,” said Zeck.

The prisoners and guards alike gathered by the fireside. With all of the empty Pneuma suits piled on, the fire blazed high and bright.

“Just in time to take the nip out of the air,” said Zeck.

“I don't mind the cold so much,” said John. “Been sleeping rough most nights for a long time now. It don't get really cold in the Hinterlands for another two or three months.”

“I just hope the purple animus hasn't left a residue on those suits,” said Sheryl. “It couldn't be as bad as breathing it in directly, but if there's even a little bit in the air, we might all have strange dreams tonight.”

“Out of curiosity,” Zeck said, “what would happen if we were to breathe that purple smoke?”

“You'd probably live. Physically, you'd be fine at first, but you'd have terrible nightmares for weeks. It would take a toll on your sanity and your physical health. You might waste away to nothing until you starved to death. You might harm yourself, or others. You might commit suicide. Or you might recover after a while and be okay. But the nightmares wouldn't ever completely go away. Not for good.”

There was silence for a minute while everybody ate their rations.

“Those homunculi smell like meat roasting,” said Zeck.

“Aw, that's fucking nasty,” said Steven. “Eat a lot of long pork on the high seas, do you?”

“Once again, I'm not a pirate,” said Zeck. “Nor a cannibal. I was merely making an observation.”

“Observe your mouth shutting,” Steven said. “Oy, attercops. Where are my smokes?”

“Are you talking to us?” Bob said, incredulously.

“Yeah, you. My mate Matthew and I had half a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with us when you pinched us in the tavern. We'd like an after dinner toke, if you don't mind.”

“Absolutely not,” Bob said. “First of all, those cigarettes are evidence in the case against you. They are sealed in a bag in the evidence locker. Secondly, the two of you are minors. You're sixteen, and your 'mate' is fifteen. You're asking an officer of the peace, whose sworn duty is to uphold the law, to break the seal on an evidence bag in order to enable two minors to smoke tobacco?”

“Now we're on the same page,” said Steven.

“Steven, no,” said Sheryl. “I'm sorry, but Bob is right. We can't give you the cigarettes. We have graduated nicotine patches if you need some.”

“That's bullshit,” said Steven. “The snake mage gets his staff, the corsair gets his satchel with who knows what inside, but Matthew and I can't have a little smoke after dinner?”

“It's not that they're evidence,” said Sheryl. “You shouldn't be smoking anyway.” She sighed. “I arrested you not because you'd broken the law, but because two teenagers smoking in a tavern in the middle of a school day clearly need help. There are programs in Churlia for wayward teens.”

“Right, because clearly, we're better off being attacked with bombs and lasers in the middle of nowhere. I don't need your help. And I don't smoke. They belong to me, is all.”

“Why on Earth are these cigarettes so important to you?” asked Zeck.

Steven looked at Zeck as if he'd forgotten he was still there. “Fuck off, corsair. Nobody asks you why you wear pantaloons.”

“Does your mother know she raised a ne'er-do-well?”

“Does your mother know the abortion didn't take?”

Zeck gasped. Nobody said anything as Steven stood up and stomped over to the back of the wagon. He climbed in and laid down on one of the benches.

“Well, I think we're all a little shocked by that one,” said Zeck. “I mean, I know the kid's an asshole, but there's a line, and he crossed it.”

“He's really not an asshole,” said Matthew. “He's got it hard, is all. He's really a good guy.”

“He does a damn good job of hiding it,” said Zeck. “I'm glad to see you're feeling better, at least. I went through something similar when I was about your age. I didn't smoke half a pack of cigarettes in one sitting, but it was almost worse. I stole a cigar from my father's humidor. I'd never smoked before, so I didn't know what it was like. I just knew my dad and his friends all did it, and I wasn't allowed, so it must be amazing, and I wanted to try it. I climbed out of my bedroom window and up onto the roof. I gagged as soon I put the cigar in my mouth, but I figured it would be better once I lit the thing. I took one puff and vomited over the edge of the roof, right past the open window of my father's study. Of course, he heard me, and soon enough, he smelled the smoke.”

“What did he do?”

“He grabbed a cigar for himself and climbed up onto the roof. He sat down next to me, lit his cigar, told me to re-light mine, and he made me smoke the whole thing. We sat there, side by side, smoking cigars. One of us loving it, the other feeling sicker than he'd ever felt before.”

“Did it put you off cigars for good?”

“No, I loved cigars after that, just to spite him. I never stole another one from his humidor, but I didn't have to; he gave me one every week after that, and we'd go up on the roof together and smoke. I'm still not sure whether he did it to punish me or to bond with me, or equal parts of both, but I still enjoy a good cigar. I loved my father, and I know he loved me. Just, after my mother disappeared, we had a lot of trouble being decent to each other. Half of the things I did, I did because I wanted to be like him. The other half, I did because he told me not to.”

“Is he still around?”

Zeck didn't answer for a moment. “That's a good question. What about your folks? What will they say when they find out you've been arrested for truancy and minor possession of tobacco?”

“My dad worked in the mines. He died when I was real little. I don't really even remember him. My mom raised me all on her own, working two jobs to make sure we always had food and a place to sleep. Cindy, she's the waitress at the tavern where we got arrested, she used to babysit me when my mom worked nights. Sometimes I'd go to the tavern after school. Not to the bar, but to the office upstairs. I'd do my homework there, and Cindy would bring me a sandwich and soda. That's why I brought Steven there to smoke. It's a safe place. Well, safe as anywhere, I guess.

“Steven got the smokes from a friend of his brother's. His brother's not around anymore, not dead, just not around, but his brother's friend still hangs around town. Steven's dad, well, I shouldn't say. It's not my place to tell you. But anyway, Steven's dad is in a fix, and my mom...” Matthew's lip trembled. His eyes watered up. He took a deep breath and continued. “My mom's really sick. She's got the rasp from all the gases, and skin rashes from the acid rain. This land out here's older than I am, but she got exposed to a lot of that stuff when she was young and the lava was fresh. And we're downwind from the Basalt Valley, so there's always something foul drifting through Rintburg. A lot of people have cleared out of town, but we can't afford to leave now. My mom's too sick to work more than a couple hours at a time, but she won't let me get a job. She wants me to focus on school. If I get a scholarship, I can go to college out of state. Maybe out in Fortune's Landing, or somewhere like that.”

“And you throw that in her face by skipping school to smoke with your friend?”

“No, it's not like that. The cigarettes, see, Steven's brother's friend didn't just go down to the Sta-Mart and pick up a pack. These cigarettes belonged to a soldier who died at the battle of Yellowstone. He opened up the pack, but the fighting broke out before he had a chance to smoke any. He had a habit of taking one cigarette out of each pack he smoked, turning it around, and putting it back in the pack. That was his lucky, and he'd smoke that one last. With this pack, he never got a chance to smoke any of them. He died trying to keep the Churls from opening the volcano.

“I don't know how much you know about Yellowstone. We studied it in school last year. There weren't just infantry there, although there were plenty of them, and they fought as hard as anybody. There were also wizards and battlemages, cybermages, all sorts of magical and technomagical folk. There was one very powerful technowizard who controlled an army of genies. Not djinn, you know. Not actual genies from mythology. I think this guy just thought it sounded cool, and he didn't much much about accuracy or cultural appropriation. Lord knows the Churls don't. Anyway, these were really just semi-corporeal servants that he'd made himself from fallen enemy soldiers. Don't ask me how. They were only good for one wish, and then they were done, but it was still pretty amazing what they could do.

