Chapter 2.5: Hammer and Tongs

“The court finds the defendant, Michael Armstrong guilty of aggravated assault,” the judge stamped a piece of paper with a thump, “Now onto sentencing.  Mr. Armstrong, your actions could have seriously or fatally injured other people. These actions were taken by you, a citizen of Egregia, on Citadel soil, against members of the Edenian government.”  The judge paused, giving his words a sense of gravitas. “That being said, you still bear the physical signs of someone who was not treated well, even if that treatment was legal in Eden. Your daughter was taken, your belongings were taken, you were separated from your wife, and you were beaten,” the judge removed his spectacles and wiped his eyes with a tissue, “After taking everything into consideration, I sentence you to ten years.”  Smithy shrieked, then covered her mouth. “Ten years, house arrest,” the judge clarified.

A servant wheeled a medical cart up to the defense table.  “You gotta be kidding me,” Mike mumbled under his breath.

“Please roll up the sleeve on your dominant hand,” the servant asked politely.

Mike rolled up his right sleeve and watched the servant swab him with alcohol.  Tying a tourniquet around his bicep, she took a large needle off the cart, “Make a fist please.”

“I’ll make a fist,” Mike thought, “and put it straight through your face.”  Meekly, he made a fist.

The servant stuck the needle in his arm and pushed the plunger.  A strange feeling rippled through Mike’s skin, covering him with a buzz of electricity.  “And done,” the servant removed the tourniquet with a snap, covering the injection site with a cotton ball, “Would you like a unicorn bandaid or a plain pink bandaid?”

“What did you do to me?” Mike shivered, then retched.

“It’s the monitoring device.  We can now determine your location and map your actions.  You should adjust to it within three days.”

“Great,” Mike doubled over in pain.  As it eased, he placed his right arm back on the table, “I think I’d like the unicorns.”

—

Normally, a case like Mike’s would have taken six months to a year just to work its way through the system.  Because of the strain in relations between Eden and Citadel, it was fast-tracked, with court appearances starting the day after his crime occurred.  Now that it was over, he had new problems to work through, “Am I supposed to go back to Egregia?”

“No, the court order states that you are under house arrest in Citadel, and moreover that you’re to remain in the Summit district,” his lawyer flipped through an electronic copy of his file, turning the tablet so he could see.

Mike could feel the skin on his arm bubbling.  He slapped at it absently, “I don’t have a house to be arrested in here.”

“The court has already arranged for you to stay at the Recitizen House.”

Smithy raised her hand, like a child in a classroom, “Ms. Dean, are we in the Summit district now and what is a Rect - Recit -?”

“Yes, we are in the Summit district.  It was named that for its northern-most location in Citadel.  A Recitizen House is a place where people stay who are either awaiting trial or are released from jail with no other place to go.  It’s not normally used for situations like yours, but I guess you have some powerful friends,” Ms. Dean took the tablet back.

“What about my wife?” Mike tried not to look at Smithy.  The thought of being separated from her again made his ribs crawl, or maybe that was just another side effect.

“Apparently they’re lodging both of you,” Ms. Dean looked behind him as she spoke, “Here come the servants to take you there.  Behave yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Mike shook Ms. Dean’s hand as two servants entered room.  Both stood a head taller than he, and from the size of their necks alone, he would guess that they were muscular under their red robes.  

“Armstrong, Michael?” barked one.

“That’s me,” Mike tried to stand and fell over.  It was going to be a long three days.

__

The Recitizen House was a beige, three story, wooden structure.  Cameras mounted on the outside of the building recorded the arrival of their drone.  As they hovered towards the ground, Mike watched two men exchanging something. Either the cameras had blind spots, or the men were doing something legal.  “Blind spots,” thought Mike, “definitely blind spots.”

