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RELEASE

 

The wind and sun met on her back as a biting weight, pressing her forward over him. She continued to struggle to find a comfortable spot next to him as she worked to bring him towards release. Her sweat beaded on her face, rolling down her face in dirty rivulets toward her nose where it would collect and fall in drops like tears to crash upon him.

She sat up to catch her breath, moving her jaw side to side and twisting her neck to keep them loose. The sun and wind changed the direction of their attack to meet her face. She tied up her hair tighter and prepared to commence the real work, wiping her face with her shirt. She considered taking off her shirt, but the brutal assault of the wind and sun discouraged her.

Taking a deep breath, she straddled him and began to move rhythmically never letting her full weight down, positioning to use her body as the tool. She didn’t picture him as the man he was beneath her, but as a fierce rock-muscled warrior – a granite block of a man with sharp features and the stench of blood on him. She imagined his ferocious mouth tearing into her throat like a tiger, his vise-like grip squeezing the life out of her as if she were prey. She could smell his sweat, feel his heat burning her more than the sun itself. She bit her lip and winced in pain at the unexpected sharpness of her own teeth.

For a moment, she lost the rhythm and this dance with him became a chore. She cursed to herself and readjusted her position over him, taking a moment to look around her. Her holster and the antique revolver she carried in it was digging into her hip, and she slid it around to lay against her lower back. The wind churned up small cloud of sand and dust around her. The horizon was empty of life, of movement and sound. There was only the wind, the sun, the woman, and the man … and the dance.

She lived for this moment. She detested the courting, the foreplay. She hated the time it took to find a man like this, searching endlessly through an ocean for that one glass of water that is more special than the rest. She craved the final buildup, the intensity coupled with the velocity of it – those last few seconds when the reversal becomes impossible. She had reached this same point in the dance with many men, and less often with women. Many times she had been disappointed with the climax, and many more times she had ruined and broken the men and women she had danced with.

And then she felt it, a change in the vibrations - a slight groan beneath her. She felt those tiny vibrations radiate out and encompass his whole body exponentially. She found a counter-rhythm and pressed even further, seeking to pull him upwards into that sweet release. Her whole body began to vibrate with his and she recognized this feeling as the point of no return. He was coming whether she wanted him to or not.

She inched her hands behind him and pulled upwards, she had stopped breathing and bit her lip until it bled. Suddenly, she felt the release as it happened. He rose from the ground, the sand pouring off his back and rolling off his sides in waterfalls. A sudden odor assaulted her and she breathed it in as a smile of triumph creased her sunworn and sandbeaten face.

And then his skull came off.

Unfortunately, the slope they were on wasn’t a friendly one and his head began to pick up speed as it rolled away from her. She used the well-developed muscles in her thighs to propel herself off his body and onto her feet. She dived for the head and missed, sprawling painfully against the rock and sand as her excavation tools scattered away from her. The head continued to pick up speed and she bolted upright into a sprint, the scree of the mountainside tumbling around her in rivers. She lost her footing and fell back, caught in the rockslide. She could still see the head rolling away ahead of her and struggled to regain her footing but found it impossible.

Then she remembered the cliff ahead. It wasn’t a high cliff, but if she were to fall from its edge, she would definitely break her legs or her arms or her back, all depending on how she landed. The skull careened off a stationary boulder and changed direction, angling towards her. She was about even with it, and still gaining speed towards the cliffside when she spotted a rock outcropping that could save her. Gritting her teeth, she dug her heel into the ground and heard a snap. The adjustment was enough to have changed her trajectory, and she prepared herself for the impact.

At the last second she reached out to grab the outcropping. Her grip was true, but the velocity of her fall caused her to swing wildly from the cliff’s edge. Her elbow popped and she screamed, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the head. Desperately she reached out and made a miraculous save in mid-air by hooking the skull in the eyesocket.

Loose rock poured over her for several seconds as she hung there. Her ankle was radiating pain, her elbow was numb, and the voice above her was sarcastic.

“Boy, the shit you do to save the skull of a man that’s been dead for three centuries.”

Anya grunted and tossed the skull up to her partner.

“If you’d have been helping me instead of masturbating over the marble architecture back there, we  might have just pulled a perfect specimen out of the ground,” she spat at him.

“Hey, that’s some seriously gorgeous craftsmanship you’re badmouthing,” he replied. “And let me tell you, if I weren’t an android, I probably would masturbate over it.”

He pulled her up and handed the skull back to her. “He’s a mongoloid.”

Anya scoffed at him, but then looked at a few features of the skull she hadn’t noticed before.

“And I just ruined him, Aarin,” she said, stomping off in disgust.

The walk back to the dig site was taken in silence. As she approached the mummified torso, she realized that in her haste and panic she had ripped the body in half, and it lay in a crumpled heap. In exasperation, she ran a hand over her face and sighed.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed.

Aarin walked past her and reached down into the cavity the torso had left in the clay.

“Hey hey, what’s this?” he asked.

She walked over to see what the pseudo-man was talking about. He held in his hand a small metal box with a padlock holding it shut.

 

---

 

“We’re not opening it,” was the frank declaration from the Project Lead. His name was Darren Walls and his eyebrows spoke threats worse than words – their hairy prominence was rivaled only by the thick fury of his yellowed-white beard. The top rims of his thick eyeglasses pressed against the thick hair of his unibrow, making the white hairs seem like frost creeping down the lenses. When he removed his eyeglasses, one felt as if the ferocious unibrow would be unleashed to undulate forth and strangle, like the tentacles of some elder god.

Walls had a fierce power over his people and they listened to him, and followed him without question.

Technically, Anya was not one of his people.

“I’m opening it,” she stated flatly. “I found it. It’s my discovery. I’m opening it.”

Aarin shifted with a look of discomfort on his face and tried to press further into the wall of the observation station’s briefing room.

Walls reached a hand up to remove his eyeglasses and it seemed that the diameter of the circle of archaeologists, geologists, and various other team members grew in anticipation of the release of the unibrow, like mortals before the Kraken unleashed.

Anya stood her ground and cut him off before he even started. “Aarin did not spend hours freeing the body from the ground. I did. I don’t give a damn if he put his hands on it first. The work was completed by my hands, the sweat was mine, and this,” she said, holding up her arm and the sling that held it, “is what I paid for it. Now give me the box, and the hammer. I should have just opened it there.”

Walls stopped short of his eyeglasses and instead stroked his beard. It almost looked like defeat, but to those that knew him better, this indicated maneuvering.

“Jenkins.”

Tad Jenkins, the resident biologist, acknowledged his call to the floor and cleared his throat tentatively.

“He’s right,” he stammered out. “There’s no telling what might be inside. From our preliminary studies of the box, it appears to be airtight and has held its seal. Any number of biological or chemical hazards could lurk inside. Ancient diseases, deadly bacteria, poisonous gases …”

“Anya, I don’t care if the fifteenth reincarnation of sweet and sunny Jesus is in there waiting to be freed to shit rainbows and peace on the galaxy. We’re not opening that box,” Walls stated gruffly.

“Let one of the andies open it.”

The voice was an unfamiliar one to the group, as it had never been used in the briefing room. The assembled members of the expedition looked around for the source before realizing it had been spoken over the room’s communications unit.

“Who is that?” demanded Walls. “This is a private conference. You’re not authorized to be listening to these proceedings.”

“This is Chief Communications Officer Taggart, and I’m authorized to listen to anything I desire to hear on this station,” came the reply.

Walls chewed his mustache in controlled fury at being put in his place.

“If you would rather make this a larger issue, I can have your financiers on the hotline in just a few seconds,” continued the silky voice of Taggart. “I would advise against it though. While I share your fears about the dangers of opening the box, I know for a fact that its contents – if valuable – and whatever fortune and glory may accompany them will be surrendered to the Ulysses Group.”

Walls lowered his head in thought and he missed the smirk wrinkling its way across Anya’s face.

“The clean room isn’t equipped for this,” Jenkins interjected. “Suppose something bad is inside. The android will be contaminated, and the clean room would be unusable for the rest of our time here. It’s meant to keep specimens from being contaminated, not keeping specimens from contaminating the clean room. We’ve got four months left before the Ulysses transport comes back this way. That’s a lot of wasted time.”

“I don’t like it,” barked Walls. “I’m not endangering our mission for a mystery box that can be opened under better circumstances at a later time.”

Aarin stepped forward and stood before Walls.

“I’ll do it. We can use the airlock.”

“Explain how that’s going to be any different,” said Jenkins.

“Since I can directly interface with the scanning equipment remotely, I can open the box in the airlock. If you get an alarm, blow the airlock.”

“I’m not losing another android,” said one of the technicians. “We’ve got too few as it is.”

“You’ve lost andies because you’re incompetent!” shouted Anya. “Why should your own failures affect the ability of the rest of us to make decisions in line with our objective on this planet. I didn’t get chosen to join this expedition because I’d run from danger.”

“You were chosen –“ began Walls.

“I was chosen because I would open the damn box!”

The tension in the room thickened with the increase of volume. The communications unit audibly clicked off in the heavy silence that followed.

“I am not an employee of the Ulysses Group, and I do not fall under the boundaries of your tyranny like the rest of these apes. Commander Wilkes would have –“

“Commander Wilkes is dead!” roared Walls. His eyeglasses were off and his face was purple with rage. “This is my expedition, it is my decision. The box stays unopened and if I decide to chuck it out to deep space, I’ll damn well do it. Wilkes is dead because of careless stunts like this. It should be you under twenty tons of rock on the surface with those andies. I want you off my damned station immediately!”

“You can’t do that,” Anya protested.

“Jenkins, get security up here and send this miscreant back down to the surface,” Walls barked as he pushed through the crowd of people in the briefing room. “You can live in a god damned tent and starve for all I care. The box stays locked up, closed, and quarantined, and this meeting is adjourned.”

When the security team arrived, Anya shook off their grip and walked to the shuttle dock in silence.

 

---

 

“What I’m saying is the geological signature is not indicative of an asteroid impact.”

Kaizu was the Chief Geologist for the expedition – short in stature, and with an extensive vocabulary of geological terms, he was not exactly the most accessible man.

“From what we’ve seen so far, there are multiple points of maximum impact, and the different levels of exposure to radiation we’ve found in the many urban areas we’ve collected data from don’t match with what we’ve been told to expect. The spot where you found your man and your box was the least affected area on the planet, and we cannot explain how that is possible considering how many maximum impact sites are in this vicinity.”

“What do you expect?” queried Anya. She stood over the latest survey by Kaizu’s team and studied it against a simulation being played out on a handheld screen. The dust whipped around them as they stood together under a makeshift canvas canopy. “This disaster happened three hundred years ago. This colony had all but been completely abandoned. Even this simulation reeks of researchers that just don’t care what the truth is.”

Aarin approached them and tossed an apple to Anya.

“You look pale,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said in reply. “You could get shut down for this, you know.”

Aarin shrugged and smiled. He took a place between Kaizu and Anya over the survey and studied it without speaking.

“It just doesn’t add up,” said Kaizu with a sigh.

“Maybe we’re not considering all the possible scenarios,” Anya offered. “I mean, forget what we’ve been told happened here. Forget that you’ve seen the data from the unmanned expeditionary teams. What if we’re not looking at an asteroid impact event?”

“I don’t see what else it could be. This much destruction is indicative of a major collision.”

“But how do you explain the readings from the opposite side of the planet?”

“It’s possible that the colonists had developed some way to break up the object, but only succeeded in showering pieces of it across the entire planet.”

“How impossibly huge would that asteroid have to be to have made impact points this devastating across the entire planet?” Anya asked. “There’s no way the colony would have the explosives to be able to break up an asteroid that big.”

“Unless they used nuclear weapons,” Aarin said.

“Nobody has nuclear weapons anymore,” countered Kaizu.

“Yeah, but three hundred years ago some of the outlying colonies still did,” said Anya as she turned and walked out into the wind and sun.

“What was the name of this planet?” she asked from outside.

“The Empire calls it Lucifer,” replied Aarin. “But who knows what the natives called it.”