“This technowizard didn't trust anybody else to control his genies, or maybe he just liked the power it gave him. Whatever the case, he sealed them up in trinkets like rings and old-fashioned oil lamps, doubling down on the whole genie aesthetic. Anybody who needed one would have to come and ask him, and if he thought it was legit, he'd make the wish for them. All that power couldn't save him, though. When the Churlian Tephra broke through the crust and the supervolcano erupted, the wizard was killed instantly. All of the genies were freed from his command. A few of them went out fighting. They managed to save some lives by holding back the lava for a few minutes. Those genies burned up, their power expended. Most of them weren't so heroic. Some of them fled over the mountains, and nobody knows where they ended up. Some went back into their lamps and rings. A few of them found other places to hide. One genie saw this soldier's open pack of cigarettes lying on the ground, the open end of his lucky smoke standing out among all of the filters. He dived in, turned the lucky cigarette back around so it looked like all the others, and there he's stayed for thirty years.

“Or so the story goes. I don't know if it's true or not. I could only speculate about how somebody would possibly know all that. Maybe a fellow soldier who survived the Battle of Yellowstone? I don't know. Maybe it's hogwash. Steven says his brother's friend wouldn't sell them if he wasn't sure the story was true, because it would be bad for business if his customers couldn't trust him. All I know is, it's my only chance to help my mom. And Steven's only chance to help his dad. We have to smoke the cigarettes to get the genie out. We don't know which one, or how far down we have to smoke it, so we agreed to take turns. Whoever gets the genie gets the wish.”

“All the more reason those cigarettes don't belong to you,” said Bob. “All magical weapons are property of the government on whose land they are discovered or developed, which would normally make this genie the property of the U.S. Government, with requirements that it be cataloged, reported, and made available for requisition by Churlia at any time. However, if this genie was used or intended to be used in the Battle of Yellowstone, it falls under the category of spoils of war, and it belongs to the Churlian Empire. If the court wizards examine the cigarettes and discover that they really do contain a genie, Emperor Craugh will be most pleased that we've recovered such a valuable item. And, if it turns out we really are at war with the Arterians now, this could be the very thing that gives us a leg up.”

Burts spat in disgust. “You'd deprive a kid of his only chance to help his sick mother, merely to add another weapon to your emperor's arsenal? And you wonder why people hate the Churls?”

Bob seemed taken aback. “This young man has the chance to be a war hero. Matthew, would you rather use your single wish to cure your mother of all her ills, or would you rather allow the proper authorities to use that genie to save countless lives? One life, versus potentially millions.”

Matthew opened his mouth, but all that came out was a non-committal, “Umm.”

Bob continued. “The only people who hate the Churls are misguided insurgents like you, Fawth, poisoned by the propaganda churned out by ungrateful malcontents who don't understand all the Empire has done for them. If everybody hated the Empire, why did they all sign the treaty?”

“The treaty?” Burts laughed. “You mean the decree of Churlian Dominion? As if they had a choice.”

“Call it what you will, every nation that signed that treaty has seen peace since pen met paper. War and death and misery only persist in those countries that insist on continuing to fight.”

“This is your first time off the island, isn't it?” said Burts. “You've spent your whole life in Churlia.”

“I don't see how that's relevant,” said Bob.

“No, of course you don't. You talk about propaganda. How many of the things you just said to me were quoted directly from speeches your emperor gave, or editorials from your local news outlets?”

“Plenty of that was my own thoughts, in my own words. If I quote others, it's only because their eloquence on the subject exceeds my own, and they've already expressed my views on the topic better than I could. I won't get drawn into a debate with somebody who allowed his military to give him superhuman abilities, then absconded with them. You can't own a human, but you can own the improvements you've made to that human. That makes you a thief in my book.”

Burts started to respond, but Meat put his hand on his shoulder. “It ain't worth it, Burts,” he said. “You ain't gonna convince him by arguing. By way of changing the subject, captains, you wouldn't happen to have anything stronger than water, would you?” He'd already polished off two of his ration pouches, and he was well into the third.

“Are you asking for alcohol?” said Bob. He'd taken his mask off to eat his meal. He spoke with an air of authority, but his eyes displayed something like fear when he talked to Meat Rom. Perhaps he remembered the crushing weight of the giant from their encounter in the tavern.

“Yeah, if you've got any,” said Meat. “Doesn't have to be good. Straight ethanol will do. Anything fit for human consumption, or even stuff that's not.”

“The gall of you two. No, we don't have any alcohol, and I wouldn't serve it to you if we did. Guards may not partake of intoxicants while on duty, and prisoners are forbidden from consuming any controlled substances other than those prescribed for medical purposes. If you're an alcoholic, we have medication for that.”

“I ain't an alcoholic,” said Meat Rom. “But I do need something to take the edge off.”

“What will happen if you don't drink?” Sheryl asked.

Meat Rom hesitated. “I already told her about the Woulf facility,” said Burts. “Might as well tell her the rest. They ain't our secrets to keep.”

“Well,” said Meat Rom, “the good folks at Woulf Labs like to create enhanced humanoids who specialize in a particular area. Clearly, you've seen that Burts has been enhanced with incredible strength, speed, and combat skills. The strength and resilience they gave me is nothing to scoff at, but it's mostly there to protect the cargo up here.” He tapped his head. “A supercomputer, built partly by nanobots, incorporated with organic components grown from my own brain. Ostensibly designed to calculate every possible scenario in times of war and provide the best possible route to victory. It could be put to use in a minor battle out in the field, or in a war room during a major conflict involving many nations. That was the idea, anyway. It's got other tricks, as well, but that was meant to be its main purpose. We escaped before they could complete my programming. Not before they wiped my memory and gave me this phony-baloney accent, though.

“As far as alcohol and other sedatives, the computer has an unfortunate tendency to overheat when I think too much. I've tried meditation, but it's difficult to keep my mind from wandering. I always end up running fast and hot, which is a problem, because the power source in my noggin could easily cause a thermoquantum explosion once it reaches three hundred celsius. The only things that keep the needle out of the red are depressants like alcohol.”

“How long until it's dangerous?” Sheryl asked.

“It depends,” said Meat. “I had nine beers in the tavern. That debilitator's pretty much worn off now. Maybe twelve hours from now until it becomes a problem. A little longer if I try to meditate.”

“What if you let it get up to speed? Put your brain to work on a specific task? How long until we had to worry?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Our computer was badly damaged when we hacked the Arterian airship. I'm not sure we have the materials we need to repair it. The console is outfitted with organic interface tubes, both male and female. If we could temporarily link your brain to our computer, we might be able to get it working. All I need is a few minutes to contact headquarters, or access a newsfeed, or maybe contact somebody in the Tephra. We need to know if the homunculus was telling the truth.”

Meat Rom considered her proposal for a moment. He wolfed down the rest of his third meal. “We could certainly do that. I've done something like that before, in fact. But I'd say after nine or ten minutes, even if we disconnect me right away, I'll enter a feedback loop and reach critical temperature in less than an hour, unless I get a good dose of something pungent.”