The drone hissed its door open and unfolded its stairs.  One of the thick-necked servants thumped down the stairs.  Smithy followed him, then waited at the bottom of the steps.  Mike held on to the side of the drone as he exited. The last thing he needed was to be hit by a wave of dizziness and miss a step.  With his luck, he’d break an ankle. They were escorted to a 3’x3’ lobby with a plexiglass window set in the wall. As they stood in line, Mike watched the man in front of him blow into a breathalyzer.  “I feel like a criminal,” he hissed to Smithy.

“You are a criminal,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yeah.”  They moved up to the window.  “Uh, I guess I’m checking in?” Mike peered through the plexiglass at a heavyset servant.

“You must be Michael and Smithy Armstrong,” the woman pointed at her own head, “The horns give it away.”  She slid a clipboard through a slot in the plexiglass, “Both of you need to sign in. You will need to fill out this paperwork, but you can do it in your room.   Basic rules: You must sign in and out, you’re only allowed to leave for pre-approved activities, you will accrue rent. No going to the second floor, that’s the men’s floor.  No going to the third floor, that’s the women. The dorm for the cursed is through that door, down the hall to the left. Cafeteria is on the right. There are drug tests, um . . . I think that covers everything.”

Mike signed the clipboard, passing it to Smithy.  The servant buzzed the door open, and they stepped into a sally port.  The servant reappeared with a metal detector wand and scanned him. As she scanned Smithy, the wand squealed.  “Oops,” Smithy took a hammer out of her pocket and passed it to the servant.

“No weapons are allowed,” the servant waved the wand, only to be met with another squeal.

Smithy handed her a set of tongs.

“No whatever that is,” the servant lifted the wand again.

“Can I have those back when I leave, Ma’am?” Smithy asked politely.  The woman filled out a form and handed it to her. Smithy signed it and returned it.  The door on the other end of the sally port buzzed open. They wandered down the hall, trying a few doors before hitting one that was open.  

It was a large room with five sets of bunk beds interspersed with bureau drawers.  There was only one other resident, sitting on a top bunk, his legs dangling off the edge, and a distinct chill permeating the room.  “You guys again?”

Chapter 2.4: Smithy

No one really seemed to know when the Devil girl first appeared.  It was somewhere between spring and summer, warm enough that she could sleep outside.  She thieved food like a raccoon, and although she didn’t seem to mind the other Devils, no one ever heard her speak.  That winter, the girl settled in the home of an aging half-blind Devil, a metal worker by the name of Edmond.  As his health failed him, the girl took on more and more of his duties. 

Then, on a day with a blue agate sky, there was only the girl left standing at the workbench, the hammer pinging like a cry stealing out between the fingers of one’s hand. 

“Something needs to be done about that girl,” Alison watched two Devil’s carry a pine coffin out the door of the Edmond’s house.

“That thing is wild, best leave it alone,” Luke didn’t even look up from the barrel he was making, “Hoop me.”

Alison placed the metal hoop a quarter of the way down the barrel, “She makes our hoops and shovel heads.  I think she might be deaf.  Maybe if we sent Mary over with the boys . . .”

Luke hammered the ends of the staves, interrupting her sentence.  Once they looked even, he removed the assembly jig, “Sponge.  We’re not taking in another child.”

“No, of course not,” Alison sponged water on the staves of the barrel.  It was as much of a “yes” as she’d get from her husband.

The next day, a teenager with snakes for hair appeared in front of the little Devil girl’s workbench.  Close on her heels were two Devil boys, one whose eyes barely peeked over the bench at her, and the other who stood a head taller.  The teenager gestured intently to the smallest boy, who copied her movement.  Perplexed, the girl paused in her work.

“Smithy,” the older boy grinned at her and made the same gesture.

“Smithy,” the Devil girl repeated.

“Do you want to play?”

—

By the time Mike arrived in Egregia, Smithy had blossomed into a grown woman whose talent for metalwork brought her customers of all breeds.  Even though her shop hummed with activity, for him it seemed like life itself stopped each time he saw her.  Dark ringlets sprang from around her horns, swaying against her neck and brushing her narrow, muscular shoulders.  Their sway made his fingers restless for his fiddle, and he bowed in an ecstasy that was almost painful in its intensity. 