 

---

 

The shuttle door slid open and Anya stepped out timidly, looking left and right. Taggart reached his hand up to help her down, but she ignored him. The communications officer was a large man, but his girth belied the power underneath the uniform. Having spent his entire career as a security officer with the Ulysses Group, Taggart was not a man to be trifled with. He had suppressed colonial uprisings in a number of systems and had personally led the force of commandoes that had rescued the Galactic Emperor in the last Central Revolution. Why he was a lowly communications officer now, no one knew.

“You’ve got about forty-five minutes before Walls comes back from his survey on the surface,” he said to her. “And you had better hope he doesn’t go looking for you there.”

“I’ll only need five,” she said. Aarin followed her out of the shuttle and the trio made their way to the laboratory in silence. Taggart used his security clearance to open the laboratory and then the vault where the box was being quarantined.

“I hope you’ve made your peace, andie,” Taggart said as he removed the box.

Aarin solemnly took it from him and pulled a small hammer and chisel from his coveralls. They made their way through the silent halls of the station until they reached the nearest airlock.

“How many people are left on board?” Anya asked Taggart.

“Twenty or so,” he replied, beginning the sequence to pressurize the airlock. “Walls took most of the elite to the surface. Apparently they found a complex deep beneath the surface – right where Wilkes and those andies met their demise.”

The door to the airlock hissed open and Aarin stepped in.

“If I see so much as a flicker on any of the alarms,” Taggart said as he left to man the control room, “I’m blowing the hatch.”

Anya smiled at Aarin as she shut the door and switched on her communicator.

“Thanks, Aarin. I really appreciate you doing this.”

“Hey, just because I’m not human, doesn’t mean I’m not built to be just as curious as you are.”

Aarin flashed his perfect smile and bent down, placing the box on the floor.

“Are we ready?” Anya asked.

“Waiting for the test readings from Aarin,” came the reply from the control room.

A few seconds passed before Taggart came back with, “We’re good to go.”

Aarin calmly placed the chisel against the square portion of the lock and began to hammer on it with force. It took a total of fifteen strikes before the lock broke in half and fell to the floor. Anya and Taggart were holding their breath as Aarin reached down and slowly lifted the lid.

Nothing happened.

Aarin waited several seconds to let any foreign bodies register on the scanners if they happened to be present. He then nodded to himself and opened the box completely.

“It’s just some paper,” he described to them. “Written in Common, though the letters seem a bit strange.”

“Hey, Taggart,” Anya said into her communicator, “You can let him out now. Anything in there would have registered already.”

There was silence and the door to the airlock remained shut.

“Taggart?”

Aarin started to read what was on the paper, while Anya left to go to the control room, she could still hear him over her communicator.

“My name is Xia Yan, a proud scientist of the East Asian Confederacy. The events of the last three days will not be recorded on video or by audio recording devices. In order to power the environmental shield that protects our beautiful island of Japan, all other electronic devices are rendered useless. I write this now with pencil and paper, the slopes of Fuji, in the hopes that one day someone will find it and read my words and know what has happened here.”

When Anya reached the door leading out of the room directly connected to the airlock, it did not open automatically.

“We, the descendants of those people who first were victims to nuclear power as a weapon, were the first to completely condemn it. It took centuries of separating ourselves from the growing power of the Eurasian Union and the Global American States, to form the East Asian Confederacy and to finally raise enough funds and support to build the shield which now allows me to write these words. Unfortunately, our best intentions and our best efforts have fallen short.”

“Taggart, open the door!” shouted Anya. She typed in her personal code but the screen only flashed: ACCESS DENIED.

“The sheer quantity of nukes detonated was enough to flash ignite the surface of the planet. We struggled initially to minimize the impact on the sea floor, and in doing so, our losses due to flooding caused by tsunamis was kept at a low six percent death rate. From this position, we could see the planet boil around us. Typhoons lashed around the shield and lightning crackled along its surface. No one outside could have survived, not here, and not elsewhere in the world. They wanted us to believe that the Union and the States were the cause – a sudden inflammation of old wounds that lead to an immediate and inevitable nuclear war - but with our one satellite still in orbit and able to transmit through the shield, we have discovered the truth. Our friends who abandoned us, the Martian Colonists and their lackeys on Luna, they delivered this nuclear salvo. Their beloved infant Galactic Empire and their hatred of the traditionalist views of those of us who refused to abandon this planet - that is what has caused this. Despite our best efforts, we weren’t good enough, though. Our shield was good, but not eternal. In twenty-four hours it will collapse and we will be exposed to massive amounts of literal Hell on Earth. I only wish to say this to whoever may find this in the future. The Galactic Empire has murdered an entire –“

The airlock hatch blew and Aarin disappeared with the box. Likewise across the surfaces of the orbiting station, similar hatches blew and every person still onboard was cast out to a cold and silent journey into the void. Seconds later, in a section of the station that no one had paid attention to during the expedition, sixteen nuclear rockets launched to their targets at the sixteen different excavation sites across the planet formerly known as Earth.

 

---

 

Taggart watched the last mushroom cloud dissipate with a blank expression. His mission was accomplished. In four weeks, much sooner than was related to the rest of the expedition team, a Ulysses craft would pick him up and take him back towards the center of the galaxy – the center of the Galactic Empire.

“I knew you were too eager to open that box for it to be just curiosity,” said a voice behind him.

He spun around and there was Anya, a plasma-bolt rifle leveled at him.

“I had already planned to open the box on my own, so I stole Walls Security Clearance codes,” she said to him. “I guess you didn’t consider me ambitious enough to go this far, huh?”

Taggart was silent.

“I don’t care about the men you killed. That was an occupational hazard, but don’t think I didn’t know the truth of what happened on this planet. Do you know who I work for?”

Taggart was still silent, his face a study in granite.

“I’m a member of the Gaian Collective, do you know what that is?”

Taggart grunted, but did not take his eyes off her.

“We’re here for the truth,” she said, and held up the memory card to her communicator. “And now we have it. Your precious Galactic Empire has just lost its pristine reputation. It’s the same Empire that three hundred years ago murdered seven billion people in the worst atrocity in the history of –“

There was a loud crack that echoed through the control room. Anya’s eyes dilated for a moment and blood spattered her lips as she tried to breathe. She collapsed to her knees, and then slumped over to the ground. From her position on the floor she bore witness to her murderer’s final acts.

Aarin lowered the antique revolver Anya always carried with her as a good luck charm. It was the first archaeological find she’d made, and she’d spent a fortune to have it restored to working order. The bullets alone cost her three times the grant money she’d received for her first five expeditions.

“Dammit, Aarin. Why’d you have to let her go on like that?” Taggart yelled. “She could have fucking shot me at any second.”

Aarin stared quietly down at the female archaeologist who only had seconds left to live.

“This is the last god damned time I sign up to work with an andie. No retirement is worth this, not Acrutia, not the Jessuu Falls, not Alpha Centauri.”

Taggart spun back around and began to systematically shut all the airlocks on the station, checking also for signs of life still aboard.

“You know, I’ve a good mind to just shut you the hell off for that shit – a fucking plasma-bolt rifle aimed at me and you –“

The loud crack was heard again and Taggart fell heavily against the controls.

Aarin quietly walked over and pushed the communications officer out of the chair. With a few quick keystrokes he set the station on a collision course with the former planet Earth.

Three hours later, the last mushroom cloud that would ever be seen on the planet finally dissipated.

PUDDLES

There were only sixteen competitors left.

The Watchers began to escort Hines out of the Arena with little difficulty – he had fainted as soon as he discovered his fatal blunder. The other fifteen of us that had sat quietly on the edges of the darkness surrounding the puddle of light that bathed Hines and Jaspar during their bout, lowered our heads before Jaspar’s dry, crackling voice had spoken “Checkmate”.

The sound of Hines’s shoes scraping the dusty stone floor of the Arena as he was dragged out echoed throughout the cavernous Chamber of the Game, creating the illusion of a thousand giant rats scratching at the wall to get into us. I swallowed with difficulty and gave thanks to no god in particular that the passing of Hines would be quiet.  I gave my thanks, however, much too soon.

Hines suddenly lurched upright with so sudden a spasm that it caught the Watchers off guard.  In a flash he was running across the Arena towards the darkened windows. Several metallic clicks were heard as several Watchers fired their crossbows at Hines. Three bolts hit Hines in the back just before he collided with one of the windows. The glass shattered and Hines fell through in a sudden blinding ray of light. Everyone in the Chamber shielded their eyes, including myself. None of us had seen sunlight in a decade, and its fierceness both blinded and frightened us.

Jaspar was the only one not affected.

He calmly walked over to the window and looked out. He stood there for several seconds before the voice of one of the Watchers called him back. Jaspar waited only a second more before turning around and returning to stand with the rest of the sixteen competitors.

“There will be a day’s rest,” said the Master over the intercom.

And with that, sixteen young men filed into line and exited the Arena.

---

“What did you see?”

“Where are we?”

“Did you see any other people?”

“What happened to Hines?”

The questions were barked out, overlapping and repeated again and again, but Jaspar ignored them. Kilroy, the youngest of us started to cry. I kept to myself and stared at the mysterious thick soup we were given to eat each day. Like a robot I spooned a puddle of it to my mouth. I spared a glance to Jaspar, my new roommate, and saw he was quietly eating as well, as if none of the other boys were there.

“I heard he pisses in his sleep,” came a whisper in my ear. The voice belonged to Duraldo, who had been my roommate in the last round. “And I hear he likes to touch you when you’re asleep, because he’s sick in the head.”

I grunted. You would hear this same legend at the end of every round. Everyone gets new roommates as our numbers are halved, and always it is the gossip you hear before the inevitable talk of the next round and who might be leaving us.

Duraldo nudged me a nodded his head towards Kilroy, who was still sobbing.

“What a waste,” he said. “He should have been long gone. Lucky bastard. Do you know who you want to pull?”

I shook my head and continued eating.

“I mean, I know you don’t  get to pick, but is there someone you’d rather end up against? Someone easy?”

I didn’t answer and risked another glance at my new roommate. I didn’t want him to catch me staring, but it wasn’t an issue. Jaspar stared silently down into his bowl and continued to eat. Before long the other boys stopped asking questions, and finally Duraldo stopped talking to me long enough to eat.

The Room Bell rang and quietly we shuffled out of the cafeteria that had just a few weeks ago held a thousand boys. The echoes of our footsteps rattled around in the high ceilings as we departed for our rooms.

---

I jerked awake with a start, half expecting Jaspar have his hands down my pants, or standing over me urinating a puddle onto my bed with a morbid smile. I tried to sort out in the darkness if I had just woken from a nightmare, but no memory of it remained. I heard a shuffle to the left of my bed and a match was struck. There was Jaspar – he had been doing something.

“You were talking in your sleep,” he said.

I glared at him for a moment and then rolled over away from him, pulling my covers with me.

“I couldn’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it,” he continued. “I need to tell someone what I saw.”

I sniffed and thought about it for a second. Honestly, I didn’t want to know what he’d seen out that window. I could still feel the burn of the sunlight in my eyes as if they were on fire. I sighed and rolled back over to face him.

“If I tell you,” he said, “will you promise me that you won’t tell anyone?”

I nodded.

Jaspar sat down next to my bed with his back to my nightstand, the candle he still carried cast odd shadows on the walls, like the specters of the competitors that hadn’t made it this far.

“Hines was hanging on to a railing,” Jaspar began. “The Arena is at the top of a high tower overlooking a high cliff. There’s nothing to see but clouds … clouds so low like puddles of water. We’re so high that we’re above the clouds. I couldn’t save him. The poison on the bolts was getting to him. He was going to fall. I wanted him to see what was down there before he died, so I didn’t help him.  I saw him disappear through the clouds … and then …”

Jaspar stopped talking.

The light from the candle flickered for a moment before it went out. I heard Jaspar stand and walk back to his bed. I laid there for a long time listening to him breathe before I finally nodded off into troubled sleep.

---

I remembered Smith from the first round. There were so many of us back then that was hard to focus on anyone but the people seated near you at the cafeteria or during a game at the Arena. I remember when I had beaten … my God … I have forgotten his name …

“I watched you,” Smith said to me.