“We have alcohol,” said Sheryl. “It's in the wagon with the supplies, in a box with your name on it.”

Meat Rom nodded. “I'd say your bosses knew what they were sending you to deal with, then. You two must not be just any ordinary Guards. They wouldn't take chances with such property as us.”

“Well, I did graduate top of my class at the academy,” said Bob. “And I've logged over sixty hours in the training simulator. I've completed the Battle of Toms River five times, once in under fifty minutes.”

“I'm just a peace officer,” said Sheryl. “That's all.”

“Have it your way,” said Meat. “Let's get that computer working. Then we'll see where we stand.”

Sheryl stood and tossed her garbage into the fire. She stepped up to the back of the wagon. “Steven, we could use your help.”

“Fuck off,” he said.

“Steven, I'm sorry. I don't know how much you heard in here, but Matthew told us about the cigarettes. I didn't know. I had no way of knowing. Maybe we can work something out, but first I need to get the computer working.”

Steven sat up. “You know, it's not the cigarettes I'm mad about. You were just doing your job. I wouldn't even be mad if that's the entire reason you pinched us. We broke the law, you caught us. Never mind that you didn't arrest Cindy for letting us smoke in there. I wish I'd been caught by the local PD. Then maybe I could see my brother again. But that's just the way the dice roll, I thought. Now you tell me you arrested us so you could take us to the Isle and put us in some kind of program for troubled youths? You don't even fucking know us. Myself, I don't care about. You can do what you want with me. But Matthew, he's got family back in Rintburg. Do they even know he's gone?”

“They'll receive a letter,” Sheryl said.

“A letter. If the postal service is still even running. I don't know, fuck it, let's get the computer running. At least then we'll know what's happening out there, and maybe you'll be so gracious as to let me call Matthew's poor mother.” He hopped down from the wagon. “Your hand's still aching, so I'll do the soldering and shit. I know Meat Rom ain't gonna be much help with those sausage fingers.”

Sheryl led Steven and Meat Rom to the cab. The dome light came on when she opened the door, casting a half-circle of yellow light around the front of the wagon.

“Well, I don't know about the rest of you,” said John, “but I need to find a ditch to whizz in. I can make a light with my staff, if anybody wants to tag along.”

“Thank you,” said Zeck, “but I rarely urinate, thanks to Borb. The, er, genetically engineered stomach virus in my belly.”

“I kind of have to pee,” said Matthew.

“Now, wait a minute,” said Bob. “You can't just wander off on your own.” He pulled up his cowl and snapped his mask into place.

“We won't go far,” said John. “Just gotta find a little slope that runs away from our little camp. This rock isn't particularly absorbent, and I don't want to step in a puddle in the middle of the night when I get up to whizz again.”

“Well, but, if you go, we all have to go.”

“Oh, I honestly don't have to go,” said Zeck.

“Me, neither,” said Burts.

“But. Sheryl!” Bob called to his partner.

“What?” She answered, sounding exasperated.

“The mage and the kid need to eliminate waste, but the other two won't come along.”

“So? Let them stay.”

“What if they run away? Or gang up on you while I'm not around?”

“Bob, if they were going to do something like that, they could do it with you here, and they'd have done it already. I need you to wake up to the reality of the situation. The most important thing you could do right now is take your blunderbuss and cover anybody who has to relieve themselves. There could be scavengers, ravagers, coyotes, or who knows what out there. I've seen you clenching your jaw for the past ten minutes in that way you do when you have to urinate. Nobody's gonna run away, and nobody's gonna mutiny, but you are going to piss your uniform if you don't take a bathroom break yourself, so you might as well go with John and Matthew.”

Bob shifted from one foot to the other. He gave Zeck and Burts the old side-eye. “All right, fine. Any prisoners who need to evacuate bodily waste, form a single file line in front of me.”

“Not a second too soon,” said John. He thumped his staff on the ground and the gemstone on the end lit up like a torch. John and Matthew lined up ahead of Bob, and the three of them jogged off to find a ditch.

Sheryl climbed into the cab with Steven and Meat Rom. Zeck turned to Burts. “Thank goodness for that,” he said in a low voice. “I thought I'd never get a chance to speak to you alone. We should have a few minutes; it's not easy to piss in a wizard's robe, especially if you're the one wearing it at the time. I'm the courier who was meant to contact you at the tavern. I barely got a chance to spot the two of you before the attercops burst in.”

“You had time to order a drink, though.”

“A drink that saved our skins back there. Borb took that cherry skin, lemon twist, and whiskey and made me a nice little cherry bomb. I thought I might need it, and it turns out I was right. Anyway, I recall somebody else putting away more than his share of daddy's lemonade.” He nodded toward Meat. “Although I suppose he needs it to dull his terrifying intellect. And let's not forget that I got myself arrested just so I wouldn't lose track of you. Listen, do you have the package? Is it in the cargo hatch?”

Burts shook his head. “We were going to tell you at the tavern. There was a little hiccup. The, uh, item was not where it was supposed to be. We have a lead. We're pretty sure we know where to find it, but we need the map I was looking at in the bar. It's in the evidence locker.”

“Can't Meat Rom just memorize it?”

“Yes, but we need the actual map itself. The paper contains a string of nanoparticles arranged in a specific sequence. It's not just a map, it's also a key. That's not the problem, though; we can get it out of the locker. Here's what we do: while everybody is asleep, I'll stand guard while you and Meat break into the wagon and get the map and the kid's cigarettes. I'll smoke the rest of the pack all at once. I've done it before. We use the genie to get us where we need to go. We get the item, you take it to the Pyroclasts, and we all get paid and go our separate ways.”

“No. Absolutely not. The genie's not on the table. You said it yourself. Would you take away the kid's only chance to help his sick mom?”

“No, see, the Churls would use it as a weapon. It would just be another bullet in a gun to them. They would use it to wage war. We're going to use it to prevent one. Or stop one and prevent another, I guess. I'm not just doing this for the money. The Pyroclasts have a plan that won't just end one war; it'll make war obsolete. That Guard was right about one thing; if you have a choice between saving one life and saving millions, you save millions.”

“I don't disagree, but we can find another way. You're not smoking that genie. And think fast; they're on their way back.”

“Fine. We steal the horses. Meat rides one, you and I ride the other. We get the map, saddle up, and ride 'til we hit the border.”

“Now, there's a plan I can get behind,” said Zeck. “I love horsies.”

“It's agreed, then. The Guards will take turns on watch, so we do it while Sheryl sleeps. Bob will be easier to take out. You distract him. I'll knock him out from behind by applying pressure right here.” He touched his neck. “It won't hurt him, but he should be out for at least ten minutes.”

Zeck nodded. Seconds later, Bob and the others returned to the campfire. “Did you fellows remember to wash your hands?”

Zeck, Part 2: Ambush in the Hinterlands

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

The paddywagon rattled like a sack of bones. Two great robot horses pulled it across the barren land. A spotter sat up top in a perch that afforded him a view of the landscape in all directions. The Guards sat in a covered cab at the front of the wagon, behind the horses.

The back of the wagon was cramped, with just enough room for a bench on each side and space to walk single file. The only door was located at the rear, locked and heavily armored. There were no windows, only a small vent for climate control.