One evening as he stood outside her door playing, a window opened in the cabin across from him.  A Devil leaned out, scowling, “Have you no respect for the dead?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” Mike lowered his fiddle.

“Are you blind then?” the Devil pointed to the door, marked in charcoal with an ellipse.

“I’m new here, I didn’t know.”

“Carl!” It was her.  Mike’s horns prickled with something not unlike embarrassment.  “Quit hassling my musician,” she continued, “The customers like it and so does the metal.”

Carl wet his lower lip with his forked tongue, “It makes Father cry.”

Smithy crossed the dirt path to place a hand on Carl’s forearm, “I have some hoops for you.”

“All you think about is work,” Carl pulled away from her, closing the shutters with a slam.

Mike felt as if he had melted into a puddle.  Had she really called him her musician?  He tried to solidify the parts of himself that he needed to talk.  He had to say something, anything, it was his only chance, “Who, uh, is he mourning for?”

“His mother, Alison hanged herself from a tree,” Smithy leaned towards him, dropping her voice.  Discordant emotions washed through Mike’s melted body; sorrow, excitement, empathy, lust.  Baffled, he oozed away from her.  “I feel terribly for them, I really do, I’m just not good at this sort of thing,” Smithy looked at the ground, “Carl’s right, all I can think about is work.  Anything else, and I’d have been hanging in the forest just like Alison.”

“No, don’t do that,” Mike gasped.

She covered his hand with hers, “I’m fine, really I am; but I worry about Carl.  His brother’s gone too, you know.”  Smithy looked up at the sky, as if suddenly aware of the lengthening shadows and haze that preceded dusk, “Wanna go get a drink?”

—

There was only one place that Devils did exactly that; a large open space cleared of trees and scrub.  Fires burned in pits staggered throughout the sandy pit, and Devils clustered around them on rugs and blankets.  The entrepreneurial minded brought their own barrels, dispensing spirits for a fee.  In the darkness, Mike didn’t recognize anyone, something he wasn’t sure that light would remedy. 

Smithy pulled him by the hand over to a cluster drinking what looked like beer.  “Two blessings a glass,” the woman stood out among the other Devils.  She was human in appearance, with golden hair and white fluffy wings.  Smithy paid the Angel, then nodded at an empty spot on a blanket.  The Angel served another customer, then settled down next to them, folding her wings behind her, “Who’s your friend?”

“Layla, this is Mike.  Layla is going to be president one day,” Smithy grinned at the Angel, “Mike plays fiddle.”

“Nice to meet you,” Layla shook his hand with her fingertips, as if she didn’t want to touch him, “You know, we Devils love music, especially drums.” she laughed, a tripping chuckle like the jingling of tiny bells.

“It helps break up the gloom in my corner,” Smithy licked the foam off her beer, a maneuver that made Mike’s heart pound uncontrollably.

“Poor Luke, losing a wife and a son all at once,” Layla’s wings popped up, “But did you see Bill?  He was so handsome once his curse lifted.  I nearly broke the rules and flew away with him, but he still has that personality.”

Smithy snorted, then coughed.  Once she finally got her breath back, she chided, “You’re so bad, Layla.”

“Oh, you like it.  And anyway, it’s true,” Layla’s blue eyes brimmed with innocence.

“Did you just say someone’s curse was broken?” Mike was so distracted by Smithy, he must have misunderstood.

“Not just someone, Bill,” Layla corrected, “I mean, I get how he could be a virgin, and even how his mom might give her life for him, but still.  Can you imagine having him as a priest?  He’d sooner smack you than bless you.  And why not Carl, I mean, how did she pick?  'Oh, I think I’ll pick the deaf one?'”

Smithy’s forehead creased, “Honestly, I was worried about Bill, too.  Ever since Mary left he’s become more and more withdrawn.  And anyway, Carl isn’t a virgin.”

“Woah, wait, I didn’t know you two went that far,” Layla’s face glowed with amusement, “Was this before or after you broke up?”  Smithy took a long drink of beer, so long that Layla turned to Mike, “I bet Carl just loves you.”