I ignored him and scanned his formation for some clue as to what he was trying to achieve. I was beginning to wish I had watched him during that game instead of focusing on my opponent. Smith was as plain as his name. His brown hair was thin and wispy and it appeared there was very little he could do with it besides let it flop lightly on the top of his head.

“I know all your moves.”

I hesitated with my fingers caressing the top of my remaining knight.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

I let go of the knight and considered one of my bishops, taking in to account the fact that his last two moves had appeared defensive, but that he might be attempting to lead my last knight into a trap.

“I congratulated you on your first win,” he said. “Do you remember that?”

Before he could finish I had his rook in my hand and had him in check.

“Bastard,” was the last word he ever spoke to me.

---

The eight of us left didn’t say a word at lunch the day after. Our rest periods were getting longer, and there were fewer Watchers left to guard us. Kilroy was crying again, Duraldo had given up his gossip for the spoon, settling to shovel things into his mouth instead of spew things out of it. Jaspar was pale and looking ill. A boy named Jean was staring at me across the long table but I cut my eyes away from him. He made me feel uneasy, and I didn’t know why.

---

Again I woke suddenly, hands rocketing towards my groin expecting to find the hands or head of some pervert pressing against me. Then I remembered that Kilroy was my new roommate.

And again, Jaspar was standing near my bed with the candle.

He pressed a finger to his lips indicating I should be silent, and then he motioned me out of bed and towards the door. The door was open!

I didn’t have time to ask him how the door had come to be not only unlocked but standing wide open as he grabbed me and pulled me stealthily out into the hall. To my surprise, Kilroy, Duraldo, and Jean were all waiting for us.

“Nicked a key from a Watcher that was napping,” Duraldo giggled.

The group of us tiptoed down the hall past the kitchen, avoiding the hall that lead towards the Watchers’ chambers. I knew where we were going, we all did. We opened a door and began to climb a long winding stair case, one that we had climbed time and again in this place.

With a loud creak, the wooden door to the Arena opened and we all filed inside.

Duraldo made it to the broken window first. The Watchers had hastily thrown a brown canvas sheet over the gaping hole, but had yet to make formal repairs. He pulled the canvas away and the five of us peered out the window.

The moon was out, and terribly bright, but even its awesome beauty could not tear our eyes away from what we saw beneath us. Jaspar was right, we were in a tower on a cliff. What he hadn’t noticed at all though, was the identical tower several miles away across a giant expanse that seemed to be rippling like the surface of water, but with a huge gash cut in it stretching across in a straight line to the other tower. It took a moment to get our bearings and establish in our minds what it was we were actually seeing. Kilroy saw it first.

“Two armies. Waiting,” he whispered.

It was true. The raging seas on either side of the divide were vast armies of men, the moonlight glinting off their weapons and armor. A gap of several hundred yards in width separated them.

“Waiting for what?” Duraldo asked.

None of us had the answer, but we didn’t wait around to ponder on it further. Having seen what we had come to see, we fled back down the stairs. As we shuffled down the dark hallways back to our rooms, Jaspar stopped at a door. The others continued on, but I stayed with Jaspar. Quietly, and with a shaking hand he turned the knob of the door. I tried to stop him, but he had already opened the door by the time I reached him.

There was a sound like water dripping into puddles, and rocks being pushed along a stone floor, but the room was dark. It’s size was difficult to judge in the darkness, but the echoes made it seem large. Something grunted in the dark, and was answered elsewhere in the room. I heard Jaspar light his candle, and there in the dancing shadows I saw Smith, his face disfigured … chewed on … without a body.

“Pigs!” Jaspar whispered harshly.

Pigs. And bodies. The bodies of every competitor who had lost his match. And puddles of filth and blood. I became violently ill to the delight of the pigs. Several trotted over to us, and the sudden reality of their size and demeanor made Jaspar and I both backpedal towards the door before quickly exiting and shutting it behind us. We gasped for breath for a few moments before we quietly walked back to our rooms, drowning in our sudden revelation.

---

Amazingly, Duraldo wasn’t talking.

Neither was I.

I was picturing Duraldo being eaten by pigs.

I was picturing two armies facing off against each other, waiting for something.

Duraldo made his move, an unwise move. I could see the next eight or so moves in my head and knew I had him beat. I had just killed Duraldo, but part of me wondered if I should throw the game so that he would live. None of the others knew what was in store for them, just Jaspar and I.

Duraldo smiled weakly.

And silently I sent him to his death.

---

Jean and I sat on one side of the lone table in the cafeteria, Jaspar and Kilroy on the other.

We ate in silence, our minds on the next day in the Arena - one step closer to either death or answers. None of us had spoken to each other that day, not after hearing Duraldo’s screams down the hallway. Never in all my time in that place had I heard a boy dying. I’ve seen them shot with poison, dragged away gibbering and spluttering under the weight of their fears, but never had I heard a boy die until Duraldo’s distinct voice came thundering down the hallways to our rooms. Jean was my roommate then but I could hear Kilroy across the hall whimpering while Jaspar tried to console him.

“Pig,” said Jean.

Jaspar and I jerked our heads up and stared at Jean, Kilroy kept eating.

“I finally figured out what this stuff is,” he said, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. “It’s pork.”

Jaspar and I did not eat again.

---

Jaspar was crying, his tears falling on the chessboard.

I silently wished he could cry enough to flood this place. I’d rather drown than know that another one of us had been fed to pigs.

“I’m sorry,” Jaspar said. “I’m so sorry.”

He set his knight down and for a moment I saw what he saw. That my life was over.

But no …

The fool … the damned fool …

He didn’t even see the pawn. The lowliest of pieces, and here ignored – and here exalted. I made the move and Jaspar gasped so deeply that he was still sucking in air when the Watchers took him.

Quietly I reached across the board and tipped his king over.

---

I woke slowly this time, wanting to feel hands touching me, wanting to feel the dampness of urine soaking through my clothes, wanting Jaspar to still be alive.

I was alone.

Across the hall, Jean was also alone.

Tomorrow would be the last game in the Arena.

---

All the Watchers were in attendance. They surrounded us, lurking in the darkness just outside the light of the circle.

Jean was stalling.

“Where are you from?” he asked, faking a nice smile. “I’m from France. You know, I think we might still be in France. When they took me, I didn’t travel long. This must be France.”

I cleared my throat.

Jean laughed softly and made his move.

Thunderous applause broke out around us. The Watchers were cheering.

I hadn’t even noticed. Jean’s move was fatal for him. I didn’t even have to finish the game, it was over.

“I hope this is France so I can die at home,” Jean said as he was dragged away.

---

I was bathed thoroughly by women, fed rich fruits and breads, and then dressed in golden shining armor.

The Watchers set a plumed helm on my head and escorted me down deep, deep into the complex where I had lived for a decade. As we reached a door, an intercom clicked on and I heard the Master’s voice for the last time.

“Thank you for playing. Please remember, we are all counting on you.”

And then the intercom clicked off.

The door was thrown open and I was marched down a long gap between two opposing armies.

I looked over my shoulder and realized that I had come out at the base of the cliff I had seen in the tower. I couldn’t see the tower above me, for the clouds were thick and low.

It seemed like I marched forever with the procession of Watchers around me. Soon I noticed another plumed and golden-armored general approaching in the distance. We met at a table, and on the table was a chessboard.

We were seated and our helms were removed. The boy that was seated across from me looked foreign and younger than myself. He smiled at me, but I didn’t return the smile.

“Play,” said a voice.

The boy opposite me made his first move.

“Why?” I said.

I looked to my right and my left at the two armies. Then I looked to the Watchers. There was silence all around.

Then an intercom clicked on.

“Because war is inevitable. Because man is greedy. Because now bloodshed is unnecessary. Play the game, save your people. Win the game, win a kingdom.”

“Fortune and Glory,” the boy across from me said.

The fools had given me a ceremonial knife, sheathed as part of my ceremonial armor.

I grabbed its hilt, pulled it out in the same series of motions that propelled me from my chair, and before they could stop me I had leaped across the table and slit the boy’s throat.

The armies roared to life with a thunder that caused my eardrums to burst. The ground shook as the armies surged towards one another. The Watchers scattered in terror. The boy gazed at me emptily as his blood flowed over the board and between the pieces in puddles.

I felt myself rise away from the scene as the armies collided around me.

I saw my own king, in black obsidian, fall among the pawns.

I saw myself as the catalyst to the chemical reaction that was raging around me.

I saw the blood in puddles – on the board, on the ground, in the sky as clouds were turned red by the setting sun.

I saw the human race.

The flames.

The smoke.

The dead.

The darkness.

The void.

The end.

THE THREE FATES

 

The following is an excerpt from evidence presented in the case of the abandonment and supposed destruction of the mining spacecraft, Atropos. The Atropos was one of three close-proximity mining survey ships deployed to survey the Jovian asteroid fields located in Jupiter’s orbit.  At the time of the incident, Atropos was operating in the Trojan Asteroid field on a 6-month mission to collect samples of several previously identified asteroids to determine whether their composition warranted further efforts to mine them for minerals. Atropos had two sister ships, Clotho and Lachesis, which at the time of the incident were stationed at the Ulysses Mining Base on Titan for routine maintenance.

The crew of the Atropos was as follows:

Chief Engineer Michael Lewiston – Mission Commander; Employee of Ulysses Mining Corporation for seventeen years; former ISA Exploration Team member; presumed killed during EVA above Asteroid EE43; 46 years old.

Engineer Thomas R. Franks – Systems Specialist; Contract labor; Expertise in Advanced Aeronautic Intelligence and Navigation Systems, asteroid mining protocol, astrogeology; former consultant for Ulysses Mining Corporation; presumed killed by exposure to toxic material aboard the Atropos; 43 years old.

Dr. William P. Weller – Medical support and psychologist; Employee of Ulysses Mining Corporation for ten years; only survivor of the Atropos incident; 51 years old.

---

Primary Mission Log – 12.16.2039

Chief Engineer Lewiston

In accordance with the mission specifications, we are halting our surface excavation of Asteroid EE41 and will proceed over the next three days to rendezvous with our secondary target, Asteroid EE43.

Preliminary data from the excavation of Asteroid EE41 shows that little or no viable minerals can be mined without jeopardizing the structural integrity of the object. As reported in the previous log, at approximately 4 hours and 17 minutes into our initial excavation, we breached a pressure pocket within the asteroid. The force resulting was enough to propel large sections of rock into the excavation apparatus. After inspection, I determined that the device is still operational. Once we rendezvous with Asteroid EE43, I will make an EVA alongside the device in case manual intervention is necessary at the asteroid’s surface.

---

Medical Log – 12.16.2039

Dr. William Weller

Our maneuver to rendezvous with Asteroid EE43 will take three days. I am using this extended downtime to conduct psychological reviews of the other two crewmembers. I feel this is necessary following the events of yesterday. Franks has intimated to me his concerns that the crew was in real danger when the pressure pocket was breached. I tend to agree that our fate could have been much different. While Lewiston seems unfazed by the event, I feel it will put Franks more at ease if he feels the evaluation is routine and that Lewiston is also participating.

I have indicated that for the next 24 hours, we should confine ourselves to quarters for rest after the stress of yesterday. After the 24 hours we will begin rotations in the exercise room with short routines using artificial gravity from the revolution pod and the jump rope.

---

Psychological Evaluation of Chief Engineer Lewiston – 12.17.2039

Dr. William Weller

Lewiston is displaying his usual stoic front at the prospect of his impending EVA. While he says he has considered the dangers of being present at the surface while attached to the mining apparatus, I do not believe he has thoroughly considered the possibility that a repeat of the incident on Asteroid EE41 would pose a great danger to him.

We reviewed several moments from his past including previous missions with the ISA Exploration Team where malfunctions in equipment or unforeseen crises directly affected him before proceeding to speak of his trouble with [ENTRY OMITTED FROM LOG] Regardless, Lewiston is confident that the remainder of the mission will be successful and he looks forward to returning to Titan to reunite with [ENTRY OMITTED FROM LOG] I feel it is important to continuously boost his confidence to a point where it will overpower his guilt about  [ENTRY OMITTED FROM LOG] and I am administering a small dose of antidepressants to counter any feelings of anger towards [ENTRY OMITTED FROM LOG] after our discussion.