The Guards has sprayed each prisoner with a compound that dissolved the webs that encased them. They then applied spider silk shackles around the prisoners' wrists and ankles, with additional strands tying them to the benches. Before closing and locking the door, each captive was notified of the charges against them by the taller of the two Guards.

She started with the teenagers. “Steven Broyle, you are charged with truancy, illegal possession of a controlled substance, and consumption of a controlled substance. Matthew Carey, you are charged with truancy, illegal possession of a controlled substance, and consumption of a controlled substance.”

“And damaging the uniform of an Imperial Guard,” said the shorter Guard.

“It's puke, it'll wash out,” the tall one replied.

She moved on to Zeck. “Zeck Strauss, you are charged with theft of goods or services and attempted assault on an officer of the peace.”

The Guard turned around and regarded the giant, still out cold from the debilitator. Even sitting, he came face to face with the Guard. He took up a good half of the bench, requiring his friend and the wizard to squeeze together on the other half. “Meat Rom,” the Guard said, “you will be informed of the charges against you now and again when you have regained consciousness. You are charged with theft of state secrets, theft of government property, possession of restricted military grade weaponry, evasion of justice, destruction of property both public and private, three counts of murder, fifty-nine counts of assault, and attempted assault on an officer of the peace.”

“I'm impressed you got that out all in one breath,” Zeck said. The Guard ignored him and moved on to the man who'd been studying the map with the giant.

“Burts Fawth, you are charged with theft of state secrets, theft of government property, possession of restricted military grade weaponry, evasion of justice, destruction of property both public and private, arson, pickpocketing, nine counts of murder, seventeen counts of assault, attempted assault on an officer of the peace, attempted theft from an officer of the peace, and littering.”

The wizard was last. “If I guess the charges, will you let me off with a warning?” he said.

“No,” said the Guard without humor, “but a plea of guilty would be taken into consideration upon your trial. John Derman, you are charged with assaulting an officer of the peace.”

“That's it?” John said. “After the laundry list you read these two guys, all I get is assault with a not-so-deadly snake?”

“It's enough,” the Guard said. Addressing the entire van load, she said, “All accused are considered neither innocent nor guilty until proven either way at the Ruby Court. This paddywagon will make stops every four hours for meals and regular bodily functions. This vehicle is not equipped with an emergency call button, but if you have a bodily waste emergency, stomp your feet three times fast, then two more times. We will allow you an additional break. Do not abuse this privilege. These horses are fast, but we have a long way to go. We will be traversing the Eastern Hinterlands, which means there is nowhere to run if you try to escape. Are there any final words before we embark?”

“Attercop,” said Steven. The Guard shut the door.

The first few hours passed in silence. Zeck tugged impatiently at the webbing that bound his wrists. The paddywagon rocked and swayed with every dip and bump in the road, knocking the prisoners against each other. Meat Rom slept away. He didn't wake even when his head lolled with the motion of the van, smacking against the ceiling before falling forward or to the side to rest against Burts. He just snored and drooled on himself.

Finally, Zeck couldn't stand the awkward silence any longer. “Well, we know each other's names and alleged crimes, but we haven't been properly introduced. It's a long way to the Ruby Court; we might as well get to know each other.” Only John, the old mage, looked at Zeck. Then he sneered and looked away again. Zeck continued, undeterred. “I was born at sea in a boat made of cabbage, a man without a country. I've lived here and there. New York, Dayton, Lexington. Centralia, most recently. I was only passing through Rintburg on my way to Chattanooga. I'm a dabbler and a dilettante, much to the chagrin of my mother and father.”

“Oh, I thought you were a corsair. You dress like one,” muttered Steven, the boy who hadn't thrown up in the bar. He spoke with an accent that had come to be known as 'Kentucky cockney,' a little bit of each but not really either, a result of one of the the geographical jigsaw puzzles the Empire had created.

“It might behoove you to not make assumptions about people based on their attire,” said Zeck. “Looking at you and your green-about-the-gills friend, in your T-shirts and jeans, I might be inclined to assume that I was in the presence of a pair of guttersnipes.”

The boy said nothing to that, only spat at Zeck's shoe. He missed.

“What about you, old man?” Zeck asked John. “What's your story? I must say, that was some interesting wizardry back in the bar.”

The old wizard muttered something under his breath. “I'm a Snake Mage. I'm trained in the subtle art of snake magics. Er, herpemancy, that is.”

“Herpemancy, huh?” Burts said. “Do you think you could summon something with nice pointy teeth? Something that could tear through these shackles?” Burts had not witnessed the incident with the garter snake, having been encased in webbing at the time.

“I, er, they took my staff,” John said. “No use.”

“Too bad. If I could only get some good leverage, I could tear right through this silk.” He twisted his wrists and flexed and pulled, but to no avail. “Flipping attercops.”

“And what about the teenage tobacco enthusiasts sitting to my right?” said Zeck. “What brings two young scholars such as yourselves to a shady tavern in the middle of a school day, gulping smoke like water?”

“Mind your own business, corsair,” said Steven.

“I assure you, despite my attire, I am not a pirate nor a privateer. To be perfectly honest, these aren't even my clothes. It's a funny story. Due to a misunderstanding with a customs agent upon my return to Pennsylvania from New Belgium, I found myself running through the airport completely nude. All I had was my carry-on bag, which was of little help, as all of my clothes were in my checked luggage. In my haste to address the issue of my nudity, I mistook a complete stranger's suitcase for my own at the baggage carousel. These clothes were the first things I pulled out, so I threw them on. I fully intended to turn back and apologize to those customs agents for the mix-up, but I inadvertently activated a one-time teleport sphere that happened to be in the pocket of these trousers. I meant to acquire some suitable attire once I arrived in Kentucky, but my credit card seems to have been frozen, and what cash I have on hand is needed for food and lodging. I'm sure there's an equally innocent explanation for your truancy, as well as your indecorous behavior.”

“I said mind your own business,” said the boy, “and don't bother me with yours.”

The awkward silence returned. After a minute it was broken again by a pitiful voice, barely louder than a whisper. “My name's Matthew,” said the boy who had vomited onto the Guard's boots. “Does anybody have a mint?” His accent was a little more Kentucky, and a little less cockney, suggesting he and Steven came from opposite ends of Rintburg.

“I do,” said Zeck. “There's a small tin of mints in my satchel. Unfortunately, it's in the cargo hatch with the rest of our belongings.” Matthew looked like he was on the verge of vomiting again. The road was particularly wavy here, and the wagon tossed like a ship at sea. “A little tempest in the tummy, eh?” said Zeck. “I find it helps if I close my eyes and try not to think about all of the lurching and swaying. Don't think about the dryness in your throat or the swimmy sensation in your head.”

“You're making it worse, you tosser,” said Steven. “Just take deep breaths, Matthew. Think of your mum.”

“What on Earth possessed you to smoke half a pack of cigarettes in one sitting, anyway?” said Zeck.

“We were trying to-” Matthew began.

“I told you to mind your own business,” said Steven. “Why don't you smoke my dick, corsair?”

Zeck was on the verge of spitting the perfect retort when a jolt from below sent the wagon several feet up into the air. There was a giddy moment of weightlessness before the wagon went crashing back down with a tremendous crack! The robot horses whinnied, and the vehicle jolted to a stop.