Upon our return to Titan, I would like to discuss the possibility of taking on Lewiston as a patient of my own as I feel my own experiences with similar situations, specifically  [ENTRY OMITTED FROM LOG] does benefit our trust levels.

---

 Psychological Evaluation of Engineer Franks – 12.18.2039

Dr. William Weller

Franks was difficult to engage in productive conversation today. I believe he is over-thinking the incident with the pressure pocket and is nervous about proceeding with the mission. His knowledge of astrogeology is extensive and I must admit his misgivings about Asteroid EE43 do somewhat transfer to me. He describes his fear as relatively sound considering the composition, size, and density of the two asteroids is nearly identical. While I am not as versed in the science of asteroid composition and stability as he is, I am still only marginally concerned about our safety.

I attempted to divert the conversation away from the present to points of his past that he felt more relaxed and happy, but as was evident in my previous evaluations during this mission, Franks is extremely reluctant to discuss his past, even to the point of abruptly ending the session by refusing to speak to me further.

I am giving him an increased dose of muscle relaxers to ease his mind until the rendezvous. Hopefully once the excavation begins his concerns will be somewhat alleviated, and he will be able to function at a higher efficiency during this critical time.

---

Primary Log – 12.19.2039

Chief Engineer Lewiston

Atropos is now currently positioned approximately 200 meters above the surface of Asteroid EE43. In the next hour I will initiate the secondary phase of our mission by launching the impact probe. Franks has refitted the probe with some additional imaging hardware hoping to increase our visibility of the composition of the asteroid at the excavation point. I am impressed with his talents in this regard. If his addition to the probe works, I will recommend that Ulysses consider making the adjustment a standard feature for future probe designs.

Once data has been streamed back to us from the probe, we will prep the excavation apparatus for its positioning above the surface of the asteroid to begin excavation. I will commence an EVA simultaneously and will ride the apparatus down to the surface in case manual intervention becomes necessary due to unknown damage sustained during the primary excavation of Asteroid EE41.

Should any malfunction occur, I will attempt repairs on site. If repairs are ineffective, I will scrub the mission and begin maneuvers to rendezvous back with Base.

---

Medical Log – 12.19.2039

Dr. William Weller

At 1732 hours,  Chief Engineer Lewiston’s Life Support monitors registered a flat line. After a final attempt to retract the excavation apparatus and retrieve his body to resuscitate, he was pronounced dead. 

The following is a description of the events leading to the death of Chief Engineer Lewiston:

1643 – Lewiston and the apparatus reached the target area at the surface of Asteroid EE43. After a final check of the laser machinery, Lewiston activated the laser and began excavation of the site.

1657 – Lewiston halted excavation for further surface scans. After seeing no structural anomalies, Lewiston reactivated the laser and commenced excavation.

1715 – The excavation apparatus breached a large pressure pocket, the resulting force of which propelled the apparatus away from the asteroid and on a collision course with Atropos. Two of our solar arrays were damaged, along with the communications dish, and the secondary life support systems. Lewiston was attached to the excavation apparatus via his EVA suit when the incident occurred. He most likely suffered blunt force trauma either from the impact with the solar arrays or debris from the asteroid blast.

1717 – Franks and I attempted to retract the apparatus and retrieve Lewiston; however, the force of the blast caused the velocity of the apparatus to pull the umbilical attachment in excess of the force supported by the retraction device, thus rendering it destroyed and inoperable.

1723 – Lewiston still shows signs of life on the monitors and his breath is heard over the comm. Franks begins to suit up for an EVA retrieval. Upon assessing the damage, it is noticed that the velocity of the apparatus is pulling Atropos towards another asteroid. Franks and I decide to disconnect the apparatus to prevent a collision with the other asteroid. This results in the loss of Chief Engineer Lewiston.

1732 – Lewiston’s life functions cease. Franks continues to prepare for EVA to assess damage to Atropos.

---

Medical Log – 12.20.2039

Dr. William Weller

Franks is continuing to exhibit symptoms that go beyond my medical knowledge. Shortly after his EVA to assess the damage to Atropos, he began to complain of chest pains and a shortness of breath. Initially I felt that this was a cursory reaction relative to the stress of the incident, but its exponential increase in seriousness over the past few hours has me worried that something else is the cause. I have resorted to wearing a rebreather in the event that Franks has inhaled some type of toxic material.

Our communications are completely down. Though I have activated the distress beacon, the position of Jupiter between Titan and Asteroid EE43 might result in it not being received for several hours.

I am continuing to monitor Franks. Without him, it may be impossible to reposition Atropos to exit the asteroid field and maneuver the ship into a position where it can rendezvous with Titan should propulsion systems be damaged further. Our trajectory change following the detachment of the excavation apparatus has put us closer to Asteroid EE43. The pressure pocket has proved to have been something other than what we discovered on Asteriod EE41. The plume of purplish gas has continued to be emitted from the excavation site. It troubles me to consider how such a phenomenon could occur continuously like this. Surely once the pressure was released, the plume of ejected gas would dissipate. A part of my mind wonders if this has any relation to the symptoms Franks is exhibiting. Perhaps his exposure to the gases has caused some kind of reaction. I plan to take a sample of dust from his EVA suit to determine if any unknown residues might possibly have been inhaled by Franks once he re-entered the airlock of Atropos. Once I have stabilized Franks, I plan to spend 30 minutes with the jump rope to release some tension.

---

Medical Log – 12.21.2039

Dr. William Weller

Franks has died and I believe I have discovered what caused his death. In his final moments, his face frozen in a rictus of paralyzing pain, I chanced to remove my mask to see if it would help him breathe. Franks exhaled at that moment and released a sudden heavy effluvium of garlic-smelling foulness. Immediately, considering the strict diet we have on board Atropos, I realized this was a telltale sign of the agent of his destruction. During his EVA, Franks spent a good deal of time attempting to repair the solar arrays. The arrays currently in service on all three Ulysses mining ships are Cadmium Telluride (CdTe) based. It is my belief that the damage of the solar array created a fine compound dust of cadmium and tellurium that stuck to his EVA suit and was later inhaled. Tellurium ingestion commonly results in a heavy garlic odor in the victims exhalations.

I cannot correct the course of Atropos as the propulsion systems are inoperable. Collision alarms have sounded and I have no alternative but to launch the emergency escape pod and wait to be rescued. Hopefully, my proximity to the asteroids will not result in my own death, but this is a chance I am willing to take. Atropos is going to collide with EE43 and I am unable to prevent it. Due to the nature of the death of Franks, I have decided not to bring him in the pod with me as it could jeopardize my safety and the safety of any rescue team. I only hope that I have not already received a lethal exposure to the toxin.

This will be the final mission log entry for the mining ship, Atropos. Lewiston and Franks are dead, and I, Dr. Weller am exiting the craft via the escape pod.

---

The following is an excerpt from the ISA Court proceedings that followed the incident with the mining ship, Atropos. Dr. Weller was asked by the ISA commission in charge of the investigation to answer a few questions regarding the events leading up to the incident. The investigation was conducted largely outside the public eye, and up until the time Dr. Weller was asked to answer the commission’s questions, no one with either Ulysses Mining Corporation or the rest of the ISA and its many subsidiaries knew what the investigation had concluded.

The transcript of the proceedings is presented as it occurred with “Q” representing the questioning ISA Official and the “W” representing Dr. Weller:

Q: Just prior to the incident with the apparatus on EE43, was there continued communication between Lewiston and yourself, or Lewiston and Franks?

W: No. After his final check we did not hear from Lewiston again.

Q: And the records of the communications that were recorded on resident computers within the Atropos databanks … they were destroyed with the ship when it collided with the asteroid?

W: I believe so.

Q: With Lewiston dead, who was the mission commander in charge of the Atropos?

W: I was the only Ulysses employee left, so that responsibility fell to me.

Q: So it was your sole decision to send Franks out to inspect the ship?

W: No. It was originally suggested by Franks. I felt we should wait for rescue.

Q: Was it your sole decision to release the apparatus and Lewiston to deep space?

W: Franks and I came to a mutual agreement that it was the best thing to do.

Q: And in doing so, you prevented the Atropos from colliding with another asteroid. Is this correct?

W: That is correct.

Q: However, releasing the apparatus adjusted your trajectory to proceed along a collision course with EE43 after all. Is this also correct?

W: That is correct.

Q: Was Franks not able to calculate this possibility given the ship computer readings?

W: He did not indicate the possibility to me.

Q: Dr. Weller, do you have any previous experience piloting a Charybdis-model Mining Ship like the Atropos?

W: No. I’m a doctor, not an astronaut.

Q: Dr. Weller, where were you in the autumn and winter months of 2023?

W: … I can’t recall. Possibly working with ISA.

Q: Isn’t it true that you were stationed on the ISA ship, Ticonderoga?

W: Oh … um … yes, that’s correct.

Q: Are you familiar with the name James Addison?

W: He was my superior at the ISA.

Q: Is he alive today?

W: Yes. I believe so.

Q: And can you tell us why he is alive today?

W: I don’t understand.

Q: Isn’t it true, Dr. Weller, that while stationed on the Ticonderoga in orbit around Mercury that your Charybdis-model Mining Ship was damaged by space debris?

W: Yes.

Q: Isn’t it true that your superior and pilot of the ship was rendering unconscious during the collision?

W: Yes.

Q: So tell me, Dr. Weller, who exactly was it out of the two people operating the ship, one of which we have decided was unconscious, that initiated the intricate set of navigational adjustments that pulled the ship out of its fatal orbit and saved the ship and the life of James Addision.

W: Me.

Q: So you do have experiencing piloting a Charybdis-model ship like the Atropos?

W: … yes.

Q: Dr. Weller, did you know Thomas Franks prior to his contract with Ulysses Mining Corporation?

W: No.

Q: Wasn’t it you yourself who recommended Franks for the job to the Mission Commander, Chief Engineer Lewiston?

W: I … I don’t remember.

Q: Are you willing to swear this isn’t your signature on a document offering your recommendation of Mr. Franks for the contract? [document available in case discovery]

W: It is mine. Yes, I recommended him.

Q: Dr. Weller, have you ever hired a private investigator?

W: No … I … Yes.

Q: How did your daughter die, Dr. Weller?

W: …

Q: I repeat, Dr. Weller, how did your daughter die?

W: She was … raped and murdered.

Q: Dr. Weller, isn’t it true that you hired a private investigator to discover the murderer’s identity?

W: …Yes.

Q: And did you not receive information from the private investigator detailing the murderer’s identity and whereabouts?

W: Yes, I did.

Q: Who murdered and raped your eight year old daughter, Dr. Weller?

W: Franks.

Q: Please tell us his full name.

W: Thomas Franks.

Q: The same Thomas Franks that died of Tellurium poisoning aboard the Atropos?

W: The same.

Q: Dr. Weller, are you absolutely positive that the Atropos crashed into Asteroid EE43?

W: Yes … I mean … I’m fairly sure …

Q: What do you think we would have found if the Atropos hadn’t been destroyed in that collision?

W: I don’t know. Franks. The databanks.

Q: A jump rope?

W: …

Q: Dr. Weller, did you murder Thomas Franks by strangling him with a jump rope?

W: No … I …

Q: Did you also murder Michael Lewiston after he discovered the true cause of Franks death?

W: …

Q: Did the laser ever breach a pressure pocket, Dr. Weller?

W: …

Q: Dr. Weller … I believe this is yours. [official holds up a jump rope]

---

Excerpt from the private diary of Thomas Franks

December 19, 2039

It’s him. Now I recognize him. He was showing Lewiston a picture of his family. It was her … that little girl. God help me. God forgive me. At least he doesn’t know it was me.

For the assignment "...milky veins in the gut of a well fed dog...":

The Vet’s Wife

 

A thousand days bitten

A thousand days filthy

I toil over the opened flesh

Of man’s best friend

 

Alone like hidden willows

Alone like sunless caves

I exist for the memory of her -

Of my dead wife

 

I keep her on ice

I keep her stashed well

Customers come and go above

But do not suspect

 

Her skin is blue

Her iced tears flow

Like the milky veins in the gut

Of a well fed dog

 

I save an animal

I kill an animal

I toil over opened flesh

For my dead wife

 

I wait for the time

I wait for the means

To toil over opened flesh

And bring her back

 

A thousand days written

A thousand days lost

She never even existed for me

She was always dead

 

A thousand days bitten

A thousand days filthy

I toil over the opened flesh

Of man’s best friend

4. Revelations

Holmes’ contact in Leeds was a gentleman named Kenneth Buchanan, a chemist who operated a small collection of laboratories attached to the university there. Holmes had been corresponding with Buchanan for several years in regards to his own independent experiments in chemistry, and apparently the two held a great deal of respect for each other. Most often, when Holmes was unable to manufacture the results he desired in an experiment, Buchanan would be able to direct him towards a solution. It is for this expertise in the field of chemistry that Holmes had chosen him to assist us in this most unusual case.

One would think by the gracious amounts of geniality displayed by the two masters that they had been long friends. The truth was that neither had met each other in person. Buchanan was exceedingly pleased by our sudden visit and set right to inquiring as to the case his specialization would benefit.

The chemist was middle-aged, of short stature and dark in complexion. From above his lips sprouted an immense black moustache that was rivaled only by the hair on top of his head in its chaos. He wore spectacles perched on the knob of his nose and it was through these that he peered at the contents of the vial I produced for him.

“Interesting coloration,” he said. “I presume that this is most likely the byproduct of some reaction, and judging by uneven coarseness of the granules I’d have to say it’s likely a mixture of substances we’re looking at.”

“Precisely my feelings,” commented Holmes. “Being lacking in the proper instruments in the field, I held off judgment towards any specifics.”

“Well, we have all that you shall need here,” Buchanan responded while gesturing to his lab and its collection of retorts, crucibles, alembics, and Bunsen burners.

“Though I would enjoy the opportunity to see you gather your results in person, Dr. Buchanan, I regret that Dr. Watson and I have some other business to attend to. We shall rejoin with you in an hour at the most,” explained Holmes.

“Understood, my friend. I shall have something for you upon your return,” replied the chemist and set off immediately to work.

We departed the laboratory with Holmes appearing in good spirits despite the serious and personal nature of the case we were now entangled in.

“I have the greatest confidence that Buchanan will be able to provide a most important clue to the events on the rail, and perhaps to the entirety of our current problem.”

“He did seem rather keen on the idea of providing assistance to us,” I mused.

“Indeed. Buchanan is one of the best in his field, and boasts an attention to detail that I find refreshing. It is rare to find an individual with such an eye for hidden meanings in chemical residues. Our interests in this regard are in the best of hands.”

We passed quickly through the campus of the university, it having been only just incorporated following a number of years as a prominent school of medicine. Holmes had returned to his quickened pace and stalked through the streets with purpose. We departed from the sleek architecture of the blocks surrounding the campus university and soon found ourselves in the shadows of a neighborhood of lesser repute. The sun was finding rips in the clouds which allowed a fair amount of rays to beam down on us throughout the campus, but the district we had just entered seemed to repel sunlight unnaturally.

After several turns down dark twisting alleys, Holmes stopped in front of a low building with no windows. Being wedged between two larger buildings that appeared to be warehouses and having no street entrance, the place would have been easy to miss. This was probably due to its dark purpose – a haven for addicts – which I deduced from the acrid odor surrounding it.

“An opium den?” I whispered in surprise.

He elbowed me in the ribs with force and gave me a glare that immediately shut off any further attempt to question him or the purpose of our visit to such a low place. Just then, seeming to melt away from the wall of the place, a man appeared. I was shocked by his sudden appearance as just a moment before I would have sworn there was nothing in front of the building other than a pile of refuse.

The man was an Oriental – I thought most likely Chinese considering the number of them involved with these vile drug pits throughout England. My first thoughts were confirmed as he barked out a line of Mandarin at us. I noticed, to my surprise and sudden fear, that he was holding a cruel dagger just under the patchwork coat he wore. I surreptitiously slid my hand into my pocket where I kept a small knife of my own, cursing myself for having left my revolver on the train.

Holmes then responded in similar style to the man, and made a subtle gesture with his fingers at his waist. The Chinaman nodded and returned to his post, appearing once again as a pile of garbage. I had no time to ponder over the events that had just occurred as Holmes was then pulling me into a hell I had only entered once or twice before in similar dens back home.

The ceilings were uncomfortably low and most of the decorations were a dark tar-stained red. It was difficult to tell where the stains ended and the shadows began. Smoke hung like thin curtains drifting down from the hanging lamps sparsely scattered through the place. Holmes led me down a long corridor. I tried, but I could not keep my eyes from peering into the depths of the rooms to either side of us as we passed.  All manner of men could be found here – fallen nobles, lost students, wastes of men, vaporous apparitions of humankind. Some stooped over low flames, some danced about chanting with eyes as luminous as the moon. One man stood naked in front of a broken mirror and wept.

I began to feel nauseous from the fumes, but Holmes pulled me forwards down an adjoining hallway. Finally we entered a room, but my relief turned to serious shock at what I witnessed there. The room was bare of furniture save for a ratty, old-fashioned chair with a high back. A small pit of coals lent the only light in the room, and there, lounging lazily in the chair with his feet propped up on a pile of dusty books was Sherlock Holmes!

Hearing us enter the room, he lifted his head from his semi-slumber and said in a voice I had heard a hundred times before,” Holmes! What brings thee to this hebetudinous warren of langorous lassitude?”

“Lord Almighty!” I exclaimed and, whether a result of shock or simply the heavy inhalation of fumes, promptly fainted.

I recovered after a few moments and a few pulls from a flask of brandy the other Holmes had on hand. I nearly fainted again seeing two of them standing over me, but soon I could see the difference in the hairlines and intricate details of the facial structures. The other man was nearly an identical twin.

I was still speechless and the real Holmes quietly smirked to himself waiting for my assessment of this development. The other man handed me a cigarette which I gladly accepted and inhaled deeply, hoping the touch of tobacco smoke would refresh my lungs after the assault from the opium fumes.

“Dear me, Watson, take it easy on that,” remarked Holmes a bit too late. I had just inhaled a large amount of marijuana smoke. I began to cough in spasms and the two men hauled me to my feet and forced another two swallows of brandy down my throat.

“May I introduce Mr. Tristan Brady,” said Holmes, gesturing to the man next to him. “Tristan, this is my associate Dr. Watson.”

“The ambit of such a momentous and fortuitous intersection of luminaries exceeds the limits of my skills in delineation,” spoke the man. His accent, now his own, was a mixture of Northern English and Scottish influences.

“You will have to forgive Tristan’s eloquent manner of speech,” chimed Holmes. “The only book he has ever read was Roget’s Thesaurus.”

“The only book I ever finished, you mean, old boy.”

“It is certainly a …” I hesitated a moment before continuing, “pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“A pleasure shared, I’m sure,” he replied, simply beaming.  “The ever loyal Watson. At last we meet. Holmes speaks very highly of you. So much in fact that I sometimes wonder if you’ve both gone a bit Greek in all the time you have spent in each other’s company.”

At this he squeezed the plumpness of my stomach in jest.

“How dare you!” I exclaimed, extremely upset by his manner.

“Now, now, gentleman,” chided Holmes. “We have serious matters to attend to. Will you join us, Tristan? We are returning to Buchanan’s laboratory for the results of examination of evidence. We shall fill you in on the way.”

“By all means, lead the way, dear Holmes,” said Tristan.

As we exited the room Tristan winked and pursed his lips at me and it was all I could do to keep from giving the clown a bunch of fives.

“Watson’s moustache dost bristle like the hackles of dog when he’s fit to snap, eh?” he whispered to Holmes as we made our way back through the opium den. If I had not started to feel the shallow effects of the marijuana, I may have tackled him.

The walk was more leisurely as we made our way back to the campus. Holmes explained our adventures thus far and in turn relayed to me the relationship between the two strikingly similar gentlemen. Tristan had actually been an adversary of my friend in a case of theft some years back. Holmes had won out in the end, but not after he himself was nearly accused of the crimes by Scotland Yard. Tristan, discovering the famous Sherlock Holmes was on his trail, used his natural similarity to the man to his advantage and had proceeded to perpetrate several petty crimes in the guise of the famous detective. Once Holmes had sorted out the case, Scotland Yard dropped its case against my friend, but not before Holmes interceded on behalf of Tristan, succeeding in having his sentence commuted to community service as a tool against crime. Holmes paid him little, but apparently kept him in good supply of his drug of choice. When I questioned why I had never met the man before, Holmes explained how his look alike fit into to his methods.

“It is elementary. You have never met him, Watson, because I wish him only to be seen where I am not. Since you are often by my side on these cases, it is logical that you would never see the man,” he explained.

I accepted this explanation, but I did not accept the conduct of this jester we had picked up. His attitude towards me was as if I were a sideshow act to be ridiculed and chuckled at. If not for my friend Holmes’ need for the man, I would have promptly dispatched the poor fellow in the manner any former soldier would dispatch a pestering hoodlum such as he.

Suddenly it dawned on me what the course of action would be after we left Buchanan.

“Holmes!” I said, stopping on the sidewalk outside the laboratory. “I absolutely refuse to have this man accompany me back to London.”

“Me thinks the Watson dost protest too much,” came the retort from Tristan, and it was the last straw.

I lunged at the man with my fist cocked back, ready to deliver a punch that would lay out an ordinary man. I found out quickly that Holmes’ profile was not the only trait they shared. In a move so quick that I was unaware it had passed until I was on the ground, Tristan used my momentum against me, cast me over his shoulder and flat onto my back. I lay there dazed for a moment, attempting to reconstruct where my attack had gone wrong.

“Do get up, Watson, we have no time to dawdle.”

I had no idea which of them said it, but both stood over me with the same sly smirk on their faces.

When we returned to receive Buchanan’s verdict we found the laboratory in a state of violent disarray, even on fire in some areas. Buchanan himself was considerably singed and covered with soot.

“Rubidium!” the chemist exclaimed, his face a radiant presentation of triumph.

“Are you sure?” replied Holmes.

“Normally found in extracts of zinnwaldite and other ores, but rarely ever in this state!” Buchanan cheered. “I have never actually had it available to study here in the lab. It was only recently discovered, you know. The thirty-seventh element. It is felt that in a decade or so we may use it for any number of highly advanced medical and scientific experiments. Its properties are quite remarkable.”

“Remind me to apologize to you later, Watson,” Holmes said absently in my direction.

Tristan chuckled at this and I began to fume once again.

“Yes, yes, it’s a wonder the both of you were not blown to pieces on the way here – holding such a volatile substance in a glass vial without a protective oil to encase it. This can ignite merely with exposure to moisture,” Buchanan explained.

I was not amused.

“But the remaining question is how does this fit in with the series of events so far?” mused Holmes.

He began to pace, sidestepping the debris in his path.

“Now that we know it is Rubidium, I think we can rule out that it is the byproduct of a reaction. More likely this is excess from it being the catalyst in the reaction,” stated Buchanan.

“Could that mean that the man blew himself up?” I queried.

“That would not fit with Mitchell’s description of the event. I have full confidence that what he saw actually happened. The man simply vanished. Besides it would take a blast of excessive magnitude to completely vaporize man, and such a blast would most likely have derailed the train.”

“This reminds me of the stories a friend of mine has written,” said Tristan. He had seated himself upon a writing desk and was twirling a test tube between his fingers. “Wells is his name. Future fiction they are calling it. More science than fiction, I say. His ideas aren’t too far from possibility.”

“Yes, I’m acquainted with him,” said Holmes. “However, I am not yet prepared to accept that there is anything but a simple solution to all of this.”

“Well, I am sorry I cannot help you further,” the chemist apologized. “Thank you though for the opportunity. I have saved a sample for further study. It will keep me busy for weeks.”

Holmes stopped pacing and moved to shake Buchanan’s hand in thanks.

“I cannot thank you enough for …” A reflection of light danced over Holmes face, and he suddenly turned his head towards the window. In a flash he was lunging at the chemist.

There was the sound of shattering glass and a second after Holmes hit the chemist with his full body, Buchanan’s head erupted in a fountain of blood.