The restraints holding Meat Rom to the bench snapped and he tumbled forward. His head slammed Zeck in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and dislodging one of his dental caps. The cap landed on the now vacant seat next to Burts. Meat slid to the floor between the benches. Burts twisted awkwardly in his seat and managed to pick up the dental cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Ugh. That was in his mouth, you know,” said John. Burts paid him no mind.

“Titanium, is it?” Burts said. Zeck nodded. The dental cap had an edge just sharp enough to cut through the protein strands of the spiderwebs. With a few swift motions, Burts sliced through all of his restraints. He sawed through Meat's shackles next, then Zeck's. Within seconds, he had freed the mage and the two youths as well. “Thanks,” he said, and handed the cap back to Zeck. Then he shoved one arm under Meat and hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of feathers. With one kick, he sent the rear door of the wagon flying. He jumped out and placed Meat in a sitting position against the side of the wagon.

Zeck popped the cap back in place. He put his hand out to shield his eyes from the orange light streaming into the wagon. The sun was setting back where they'd come from, shrouded in the ever-present volcanic ash that clouded the atmosphere. Besides the sinking sun, all Zeck could see was hardened lava, black and wrinkled, as far as the horizon. It rolled and fell in great hills and valleys, a country of stone.

The two youths jumped down beside Burts and Meat, with John and Zeck right behind.

“I don't like this,” said a voice from the side of the wagon. It was the taller of the Guards. “There's too many hills and ditches here. Too many places to hide.”

“Jim?” said another voice. It was the short Guard. “Jim, can you hear me? Jim. Captain Teymore, I think Jim's broken his neck.”

“Well, he fell on his head, so I'd say it's likely.” said the taller Guard.

“What do we do? It's Jim. He's dead. And his rifle's broken. The stock split right in half.”

“Focus, Captain Jaut. I need you to not be in shock right now. There's nothing we can do for him, and right now I'm more worried about two things: the prisoners escaping from the van, and more importantly, finding out who placed the derailleur mine we just hit.”

The short Guard spun around at the mention of the prisoners escaping. “Prisoners!” he said. He drew his spider gun and strode to the back of the wagon. “Back in the van, now.”

“As your partner said, I think you have more pressing issues to worry about,” said Burts. “If that was a mine, that means we're under attack. Could be ravagers, could be scrappers, could be something else, but I'd say it's only a matter of seconds before whoever set the trap comes to see what they've caught.”

“You think I'm an idiot? We hit a pothole, that's all. I order you to return to your seat while we conduct repairs.”

As if in reply, the three tires on the port side of the vehicle burst, popping sounds accompanied concurrently by the tell-tale pew-pew-pew of a laser gun. The three tires on the starboard side went next. Everybody spun to see where the shots had come from.

The reddened light of the setting sun shone off the polished armor of a dozen soldiers, surrounding the wagon like hours on a clock. Their helmets looked like eggs with dark face plates. Their laser rifles had bayonet-like points. The grips were shaped like axe heads. Like the Imperial Guards, they were covered in armor from head to toe, but the design was completely foreign to most of the travelers. Only the Guard known as Captain Teymore seemed to recognize them. “Arterian Pneuma,” she said, and raised her blunderbuss. Captain Jaut only had his spider gun, but he raised it all the same.

A voice like robot thunder filled the air, seemingly coming from all twelve Pneuma soldiers in concert. “We prefer to take the target alive. Discard your weapons and kiss dirt, and you all may live.”

“What about Jim?” shouted Jaut.

There was a pause. “Who the hell is Jim?” said the voice.

“Our spotter. He fell out of the shotgun seat and broke his neck.”

Another pause. “Do as we say, and all of you except for Jim may live.”

“Sod this,” said Steven. He grabbed Matthew and helped him back into the wagon.

“What do you want from us?” asked Captain Teymore.

“We only want the one called Meat Rom. You will give him, or we will take him. It makes little difference to us.”

“Oh, you want Meat Rom?” said Burts. “This guy?” He pointed at the sleeping giant.

“Yes,” said the voice.

“All right, then,” said Burts. “Here you go.” He took Meat Rom by the hands, spun around twice and flung Meat's limp body at one of the Pneuma. The giant flew fast, spinning like a shuriken. His boots hit the soldier in the side, sending him flying into the soldier to his right with the force of a speeding bus. A crunch and a crack were followed by plumes of purple smoke erupting from each of the soldiers. Their armored suits collapsed to the ground like deflated balloons.

Losing no momentum after tossing Meat, Burts raised his leg and kicked a sizable dent next to the starboard cargo hatch, forming a crevice next to the door. He reached into the crevice and tore the door straight off. “John,” he said, tossing the snake mage his staff. John grabbed at the staff and missed. It clattered to the ground. “Zeck.” He tossed Zeck his satchel. He caught it and rummaged until he found his acoustic laser.

Everything happened very fast then. The remaining soldiers opened fire with their laser rifles. One shot whizzed right over John's head, missing him only because he'd stooped to pick up his staff. Zeck used the orphaned door from the cargo hatch to shield himself and John. Laser shots pinged off of the door.

“All right,” said John. “Leave this to me. It always transpires that a wizard has to step in and pull everybody's nuts out of the fire.” He stepped out from behind the door shield and raised his staff. A few laser shots came his way, but they all turned black and vanished before they reached him. The gem on the end of his staff shone in the sunlight, brighter than it should have. The glow turned from orange to an unnatural blue. Zeck thought he saw an eye in that blue light, a pupil with a vertical slit that split the world. “Serpent rain!” John shouted. The sun blinked, just for a moment. A crack of thunder rumbled, but it followed no lightning. Over the heads of each of the Pneuma soldiers a dark portal flickered open. Three or four snakes tumbled out and landed on each guy. The portals snapped shut.

“What the-” said the booming robot voice. The snakes fell to the ground and slithered away, but the distraction was just enough to give the prisoners and their Guards the upper hand.

Burts ran in a zig-zag pattern, quickly closing in on one of the Pneuma. He grabbed the soldier's laser rifle right out of his hands and hit him in the faceplate with the axe-shaped butt. The glass-like material cracked, but didn't shatter. The soldier swung at Burts, but Burts was too fast. He ducked, swept his leg in an arc and sent his opponent to the ground, flat on his back. He gave the soldier's faceplate another whack with the butt of the rifle. It cracked this time. Purple smoke screamed out like steam from a kettle. Burts raised the rifle and tried to fire at another soldier, but the weapon was programmed to only fire in the living hands of its owner. Burts threw the rifle like a javelin. The sharp point struck a soldier in the torso and penetrated his chest plate with a crunch. More purple smoke. The soldier flopped to the ground.

Captain Teymore blasted one of the Pneuma right in the faceplate with a two-pound shot from her blunderbuss. A column of purple smoke erupted from the soldier's head. She wasted no time dispatching another one.

Captain Jaut got a few shots off with his spider gun. Only one hit, but it had the desired effect. The soldier dropped to the ground, wrapped in webs. The Guard dove for cover with Zeck and John. “Retreat!” he shouted. “Into the van!”

“You really don't have to shout,” said Zeck. “I mean, we're right here.”