Tristan and I both dropped to the ground below the level of the windows. Holmes was cursing himself as he examined the chemist’s wound.

There was silence for several moments before Tristan pushed himself to his feet and removed a revolver from a hidden holster under his coat. He peered out the window cautiously, using an unwindowed area of the wall for cover.

“There’s an open window across the courtyard. I don’t see anyone there,” he reported.

“No doubt he has done what he came to do,” spouted Holmes in fury.

I rushed over to Holmes and the chemist to see if there was anything I could do for the man, but Buchanan was already dead.

“Soft bullet,” Holmes explained, turning the skull side to side to show the small entry wound and the gaping bowl of an exit wound. “Maximum damage. Tristan, head over to that open window across the way and see what you can find. If you have the chance, send someone for the local authorities. Be careful, and try not to touch anything.”

Tristan nodded and left the laboratory, gun in hand.

“We have lost another good man to this damned scheme,” Holmes lamented. “I cannot help but blame myself. How in God’s name have I erred so much that death has seen fit to follow me in such a manner.”

Holmes sat up and sighed, running his hands over his long face, now pale and gaunt from overexertion. He chanced to turn his head slightly and in doing so he noticed something embedded in the high wooden examination table.

“What’s this then?”

He moved quickly to get a better look at it, then turned to face the shattered window. The object that had caught his attention was the bullet and its final resting place in the table, just below the thin granite top.

“The shooter could certainly have cleared the sill to hit the table at that angle,” I noticed.

“Indeed, Watson, but what does that say about the shooter’s aim?”

Holmes’ brow was furrowed as he stood. For several repetitions he walked back and forth from the window to the table, holding his hand at different angles to measure trajectory.

“Watson, stand here,” he said, pointing to approximately the point where Buchanan had been standing when Holmes had attempted to save him.

“Why would the assassin not aim at the point Buchanan’s head was while he was standing where you are? It’s readily apparent that I was not his target, and that in itself brings up a further line of questions. Why would our adversary not wish to kill me, thus taking me out of the equation? Either the man was a terrible shot and by some amazing coincidence happened to hit the mark as Buchanan fell …”

“Or the shooter knew that you were going to try and save him, and he aimed exactly where the chemist’s head was going to be at the exact moment he fired.”

The last voice was from Tristan who had returned with both the police and an ashen countenance.

“You need to come see this, Holmes.”

Holmes silently nodded and we both followed Tristan over to the building with the open window. The building was an annex of the library that acted as a holding area for books not officially entered in the library’s records. Literally thousands of books lined bookcase after bookcase. At the open window there was an apparatus which only slightly resembled a rifle. Its long barrel was thin but the butt end of the gun was heavy and square. A counter-balance hung from under the barrel to keep it from falling backwards on its stand. Holmes took great care to examine every detail of the scene.

“You two, please stand away from here, I don’t want this area disturbed.”

Tristan and I acquiesced and took up positions ten feet further away.

“This stand was preset so that the shooter only had to pull the trigger. The legs are kept steady by a strong adhesive on the stand’s feet. But why would the suspect leave such a telling scene? The adhesive, the weapons construction – it can all be traced in the end.”

Holmes peered down the barrel of the weapon which bore a remarkable telescopic sight.

“Just as I thought,” remarked Holmes. “He was aiming exactly where the bullet hit.”

Holmes then proceeded to examine the weapon itself. After a thorough examination, he depressed two buttons on its top, at which point a soft hissing sound began. The sound continued to grow in volume for several seconds before Holmes reached up and pulled the trigger. There was an audible and visible release of steam from the bottom of the butt of the weapon and a slight pop.

“A steam-powered rifle,” concluded Holmes. “There are pellets of a volatile substance in the rear section of the gun that are released into a water reservoir with water from another compartment by pressing these two buttons. After a sufficient build-up of pressure, the trigger releases the steam with enough velocity to propel the bullet at speeds high enough to kill a man.”

Tristan and I looked at each other, both only glimpsing the significance of the discovery in our minds.

“Two singular points are now clear, gentleman, and both point to one explanation,” Holmes stated while standing up straight. His face was grave but I detected the same twinkle in his eyes that accompanied a sudden break in the case.

“You were not too far off when you mentioned Wells, Tristan. Particularly, I recall his fantastic story about the Time Machine. I put it to you both that, firstly, this adversary knows my every move before it happens, and secondly we are dealing with forces beyond our capacity to imagine. I bring to your attention also the small amount of familiar residue approximately where the shooter would have been standing to fire the weapon.  Rubidium again.”

I was dumbfounded at his next statement. Always the rational man, Holmes never gave a moment’s thought to the fantastic, the magical, the impossible.

“Our adversary, gentleman, is not from our time.”

3. A Web of Deceit

My friend began to exhibit the usual symptoms of keen interest in strange circumstances. His gait became noticeably different, stalking more than leisurely strolling. His eyes were afire with life, taking in every detail of every nook and cranny. His fingers twitched in purposeful patterns as if he were calculating important figures in his head.

The attendant who had been helpful to us so far escorted us back to the rear-most car where the lead engineer had been taken.  A railway official had Mitchell seated in a folding chair at the end of the car on the ties, thus hiding him from any curious passengers. The lead engineer was given a glass of water and though his color was returning, he was still very agitated.

“I tell ye I saw a man standin’ there plain as day and then he just disappeared,” the man explained, presumably repeating the same story he had been conveying to his inquisitors.

“What was this man wearing?” asked Holmes as we walked up to the scene.

The official turned to face us, seeming rather upset at the interruption of his investigation.

“This is official business, sir,” he barked. “You should return to your cabin at once. We’ll be underway shortly.”

Our helpful friend stepped forward at this point and said, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir, and his assistant, Dr. Watson.”

Whispers broke out among the other attendants, porters, and railmen at the scene. The official obviously recognized the name. His jaw jutted forward and his bottom lip pursed outward in annoyance.

“A freelance meddler, nothing more,” he said gruffly. “You show me some paperwork of authority from Scotland Yard and I will gladly turn over the investigation to you. Otherwise, you had best turn back towards the passenger cabins and wait until we are underway or I shall have you escorted back.”

Holmes stood his ground and removed a parcel of paper from his pocket with the official seal of Scotland Yard imprinted upon it. I glanced and saw that it had been signed by Inspector Lestrade. Holmes handed the document to the official whose eyes widened.

The official perused the text and quietly handed Holmes the document back.

“If you would be so kind as to give us some privacy, gentleman,” Holmes said to the crowd, “this is official business.”

The assorted rail workers turned and left the scene, but the official hesitated a moment, his face turning a thousand shades of red, before he stomped off in defeat.

“Where did you get that?” I asked my friend after we were alone with the engineer and our good attendant.

Holmes smirked and said, “Oh I keep several on hand for emergencies - some from the Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Agriculture, all clever forgeries. Lestrade’s signature is one of the easiest to mimic as it resembles the scrawling of a five-year-old.”

Even Mitchell chuckled at this, and I doubled over with laughter, “You old rogue. You would find yourself in a great deal of trouble if someone were to find out.”

“Indeed, Watson. That is why I only use them in the most desperate situations.” He then turned to our engineer and gave him a gentle smile before proceeding to question him about the events.

The engineer was happy to answer our questions, no matter what direction they took. Mitchell had been riding the rails since he was sixteen, and had a keen interest in locomotives all his life. He had never touched a drop of alcohol his entire life and had no vices to speak of. He was unmarried and traveled extensively as his position allowed.

Holmes returned to his initial line of questioning in regards to the clothes the vanishing man had been wearing.

“He had a long dirty coat,” Mitchell replied. “His pants were thick material, leather maybe, and his boots had heavy thick soles.”

“Rubber soles?”

“Aye, they had to have been as they were thickly treaded like mountaineering boots. And the feller wore goggles that he had set up on his forehead, holding down the brightest yellow hair you ever seen.”

“You mean blonde?” interrupted Holmes.

“Nay, when I say yellow I mean yellow as a canary. That’s all I can tell ye. I didn’t have long to look afore I had to pull the brakes.”

“Now, in regards to that precise moment and the moments following, were you the only man in position to be looking out the forward glass?” questioned Holmes.

“Aye, I was. The others had tasks to attend to that wouldn’t allow a view of the rails in front. No matter what they say, I’m the only that could have seen him.”

“So you engaged the brakes. Did you look away to do so?”

“I did not. I know my engine blinded. I set my hands on the lever and never once did my eyes leave that face. I thought for sure that he was a goner.”

“And the man vanished, you say. Did he make any gesture before you saw him disappear?” continued Holmes.

“Yeah, he did, in fact. He brought his hand up to his chest just before he went ‘poof’”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. You’ve been most helpful,” concluded Holmes.

“So you believe me then?” the engineer asked, looking hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” replied Holmes. “Given the description of the circumstances in addition to your history, I’d have to say the apparition was a result of stress and overwork. You should really look into a holiday.”

Dejectedly Mitchell let his chin fall to his chest.

Holmes turned to the attendant still with us and asked if it was true that there was telegraph station only two miles to the west. The attendant verified it was true and Holmes instructed him to have our bags rerouted from York station to Leeds, giving him enough money cover the expense plus a generous tip.

“Up for some exercise, Watson?” Holmes asked as he grabbed my arm and turned me towards the direction of the telegraph station.

I nodded and began to walk with him away from the train. After a few minutes of walking we heard the train whistle sound and the engine roar to life as the train continued its journey without us.

“Surely the man’s testimony coupled with the evidence we found on the track was enough to prove his story,” I voiced after being able to stand the silence no longer.

“Very good, Watson. He was indeed telling the truth. Subtle facial and body language confirmed that at least he believed he was telling the truth, and our investigation of the scene corroborates.” he replied.

“But why the deception?”

Holmes’ face was serious and we walked several meters before he spoke.

“Watson, we are dealing with powers I’ve not come in contact with before. On many occasions, as you may well remember, the facts presented in our cases lean towards a supernatural or otherworldly cause, though in the end we always are able to bring light to the simple truth behind them. Recall the cases of the Speckled Band and the curse of Baskervilles, both odd circumstances leaning towards weird phenomena, but both simply and scientifically explained – both simply evil plots of desperate yet clever men.

“This time, however, I cannot account for the situation. The strange clothing, the boot print, the residue on the tracks, the timely telegram, the case of the cows, and the murder of Inspector Bridges are all somehow connected and at the moment I am at a loss as to what the connecting strands are in this web of deceit laid about us.”

“You mention only the Bridges incident,” I said, “Do you believe the telegram was entirely a fake and that a second official from Scotland Yard was not murdered?”

“We shall know soon enough. Assuming the messenger from the train was not an accomplice to the scheme, we should be receiving a telegram from Lestrade upon our arrival at the telegraph office either confirming or denying the murder.”

We continued our walk and soon discovered that the distance to the telegraph office was more likely three miles instead of two. At Holmes’ determined and unbroken pace, I was slightly winded by the time we walked up the steps and into the offices of the telegrapher.

“Yes, sir. We’ve just received a communication for a Mr. Tobias,” the telegrapher said to us after Holmes’ had given him the false name. “I’ve not typed it up yet, but here’s the text if you can read my handwriting.”

He handed the hand-written message to Holmes which read as follows:

“Tobias – Sorry haven’t written. Two dogs have died and now a pup as well. My condolences, as pup is Bradley. Your rooms have been redecorated. Come home soon. – Margaret”

I raised my eyebrows at the unusual message, but looking at Holmes’ face I saw a deep grief that I had not witnessed before. He seemed on the verge of tears and quickly exited the building without a word. I followed him in confusion, but waited for him to speak. He began to pace rapidly only stopping to bash his fist into a lamppost outside the telegraph office.

“Blast it all, Watson!” he exclaimed, pounding the lamppost in time with the syllables of his outburst.

“A coded message from Lestrade?” I asked.

“Yes, and a most disturbing one. This case has suddenly become very personal. Not since the Moriarty business have I felt so set upon,” he said, still pacing up and down the sidewalk. “What to do, what to do?”

“What did Lestrade have to say?”

“He says he did not send the first telegram, but confirms that a total of two policemen have been murdered. And not only that, Watson, the fiend has struck out at an innocent. He has murdered one of the Baker Street Irregulars, poor Bradley … but a child …” Holmes was obviously overcome with emotion at this point, and halted his ceaseless pacing.

I stood silent and waited for him to compose himself.

After a minute, he stood up straight, the stoic presentation of resolution across his face.

“We shall take a coach to Leeds and visit my chemist acquaintance there to ascertain the properties of the residue we have collected. There we will break company, Watson. I will continue on to the Dales in disguise and see what I may learn there of this treacherous series of events. You will return to London and immediately track down my brother Mycroft. The message also says that Baker Street has been raided.  If this criminal is set on hitting at me directly, he may go for my closest acquaintances, so Mycroft and Lestrade may both be in danger, not to mention yourself, Watson. You must arm yourself at all times and be prepared for anything.”

I nodded my understanding, feeling a wave of dreadful foreboding wash over me. Again and again in the past had I moments of fear and trepidation when heading towards a climax of action while assisting Holmes, but this particular time I began to wonder if this would be the one adventure we would not survive.

Holmes went back in and sent a telegram to both farmers, Davison and Baker, to say that he was unavoidably detained and could not offer his assistance in the strange case.

We hired a hansom for the trip to Leeds and Holmes drove us at breakneck speed down the winding roads. He spoke in a near frantic voice as he drove and I had not seen him so flustered in all my years with him.

“Magicians can cleverly use smoke and mirrors to produce illusions. I’ve even known the necessity to use such methods myself on occasion, but the event on the rails is quite honestly beyond me. Our only lead is that vial you carry in your pocket.”

“What do you make of the engineer’s description of the vanishing man?” I asked.

“I can make nothing of it, Watson, and therefore I will leave it alone. We have been breaking one of my primary rules. We must follow the path of least resistance from now on, no matter how outlandish an ending it leads us towards. Our adversary obviously knew of my trip to Yorkshire before we left, which means he must have somehow gleaned the information from Mycroft. The murder of Bridges was an obvious attempt to get me to remain in London, whether for some sinister plan at that location or to keep me away from some crime about to occur in Yorkshire.

“Discovering I had left London, our adversary masterminded the interruption with the train and the delivery of the false telegram.  Since we don’t know the particulars of the two most recent murders, we cannot assume they are related, but it is most likely the same murderer after the same end result of me returning to London.

I tried to listen as much as I could, but my attention was diverted time and again to the road as we shot over bridges and through curves recklessly, once even turning the cart up on two wheels.

“Once we get to Leeds, I will send another coded message to Lestrade to make preparations for our return. You and I will be returning on horseback under cover of night.”

“But Holmes,” I interjected, gripping the seat cushion in fear of flying out of the hansom. “You said you were going to the Dales.”

“I am going to the Dales, Watson,” he replied. “But I am also returning to London. I shall explain once we reach the laboratory in Leeds.”

The scenery shot by us in a blur. Considering our diversion away from the train, our enemies could not know our current whereabouts or our next destination. That did nothing to alleviate the feeling that even as we flew across the countryside we were being watched.

(I didn't plan on it, but this story now has its claws in me, I gave myself chills even. I've given each addition a subtitle now. Going back to the first part I named it Baker Street and Turmoil. I did a lot of research for this section and have still most likely left some inconsistencies with distances and travel times, but that's ok ... I'm having fun.)

2. The Vanishing Man

I returned to Baker Street after a quick meal and a wash, packed and ready to go. The journey to York would take several hours and I had packed the necessary comforts for a long trip. It had been decades since I had ventured into Yorkshire, and I looked forward to taking in some of the greatest countryside views England has to offer.

 As to the details of the case Holmes was so keen on advising, he kept silent – only once raising a finger in the middle of the question as it was exiting my mouth. We took a silent ride by hansom over to King’s Cross and were able to make entry directly to our train. It would be a long journey to York where we would then take a hackney coach into the rural areas. The locomotive jerked forward and we began our journey with Holmes staring out at the people still on the platform, taking in every detail of every person. After a good distance of travel had passed, which I had spent perusing the Times and reading a yellow-backed novel, Holmes supplied me with the details of the investigation we were about to begin.

“Farmers of the Dales are proud folk as you know,” he began. “Their livelihood fully depends, season to season, on the health of their stock. You will not find it as romanticized as the American way of ranching and farming – some families manage only a few assorted livestock, a milking cow, a few goats, perhaps a handful of pigs or sheep. There are, however, a few big-minded men that specialize in certain animals and it is a group of those men which this case revolves around.”

He paused to drag in a few deep inhalations from his pipe before continuing.

“Cows, Watson,” he remarked.

“Hmm?” I replied.

“What do you know about cows?” he expanded, still staring out his window.

“Very little, other than the obvious,” I admitted. “My family had pigs, and even then our farm was separate from our family home and was run by cousins of my mother. I can only remember one or two times that I was ever there.”

“Would you think that you have the observational capacity to be able to tell two cows apart if they were shown to you, taken into a closed barn, and then brought back out again?”

“I should think so,” I replied. “I am sure I could determine one or two details for each cow that would keep them separate in my mind.”

“Even if their markings had been manipulated? I would bring your focus back to our case of the missing horse some time ago, when even the horse’s owner could not tell the white diamond on his prized racehorse had been painted over to conceal its identity.”

“I do remember that. The horse's name was Silver Blaze, I believe.” I said. “Is this new case one of disguised identity as well?”

“Perhaps,” Holmes said, pulling breath through his pipe. “Here are the facts I have gleaned from the case so far.

“A Mr. Thomas Baker, a farmer and long time resident of these parts, lives in one quadrant of a rather expansive set of land. He shares boundaries thusly with two other farmers and sits diagonal to another farm. All four farms are owned primarily by cattle farmers, with the exception of Baker, who is also a horse enthusiast.

“Mr. Baker sent word to me by telegram of the case, having procured my details through my brother Mycroft, who often will spend brief holidays in the area when he is not being completely lazy and anti-social. The telegram arrived yesterday and stated the following:

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes – On advice from your brother, one Mycroft Holmes, I have been made aware of your special skills in cases of mystery. I hope you will find the good graces to lend your skill towards one such case involving some of my stock. Yesterday morning, I took notice of two young heifers within my herd that were not mine, after which I set to counting the lot and found I was none short. Again this morning, the same has happened. I am not missing any stock by head, but two more cows I’ve noticed that aren’t mine. I would appreciate any help you can offer. I am willing to put you up if you should come, and will repay you what I can for your services.  - Sincerely yours, Thomas Baker.”

“An odd set of circumstances, I should say,” I remarked. “Are any of the other farmers missing cattle?”

“Excellent question, Watson,” he exclaimed. “I have further information which may shed more light on your direction of inquiry. Shortly after receiving that telegram I received another from a Mr. Paul Davison of similar content. Though where it seems Mr. Baker is a man of some education, Mr. Davison seems more likely a simple farmer. Here is the text of the telegram:

“Dear Mr. Holmes – Acquaintance of mine gave me your name. Come quick. Foulness afoot. Will heavy your coffers.  – Paul Davison”

“Not a very detailed explanation, is it?” I said.

“Not as such. However, I did manage to track down Mycroft and gain the additional information I have already spoken of, namely the layout of the farms and the general specializations of the farmers. Additionally, I can provide you with two other details that may change whatever theory you have begun to formulate about the case.

“Firstly, four stone walls mark the boundaries of the farms, and though each farm holds many internal walls sectioning the farms into smaller enclosed pastures with gates, nowhere along the shared walls are there gates allowing access between farms. All four farms are bordered at their outer extremities by dirt roads which form the quadrangle boundary of the four farms which are also walled with stone.

“Secondly, I have procured in advance the names and dispositions of the other two farmers. One, a Mr. James Prentice, is the oldest and holds the largest herd. It is his ancestors which originally held the entirety of land before his grandfather divided and sold three parts of it. The last piece of the puzzle is a Mr. O’Grady, an emigrant from Ireland. He is the newest to take claim here and holds the smallest herd. And listen to this Watson,” he said with a smirk. “Mr. O’Grady was run out of his former farm after his herd infected three others with a deadly disease causing their owners to lose their entire livelihood. It is believed by his former neighbors that the infection was not an accident, and in fact was only discovered after one farmer noted one of Mr. O’Grady’s herd mixed in with his own. That singular cow was the catalyst in the outbreak of infection.”

“Smacks of similar circumstances,” I surmised.

“Exactly, Watson,” Holmes replied. “We shall visit Mr. O’Grady first.”

Just as Holmes spoke those words we were thrown violently in our seats as the brakes were engaged. For several seconds we were jostled in our cabin and it took a moment or two to sort out our luggage in its now chaotic state. From the surrounding area and my recollection of stations and towns we had passed so far, I could tell we were just outside of Mansfield, having just recently passed Nottingham. There was a good seventy miles left to our journey, but it seemed with the amount of activity beginning to erupt all around the train that we might be delayed.

A porter tapped at our door before entering and inquiring as to our state.

“We are quite uninjured,” said Holmes. “I wonder if you could tell us why the engineer applied the brakes.”

The porter, who looked sharper than most of the lower class citizens who worked on the trains at that time, was of Indian descent. At Holmes specific question, he smirked and answered, “How did you know it was the engineer and not a passenger who stopped the train?”

“Elementary,” said Holmes, quite pleased with himself. “An alarm would have sounded a few seconds before the brakes were applied. In this case, the sudden application of the brakes could only mean that the engineer was forced to do so without notice and was unable to engage the warning alarm.”

“I’ve heard only that something was on the track and we were forced to stop to avoid hitting it. I don’t know whether we hit it or not,” replied the porter.

“A half of a sovereign for you if you can provide me with specific details,” Holmes offered.

The porter smiled and nodded before leaving us to ourselves.

“Should we not exit the train to offer our assistance?” I queried.

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “Let us determine the facts of the situation before we exert ourselves from the cabin. It may be something as simple as a fallen tree. Patience is warranted for the moment.”

Several rail attendants from the rearward cars walked by our window towards the engine, followed by a handful of curious passengers. After a few moments, a rough-looking man with a square-cut jaw was escorted back to the rear by two rail officials. His face was pale and he was stammering to his escorts and making wild gestures.

“Interesting,” remarked Holmes. “That was the lead engineer. It appears we may wish to investigate our sudden termination of movement a bit closer.”

Just then, the porter returned.

“There’s nothing there,” he told us, his face a picture of confusion. “The engine man swears he saw a man on the track and he hit the brakes, but then says the man vanished into thin air.”

“Most interesting,” Holmes said, a twinkle in his eye appearing that I knew all too well. He pressed a sovereign into the porter’s hand and rose to leave. “It appears we may be delayed, Watson. Let us have a conversation with this train’s masters to discern the facts.”

We exited the train amidst a gathering crowd of passengers who apparently had also seen the engineer being escorted to the rear. Holmes quickly singled out an attendant who then led us to the front engine.

The attendant, who was a tall man in his late thirties, knew Holmes by reputation and was extremely helpful to us.

“It’s a queer thing,” he told us, “The engineer is named Mitchell, and he’s worked trains for twenty years. I’ve never known him to panic like he did. The firemen say he screamed with fright before he threw the lever, but none of them had seen anything in the train’s path.”

We had reached the front of the train, and as was imparted to us, there was nothing there.

“Did you inspect the underside of the train for a body, or perhaps some debris that the man may have mistaken for a person?” asked Holmes, carefully noting as many details about the train’s position as he could.

“We did, sir,” replied the attendant. “Nothing was found.”

Holmes began to walk along the side of the train, backwards from the engine, paying close attention to the ground and the ties between the rails. Just past the fuel car, he suddenly dropped to his knees and bent down to the rails, removing a magnifying glass from his coat.

“Halloa! What have we here?” he piped.

The attendant and I joined him, but kept our distance so as not to interfere with his investigation.

“See this soft earth between the ties here, Watson?” he remarked as he ran his eyes over the area. “What do you notice?”

I bent over and tried to determine what detail he was referring to. There was a strange pattern in the dirt, vaguely in the shape of a footprint, but the pattern was one I had never seen on any type of shoe or boot before.

“A shoe print, it seems,” I said to him.