“Come on!” said Jaut. He grabbed one side of the door and Zeck grabbed the other. They walked backwards with it and climbed up into the relative safety of the passenger area. They set the door from the cargo hatch in the gaping hole where the back door used to be. It only covered two thirds of the hole, but it was better than nothing.

Teymore saw that they'd taken out more than half of their attackers, nearly clearing a half-circle. She switched her blunderbuss to the spray setting and opened continuous fire in the direction of the two Pneuma that remained on her side of the wagon. The soldiers dove for cover in ditches. Teymore continued firing as she ran for the back of the van. Burts arrived at the same time she did, shielding himself with the apparently empty suit of a fallen soldier.

“I don't have my blunderbuss,” said the short Guard.

“Where is it?” said Teymore.

“In the cab. I didn't think I'd need it.”

Burts nodded. “May I borrow this?” He took Zeck's acoustic laser without waiting for a response. He leapt up and hoisted himself onto the top of the wagon. There was a muffled kaboom, followed by a sound like an egg cracking from the inside out. “What the hell is that?” they heard Burts say. His footsteps thudded across the roof of the wagon.

Two soldiers appeared from behind a short hill about a hundred yards away, close enough to be dangerous. Captain Teymore sprayed suppressing fire in their direction. “He'd better come back with that blunderbuss,” she said. “I'm running low on ammo here. I'm out of two-pound shot, and these pellets aren't gonna do much against that armor of theirs.”

“This may help,” said Zeck. He pulled up his shirt and reached his thumb and forefinger into his navel. With a wet plop, he pulled out something that looked like a bright red cherry with a black stem.

“What the hell is that?” said Steven.

“It's an incendiary cherry bomb,” said Zeck.

“And you had it hidden in your belly button?”

“No, of course not. It was manufactured by a synthetic stomach virus I contracted some time ago. I call it Borb, short for borborygmus.”

“That's disgusting,” said Steven.

“I'll take that,” said Captain Jaut. He plucked the cherry bomb from Zeck's grasp. “Do I light it, or what?”

“You know, it would really be nice to have a chance to use one of my own weapons for once,” said Zeck. Another egg-cracking sound came from the fore of the wagon, followed by a shot from a blunderbuss. Zeck sighed. “You don't light it, you pull the stem, then throw it as far as you can.”

“Hold your fire a moment,” said Captain Jaut. Captain Teymore stopped firing. Jaut stood up so he could lob the cherry bomb over the door shield. The Pneuma soldiers, assuming that Teymore was reloading, stood up and rushed toward the wagon. Jaut pulled the stem and threw the cherry as hard as he could.

It hit one of the soldiers square in the chest and burst on impact. Instead of an explosion, the cherry showered the Pneuma's ivory-colored suit with a sticky red fluid. The two soldiers stopped in surprise, looked down at the juice, then continued toward the wagon. Nothing more seemed to be happening.

Captain Jaut ducked back down behind the door. “Is that cherry juice? Was that just an actual cherry?”

“Oh, no, I assure you, it's a quite deadly bomb.”

“Maybe it wasn't ripe?”

“As ripe as they get. You'll see in a moment.”

Sure enough, a second later and not more than fifty feet from the wagon, the cherry juice began to smoke. The Pneuma stopped again and tried unsuccessfully to wipe it off of his armor. The juice burst into flames, sending the soldier into a panic. He dropped to the ground and rolled around, but the flames only grew larger. The other soldier stomped on the flames in a futile attempt to put them out. Instead, the flames spread to his suit. He dropped to the ground, too, rolling and flailing. Purple smoke began to leak from the seams and joints of their armor. The purple smoke joined with the fire, turning black and roaring like a lion. The soldiers may have screamed, or it may have just been the sound of the smoke escaping from their suits. Soon they were still. The fire settled from a roar to a steady flicker. All that remained were the shells of their suits.

“That was upsetting,” said Captain Jaut.

“That armor is made from a dense carbon lattice,” said Teymore. “Once it starts burning, it'll keep going for hours.”

“I think that's all of them,” said Zeck. “Assuming Burts got the rest of the ones up front with the blunderbuss and my acoustic laser, I think we're in the clear.”

“Even assuming that there are no more of them, we are not in clear,” said Teymore. “That was a nice distraction, with the serpent rain, Derman.”

“Oh, er, yes,” said John. “That's exactly what it was supposed to be. A distraction. Not a feast for snakes, or anything.”

“Do you think you could do it again, if you had to? Maybe with larger snakes that could eat something the size of a house cat?”

“I'm pretty knackered,” said John. “Stuff like that really takes it out of me these days.”

“Fair enough,” said Teymore. “We need to destroy the suits, then. Put them on the fire. We need to move quickly.” She stashed her blunderbuss across her back and hopped down from the van.

A cry of anguish came from the front of the wagon. “Fawth,” said Teymore.

John stayed in the van with Matthew and Steven to rest, but Zeck and Captain Jaut followed Captain Teymore to the source of the noise.

Burts was under attack by three cat-sized robots with twenty legs each. Their legs went from rigid to bendy and back again, undulating like tentacles when they needed to crawl or climb, turning rigid as steel bars when they needed to run across the ground, or grasp something tightly, like the one on Burts's leg.

“What the hell are those?” said Captain Jaut.

“Secondary tactical vehicles, ejected from the ivory suits,” said Teymore as she sprinted. “We just called them squids.”

One of the squids had attached itself to Burts's face. He made a fist and punched the thing, bowing his head forward at the same time. The robot shattered, legs flying in all directions. A whiff of purple smoke came out. Something the size and color of a naked mole rat fell out of the robot and plopped to the ground. “They've got Meat Rom!” said Burts. “The guns are in the cab. Don't bother with me!” He stomped on a robot scuttling up on his left side. Its legs splayed out, then went limp. The one on his leg squeezed even tighter. There was a soft crack as his femur broke. He roared, but ignored the squid on his leg in favor of the one crawling up his back.

Teymore turned and looked at the spot where she'd last seen Meat Rom. The giant was no longer there. “There!” said Jaut, pointing. “They're carrying him off like ants.” Sure enough, four of the squids were gradually hauling Meat's unconscious body across the ground. “Where are they taking-” Jaut was cut short by a squid leaping from the ground onto the back of his head. Its legs wrapped all the way around and covered his face.

“Stay put,” said Teymore. She ran to the cab of the wagon and searched for something under the seat. She returned a moment later with a tire iron and Zeck's acoustic pistol. She handed the tire iron to Zeck. “Stick it between the thing and his head. Pry it off, then smash and smash it. Try not to breathe in the purple smoke. I'll get Meat Rom.” She paused. “Be careful.” She ran after Meat Rom's slowly retreating form.

The squid wrapped its legs around Jaut's head and squeezed. The chelicerae on his mask snapped off and fell away, exposing patches of skin underneath. “Do something!” he said. With his mouthpiece damaged, his real voice came through. He sounded young. He sounded scared.