“And an unusual one at that,” he replied. “Rubber soled if I’m not mistaken, and with a tread pattern quite unlike anything you would find in England … or any other locale I would imagine. Most curious.”

The attendant and I looked at each other, both as confounded as the other as to the meaning of this discovery.

As Holmes continued his search of the area he said to us, “It is entirely probable, given your description of the faculties and history of the engineer who claimed to have seen a person on the tracks, and coupled with this evidence of a print only freshly made, that there indeed was someone on the tracks.”

“It is possible that while moving to engage the brakes, the engineer failed to see the person move from the path of the train,” I theorized aloud. “And perhaps the other engineers were too busy to have witnessed anything before the brakes were engaged.”

“Excellent, Watson,” he said, still bent over the rails. “You really do please me with your deductions. However, there are no tracks leading away from this point.”

I hung my head a bit dejectedly, but was at least pleased by his compliment to some small degree.

“What’s this?” Holmes suddenly exclaimed. “Watson, fetch one of your empty vials!”

I quickly hurried back to our cabin and retrieved a vial from my traveling medical kit. By the time I returned to Holmes, a gathering of people had formed in a semi-circle around him. Without a word he took the vial from me and using a penknife he scooped a small amount of powdery residue from one of the ties.

“You are sure there is no body to be found caught beneath the cars or off to the sides?” he asked one of the attendants who was crouched next to him.

“We found nothing, Mr. Holmes. No blood, no cloth, no footwear - nothing,” the attendant replied.

Holmes stood then and returned his eyeglass to a pocket. Turning round to face me, he pressed the vial into the palm of my hand with force, saying somewhat harshly in a whisper, “Watson, do not, for fear of death, lose this vial. It is of the utmost importance that as soon as we are able we find a laboratory to determine the exact components of this residue.”

His tone surprised me and I quickly slipped the vial carefully into an inside pocket.

The sound of hoofs broke the sudden intense silence following his command. From around the engine came a messenger riding horseback shouting, “Urgent telegram for Sherlock Holmes!”

“This is most unusual,” said Holmes, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. He raised his hand to the messenger who reined in his mount and leaped to the ground.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the messenger queried.

“That is correct,” Holmes replied.

“Telegram from Scotland Yard,” the messenger said, handing the envelope to my friend. “From an Inspector Lestrade.”

Holmes opened the envelope and ran his eyes over its contents in silence. He paused a moment and looked to the messenger and then to his horse.

“How far is the nearest telegraph station?” he asked the man.

“Only two miles west, sir,” came the reply.

Holmes nodded and procured a pencil with which he jotted down a few words. Folding the telegram, he handed it back to the messenger and flipped him a coin.

“Send that in reply,” he commanded. With a nod the messenger mounted his horse and galloped away.

Silence reigned for a moment as Holmes’ eyes grew distant with thought.

“What did the telegram say, Holmes?” I asked.

“There has been another murder. Scotland Yard is requesting our assistance.”

“Another officer?”

“Indeed. And the manner of murder is quite similar to the ghastly business of the former. But it is most disturbing, this business,” he said, putting a finger to his lips in thought.

“I should say so,” I said, “It looks as if it may be the work of a serial killer. Should we turn back?”

Holmes shook his head. “It’s not the murder that disturbs me, Watson. It is the manner in which we have received this communication. Lestrade did not know our whereabouts, and Mycroft would not have told him.”

“He has someone following us then?” I deduced.

“No, Watson. This communication did not come from Lestrade. In the many years we have worked with him we have received many telegrams coming directly by his instruction. He always signs Lestrade, or Inspector Lestrade, but never Inspector G. Lestrade.”

“What can it mean?” I asked, completely lost.

“It means that someone does not wish us to reach Yorkshire.”

Hi!

I'm back.

Next up my attempt at Sherlock Holmes ...

Also ... my band is slowly coming together ... more news soon

A CLIP SHOW!!!!

Personal favorites from the ghost of my vox blog past:

the burlap veil of scotch and Guinness suffocating me

random profundities (holy shit, that IS a word)

I miss brown velvet and dirty water.

When I was your age, people threw things at each other, we ate dirt and glue and crayons, we'd roll down hills in tires, we'd make forts out of old rusty abandoned washing machines, we'd throw rocks at beehives, we could run from dogs, we could climb and jump out of trees, we had food fights, we thought bad television was bad television, etc.

The night of the big pageant she whispered "I liked you better without glasses."

She came into school a week later and brought her Cabbage Patch doll to school and told me it was our baby. I dumped her right then (I probably would have been okay with it if our baby was He-Man or Zartan)

"I wouldn't have done it if I knew it was you."

Karma thou art a vicious bastard.

At some point in all that, I had a fling with a girl I really liked, but I couldn't commit to her. I was too young. My best friend married her. That's all I can say about that.

I grabbed her by her neck and slammed her against the wall with her feet dangling and said "No one kills me ... but me." I walked out.

"Keep my car and all my shit. I have to save a girl from herself."

I looked at her and I thought "I could love this girl ... I can save her ...she can save me." She's only 21. She's amazing ... but I'm far too gone for love anymore

I committed fashion atrocities today. I'm wearing brown and black. The receptionist pointed this out to me, saying that I shouldn't meet with any of our clients today.

And here's to donuts and bitches ... and their uncanny ability to destroy our stupid fucking justice system and our lives.

I'm a human being after all, one of the most curious animals on the planet. If I want to know more details about the situation you're explaining to me that I don't want to hear about anyway ... I'll fucking ask with gusto. Maybe you could spend an extra 30 seconds planning your plan of verbal attack, too, because I don't like it when you get lost in your own conversation. But of course, if you weren't spewing so much useless information you wouldn't get lost in it. If I'm doing something while you're talking to me and you can wait until I'm done ... please wait, because I can definitely wait to hear what you have to say a few more seconds ... and JESUS CHRIST stop following me while you deliver your monologue. If I walk away, it means one of two things: I'm running away from you, or you should pause and continue the conversation when I return.

Shut up. Shut your mouth. Eat your food. Don't point at people with food on your fork. Don't reach across people's plates for the salt. Don't salt and pepper your food before you taste it ... chefs hate that, I hate that. What that tells me about you is that you have no taste at all, and that it probably has spilled over into ever facet of your life ... you love trendy-poppy remakes of songs but don't realize they're covers, you think the Italian Job with Mark Wahlberg was the greatest movie ever and wonder why they didn't come up with such an original idea sooner. Eat your food so I can leave and go home and slice open my skull so I can wash my brain of all the filth you've just tainted it with.

There are other people in the world besides you. You should know this because you constantly run your mouth at them about stuff they don't care about, won't shake their hands, disgust them by talking with your mouth full, and cause them to get into serious wrecks because you can't drive.

I wish I was a real drunk. I'd probably have more fun.

N: Do you feel that you are setting a negative example for the youth culture?

R: Youth culture killed my dog! Youth Culture killed my dog!

Have sex, get pregnant, have your baby, go downtown to a SPCBC-run depository, fill out the deposit slip, slip the baby and form into the convenient drop bag, drop baby in the hatch. The burden is no longer any of your concern.

TAKE THAT ZOMBIES!!!

Somewhere near the center of our universe, the spectre of mankind holds hands, kisses, pampers, adores, pets, dotes over, needs, wants, and loves the lady who he is about to rape. "I think I'll name her ... Earth" he says. 

You'll feel it one day, that urge to emerge. The pain of want calling you to the baths of the High People, where your past will be washed away with your soul. You'll become plastic and turn your head just so and you'll smile and nod and your number will make you happy.

We are the apathetic.

We are the impatient.

We are the content.

We are the lazy.

We are the confused.

We are the wicked.

We are the thiefs and the liars.

We are the ugly and the vain.

We are the narcissists and the masochists.

We are the sadists and the saints.

We are the revolution.

There are no dragons that we ourselves do not create.

There is no greater battle, no greater war, no greater strife between good and evil. There is nothing more powerful than the conflict between who we have the potential to be and who we are today. All other conflict pales in comparison, for we have no right to be involved in any other conflict unless we are at peace with ourselves and our purpose.

Life sucks, then you nail your bracket, then you die. Somewhere in between you set up franchises ... or maybe just split the monopoly you have on this branch of your family tree ... or maybe you kill this branch. Maybe you have sex and then you die. Maybe you die while having sex. Maybe you die watching the Superbowl, while having sex, while teaching your children how not to question authority, while eating a cheeseburger, while checking your stocks, while filling in your brackets, while seeing your name in bold on the church newsletters front page, while reading the obituaries, while listening to rap. Maybe you believe in 72 virgins. Maybe you believe in the power of owning a motorcycle. Maybe you're already dead, and have been since the first time you thought, "Someone else is going to make a difference if its needed. I'll just sit here because I'm one in a trillion. I'll just play poker and poke her and that po' cur down at the homeless shelter can have my money, as long as it goes through my church so people can see me place a modest portion of my winnings on the plate."

It's the old, the rank, the musty, allowed to survive in the corners of the room. You can let the cobwebs hang there, thinking no one will notice. It's more likely that people WILL notice and won't care. But in the inventory of the room, those cobwebs exist and could be eradicated in one fell swoop with a dust mop, a broom, your hand, a baby tied to a pole.

Your individuality is a calculated risk to corporations; your laziness, apathy, and ignorance are guaranteed profit.

The leader of the creatures asks the leader of the humans, through thought, "Do you believe in Muhukknawampuu?" The human says "No, I believe in God!" and stamps his foot.

This day is choking on the bitter spit of self-loathing. On its surface it is cold, coarse, blustering, and vengeful. It mocks us with blue skies and soft clouds, but there is a hidden agenda deep beneath the underpasses, in the sewers, in the corners of attics, behind your grandmother's rocking chair.

Every day has a soul, and my day is bitter, beaten, and bereft of life. It's soul is caught, entangled in the swallowed hoard, still clinging helpless to the back of the throat.

So low for mighty.

I am completely fooling myself with this girl. I have in my head this hopelessly romantic idea that I’m her protector and mentor, like a knight in service. I’ve got this idea that I’m going to protect her from the harsh realities of life and in doing so she’ll slowly fall in love with me and things will be happy.

Two of my final theses will be on the "Justification of Domestic Livestock Transportation and Maintenance on Lunar/Martian Colonies" and "The Effect of Prolonged Generational Exposure to Terraformed/Synthetic Habitats on Earth-born and later Extraterrestrially Born Species Transported to Lunar/Martian Colonies".

I still enjoy this game, the whole making her wonder if I'm over her game. But ... last night I realized something. I will never be over this woman. One of the cops who accosted us patrols her neighborhood and knew what kind of car her roommate drives ... and I said, to be funny and lighten the mood "What other cars have you seen parked over at her house lately?" I realized I still love this girl, deeply, painfully, and that everyone else I talk to is just pointless moves on a chessboard that's headed toward checkmate.

I call this mindless acceptance of something someone else has said “Postcard Wisdom”.

Postcard Wisdom is why marketing works. It is the reason why bastard sons of bitches are elected to public office. It is the reason racism and religion prevent the progression of the species. It is the reason people say “Beckoned Call” instead of “Beck and Call”.

My favorite zombie is Jesus.

I get nervous. I cough uncontrollably. I buy clothes that don't fit me. I start smoking. I start drinking. I scratch myself to wounds and then I pick the scabs. I get restless. I can't sleep. I draw silly cartoons. I write their names next to mine and then spend hours scribbling the names out. I dream about them. I break out in hives. I stumble over air. I can't breathe.  My mouth gets dry. I have acne breakouts. My skin starts to crawl. I have hot flashes. I turn into a fatalist. My hands sweat. I can't think. I can't keep food down. I start to smell vinegar. My fingernails become very sensitive. I develop an irrational fear of telephones, old people, and cubes. I play with my food. I develop cravings for bermuda grass and butterscotch.

Yesterday was decidedly difficult for me as I spent most of the day in a haze of impetuous, inexorable depression. There are no words, no watercolor paintings, no sketches, no musical creations I can give you that would allow you a sense of this deep void that suddenly opened up in my soul yesterday. It was as if I had been hiding it all these years and only now has it breached the maximum security prison I have kept it in.