“All right, hold still,” said Zeck. He wedged the tire iron between the many-legged thing and the back of the Guard's helmet. He had to wiggle it and apply considerable pressure to shove it into place. “On the count of three, I'm going to pry it loose,” he said. “One.” He twisted the iron counterclockwise as hard as he could, popping several of the robot's legs out of their sockets. The squid flopped backwards, scrambling for purchase on the smooth back of the Guard's uniform. Zeck gave it a whack with the tire iron which snapped it free of its last grip on Captain Jaut. It landed on its back, missing a good third of its appendages, but it lost no time righting itself. It reared up on its remaining legs like an angry spider. Zeck swung the iron like a golf club. The robot flew ten feet, grabbed at the ground to stop itself, then ran back at Zeck with renewed vigor. Another squid, traveling at a considerable speed, crashed into it from the side. Their legs tangled together in a tentacular hug, even as their bodies crushed and broke. Purple smoke leaked out.

Zeck looked in the direction the robot had come from. Burts stood there, his face bloody. His right leg was a shredded, shattered mess, but still he stood. He shot Zeck a thumbs-up.

“Is that all?” said Jaut. He'd removed what remained of his mask. He was shockingly young. He couldn't have been much older than Matthew and Steven. His face was a stone, but his eyes betrayed his fear. The tactical silk cowl that formed the rest of his helmet was torn to shreds. Bloody mats of hair stuck through. “Is that all of them?” he repeated. “How many are there?”

He was answered by a muffled thump from close behind. The soldier he'd wrapped with his spider gun still lay supine, but he was no longer wriggling in his web sac. Another thump. The web sac stretched, then sprang back. Purple smoke oozed through the strands.

“We have to get it to the fire,” said Zeck. “I'm out of bombs.”

Burts couldn't walk, so he dropped to his belly and started crawling toward the sac. Zeck rushed in and grabbed one end of it. “Jaut and I will get it,” Zeck said to Burts. Captain Jaut hesitated. “Come on,” said Zeck, “we don't know how long this is going to hold.”

“What if it jumps out while we're holding it?” said Jaut. He was trembling where he stood. Zeck realized that the Guard was terrified. He started dragging the web sac toward the fire on his own. The chest cavity thumped and expanded and retracted. The fire was twenty feet away. Zeck's boot heel slipped on the smooth surface of the lava. He fell on his ass, the web sac in his lap.

The sac burst open. A round body surrounded by twenty arms flung itself at his face. Zeck had no time to react. In a second, the squid would wrap itself around his unprotected head. Then, in midair, it changed direction. The legs popped off and clattered to the ground. The shell of the robot cracked open and a small wisp of purple wafted out. Something tiny screamed in pain.

Zeck looked behind him to see Captain Teymore standing there, acoustic laser in hand. Her left arm had been stripped of armor. Her forearm bent where it should have been straight.

“Thanks,” said Zeck.

“Thanks for helping Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Captain Jaut.” She holstered the acoustic laser. “Speaking of. Bob, you're injured.”

“It's just scratches,” he said, feeling his scalp. He peeled back his cowl. He was still shaking. “M-my mask, it's shattered.”

Captain Teymore took off her own mask and pulled her cowl back. “Take mine,” she said. “The cowl, we can patch.” She may have been in her early thirties, but it was difficult to tell. Her hair was jet black and cut short. Her face carried numerous scars, most small, a few large. Her eyes looked like they'd seen eons.

“What'll you wear?” said Bob, taking Teymore's mask from her.

“We'll worry about it later,” she said.

“Thank you, Sheryl,” said Bob. He looked down at the mask, but didn't put it on.

“Meat,” said Burts, still on the ground but sitting up now. “Where is he?”

“I destroyed the squids that were carting him off, but he's much too heavy for me to haul back here alone. He's still out cold.” She looked at his leg. “You need medical attention. I'm shocked you're not bleeding more. We have Medi-Gel in the wagon.”

“Save it,” Burts said. “I make my own version. Nanobots in the blood, from Woulf Labs themselves. I'll heal soon enough.” Sure enough, his lacerations were closing up like slow zippers. His blood was red, but had a strange silver sheen to it. “I'll be fine once I eat something. You could use some first aid, though.” He nodded at her arm.

“In a minute. We need to see if one of these things is still alive. Maybe we can get some information out of it.” She knelt down and picked through the wreckage of the most recently destroyed robot. When she stood, she cradled in her hand a writhing pink creature that almost looked like a human baby, if that baby was a scrawny old man.

“What the hell is that?” said Bob.

“It's a homunculus, cloned from the flesh of a man named Plumwine. That purple fog that came out of the suits is Plumwine's animus. He breathes life into the empty suits, but he needs these things to control them.”

“We are not things,” said the homunculus in a voice that squeaked and wheezed. “We are the children of Lord Plumwine. We will have our quarry.”

“Are there more of you?” said Teymore. “More Pneuma in the area?”

The homunculus coughed. “It matters not,” it said. “It is too late for you. Any moment now, the Arterians will launch a coordinated attack,” he coughed and hacked, “an attack on all of your orbital weapon arrays, all of your communication satellites, and all of your,” cough cough, “military posts. You have already lost a war you did not even know had begun.”

The wind whipped up. A low hum quickly turned to a rumble that vibrated the very atmosphere. A bright purple glow rose from behind a hill in the distance. In an instant, it was overhead. An Arterian  hovercraft.

“We have used our time in exile to build an army the Churls cannot possibly defeat. Regard the wreckage here. You have destroyed nothing but empty suits.” He coughed so hard he spit up a glob of purple goop that might have been blood. “Lord Plumwine has many children, and we are all eager to give our lives for the greatness of Arteria. Churlia is small. Your forces are stretched thin as it is, your alliances tenuous. Even as I speak, Plumwine's army is defeating the Churlian Tephra on every corner of the globe. Your greatest fighters, crushed like ants.” He trailed off into a coughing fit.

“You talk an awful lot for something that chokes on fresh air,” said Teymore.

The homunculus gasped for breath between coughs. Between gasps, it almost sounded like it was laughing. A wide beam of light the color of lavender reached down from the hovercraft. It engulfed Meat Rom's body, a spotlight for a sleeping giant on a hilltop.

“No!” said Burts. “Stop them!” He began to crawl toward the light. Meat Rom's body started to ascend, slowly but steadily.

These stories are also available in paperback and ebook on Amazon, and wherever audiobooks are sold.

Zeck, Part 1: Encounter at the Blue Coal Tavern

(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

In a small town on the blasted tip of old Kentucky, just across the border from the Eastern Hinterlands, Zeck Strauss threw a furtive look over his shoulder before ducking into the Blue Coal Tavern. He didn't hear the clip-clop of the horse drawn paddywagon two streets over, nor see the electric bloodhound leading two masked figures in his direction.

Zeck sidled up to the bar as only he could sidle. “Whiskey, neat, with a twist. One cherry, skin and stem only. Easy on the vermouth, pal.” The bartender nodded. Zeck surveyed the tavern. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Most of it came from two young boys at a table in the corner. They were sharing one cigarette at a time between them, one boy coughing and hacking up phlegm while the other puffed like a dragon. Then they switched. When they got down to the filter, they'd light another one off the cherry and keep going.

In the opposite corner, an enormous hulk of a man drained beer after beer while his friend of average size studied a hand drawn map, yellowed with age and burnt at one corner. The man with the map pointed at a place of interest and whispered something to his gigantic partner. The giant grunted, nodded, and downed another beer. The waitress brought him another tray with six full glasses and exchanged them for his empties.

The only other patron of the Blue Coal Tavern was an old man in a wizard's cloak at the end of the bar. His drink was full, but most of the ice in it had melted. He was eating complimentary peanuts a few at a time and licking his fingers between each trip to the bowl.

The bartender set Zeck's whiskey on the bar and tweaked his mustache five times to indicate the price. No sooner had Zeck reached into his satchel for his wallet, though, than two Churlian Imperial Guards burst through the front door, guns drawn. The masks were in place on their helmets, complete with bulbous black eyes and sculpted chelicerae. One was a full head taller than the other. Both wore the bulky, mass-produced armor of the Empire's police force. Between them stood an electric bloodhound, its eyeless head turning to and fro as it sniffed the smoky air. “Freeze!” said the Guards, their voices mechanically amplified by the mouthpieces in their masks.

Everyone stopped what they were doing. The giant set down his ninth beer, only half empty. Like a magician doing sleight of hand, the other fellow rolled up the map and deftly stuck it up his sleeve. The boys in the corner set their cigarette, smoked nearly to the filter, in the ashtray. One of them looked equal parts relieved and nauseated. The ashtray was full of butts; they'd already smoked half the pack. The old man in the cloak dropped his peanuts back into the bowl.

The taller Guard holstered her gun and drew her scanner. “We are looking for two dangerous fugitives,” she said. “They may have altered their appearance. We have tracked them across half of Kentucky. Our hound has scented their vehicle, but they have likely masked their own scents and changed their faces. We will perform a multi-spectrum scan of all denizens of this tavern.”

“Up against the wall,” said the short Guard, motioning with his gun. “Non-compliance is an implication of guilt, and may result in immediate arrest or physical action taken against your person.” The two boys looked to the waitress, panic in their eyes. She nodded at them and gave a reassuring smile, then she and the bartender stood against the wall like prisoners waiting for the firing squad. The old man joined them.  “You there,” the short Guard said to Zeck. “Leave the drink.” Zeck took a furtive sip and set the glass on the bar before taking his place in the line-up. The giant's head nearly scraped the ceiling when he stood. His friend only came up to his nipples. One of the boys had turned a pale green, and swayed a little on his feet, but he and the other youth took their place at the end of the line.

Once everybody was against the wall, the guard with the scanner went down the line one by one. He held the scanner up to the waitress's face. A light flashed, shining through her skin and reflecting off of her skull. The scanner chimed. The Guard moved on to the bartender. In the flash from the scanner, the bartender's titanium framework shone brightly through his silicone skin. The scanner chimed. Next were Zeck and the old man. Their skulls flashed normally and the scanner chimed, but the Guard paused for a moment before moving on from Zeck.

The Guard came to the beer drinking giant. When the scanner flashed this time, instead of a skull, the giant's true face showed through his false skin. The scanner buzzed angrily.

The short Guard with the gun fired upon the giant, spraying him with tiny spiders that wove a thick web across his body in the blink of an eye, pinning him to the wall. But the strength of the webbing was no match for the drunk strength and sheer mass of the brute, and he tore right through it with a growl and a mighty belch. The Guard pulled a lever on his gun and shot the giant with a debilitator. The half-dollar-sized spider landed on the giant's neck and immediately skittered over to his carotid artery, where it sank its fangs in. The giant swayed like a tree in a storm. He grabbed at the spider, but the venom worked swiftly. The giant collapsed onto the Guard who'd shot him, pinning him to the floor.

A number of things happened all at once then, so quickly and chaotically that Zeck was unable to extricate himself from the morass. The giant's map reading friend grabbed for the holster of the Guard who was still standing, but the Guard was faster by a hair. She drew her gun and blasted the outlaw with weavers. In seconds, the man was encased in silk from head to toe. His shrouded form fell to the floor with a thump. The excitement was too much for the young boy with nicotine sickness, and he barfed right onto the Guard's shoes. He and his friend soon found themselves plastered to the wall by spiderwebs, side by side.

The Guard was out of ammunition. Her short partner was still pinned underneath the giant, flailing his arms and struggling to free himself. The bartender and the waitress ran and sheltered behind the bar, leaving only Zeck and the old man in the wizard cloak standing in the open. The tall Guard pulled an eggsac out of her belt and started to load it into the gun, but it stuck to her glove, creating a brief moment of vulnerability. The old man seized the opportunity. He produced a staff from a fold in his robes. The gem on the end glowed with an otherworldly light. The mage raised his hand and, in a voice that Zeck expected to rumble with power but instead creaked like a rusty hinge, said, “Snake magic!” A garter snake appeared in the mage's hand. He seemed disappointed to see it, as if he'd expected a viper or a boa. He had no time to waste, though, so he threw the snake as hard as he could. It slapped gently against the Guard's chestplate and fell to the floor, where it immediately slithered away. “Well, shit,” was all the old man got out before the Guard shot him with weavers, binding him in silk.

“Bravo,” said Zeck, clapping for emphasis. “Well handled.” He walked backwards as he spoke, inching closer to the drink he'd left on the bar next to his satchel.

“Halt,” said the Guard. She aimed her gun at Zeck.

“Oh, I promise you, officer, I have no ill intentions. I merely require a stiff drink to calm my nerves after witnessing that display of bravery.” Before the Guard could object, Zeck picked up his drink and downed it in one gulp, cherry and all.

“Put the glass down. Slowly.”

“Of course, of course.” Zeck obeyed.

The Guard drew her scanner, holding it in her left hand even while she kept her gun trained on Zeck with her right. “Open your mouth. Why do you have so many dental caps? Remove one. That's an order. I need to scan your teeth.”

“Oh, that won't be necessary. Clearly, you have your men. The fellow who attempted to acquire your firearm is in league with the fugitive giant who your partner is currently restraining on the floor. Before you arrived, they were carousing and reading maps together, no doubt planning their escape from justice. Of course, they underestimated your speed and skill. The friendly bartender here can vouch for my innocence. I'm a mere bystander. I'm simply passing through town, and I stopped in for a tipple. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

The bartender stood up from his hiding place behind the bar. He looked at Zeck, looked at the empty glass on the bar, looked at the Guard. He opened his mouth, but instead of the friendly chime Zeck was expecting, the bartender let out a series of loud buzzes, followed by a short siren and five tugs of his mustache.

“I'm no thief!” Zeck said. “I was in the process of retrieving my wallet when these public servants interrupted us with a far more pressing matter. Now that their quarry is subdued, I'll gladly pay for the drink.” He pulled something from his satchel.

“Freeze!” the Guard shouted. She shot Zeck with a blast of weavers. The thick webbing pinned his arms to his sides. The Levin Deciball acoustic laser slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The weavers continued their work, soon wrapping his legs together and covering his head like a hood. The world went dark and silent.

These stories are also available in paperback and ebook on Amazon, and wherever audiobooks are sold.

Zeck, vol 1, Serialized Weekly

Hello! This is where you’ll find the Zeck series in its serialized form, released concurrently with the audiobook versions on the Radio Cataclysm podcast. Whenever an episode drops in the public podcast feed, you’ll find the corresponding story text here.

You can also subscribe to the Patreon, where you’ll get episodes a week early in both formats, as well as side stories, bonus artwork and music, and regular looks behind the scenes.