“I think,” said Mike, “that I should play my fiddle elsewhere.”

Chapter 2.3: The Ice Maker

There was a glass partition that ran through the middle of customs and Smithy was pressed against it, her palms blanching pink.  Mike tried to keep his focus on her; not on the guards escorting him, not on the pain that buzzed through his body, and definitely not on the civilians who regarded him with horror or curiousity. 

“Contra legem,” one of his keepers remarked to a woman wearing the red robes of a servant, “in mal repuditare; un Diablo.”

“Video,” the servant waved her hand, “Vade permitele.  Let him come through.”

Mike staggered through the metal detector, “Thanks.”

“Your type has only been trouble to us since we opened the wall,” the servant frowned at him, “If you want to thank me, get a honest job.”

Mike’s ears burned, and for the moment he was thankful that his red skin hid his anger.  As he passed through the gate to Citadel, Smithy nearly flew at him, the flames in her eyes swirling with anxiety, “They’ve taken Anabelle.”

“Took her?”

Smithy was quivering, “We cooperated with them . . . I don’t understand why they took her . . . They said she can’t come back.  They’re going to reform her.”

Patience moves faster than haste, at least that’s what the proverb said.  For Mike, however, patience had just run out and he was on fire in a very literal sense; flames blossomed from his palms.  All the pain in his body vanished as he pivoted back towards the border, his furor materializing with a whoosh into a ball of flames.

There was a hiss and a strange crackling sizzle as a shield of white expanded in front of him.  Some of the ice turned to steam, the rest splattering into a pile of mush as it hit the industrial-grade carpeting.  Mike’s eyes scanned the other side of the border; the cluster of guards scattered as they ducked to the ground or ran for cover.  One man stood out-of-place, his blue ponytail still swaying from his dash forwards, his hands upraised. 

“Ice Maker,” Mike had only seen one other person who could make ice; she was from Citadel, and more to the point, she had been cursed.  The Ice Maker turned, his fellow guards rising around him.  “Run,” Mike called to him, the words barely forming on his lips. The rush of adrenaline was abating, and with it his consciousness pulled back like the tide.

—

“They’ll cut off her horns, make her wear contacts.  She’ll still be red, but she’ll look more human and that’s all they care about,” the voice was unfamiliar and heavily accented.  Mike tried to open his eyes, but found he couldn’t.  “They’ll parade her around as being reformed until she either makes a mistake or realizes the truth,” the voice paused, “You know what I mean by the truth?”

“Uh-uh,” this voice was closer, familiar, it was his wife.

“That the cursed are no better or worse than anyone else; that is the truth that no one can strip away from me.  Take my citizenship, take my livelihood, take my friends. Strip me of my pride and humanity.  Still, I am worth as much as the ruler of Eden.  My hair is just as blue, and my heart loves my country the same.”

Mike forced his eyes open, staggering to a stand.  “Woah, Honey,” Smithy grasped his shoulders, “they said you should get up slowly, that the tranquilizer might make you disoriented.”

“Tranquilizer?” he slurred.

“They shot you while you were distracted by me,” the man swam into focus; bronzed skin, blue hair, khaki uniform. 

“Are we still prisoners?” Mike felt for the chair he had been sitting in.  It scraped along the vinyl floor sideways as he attempted to reclaim it.  The man grinned at him from his seat, his elbows resting on his knees in a position that seemed a little too casual for one who was meant to be guarding them.

“I’m not,” Smithy shrugged, “for what it’s worth.  But I also didn’t shoot fireballs across the room or infiltrate the government, like Whittaker here.”

Whittaker held out a hand.  “Please, call me Whit,” his fingers had the chill of one no longer living.  The chilly handshake made it obvious; he was the guard Mike had seen earlier, the one who had protected his fellow guards by making a shield of ice.  In spite of his selfless deed, he was now a persona non grata.  After all, the cursed were prohibited in Eden.

“We have to get Anabelle back,” Smithy toyed with the necklace around her neck.  In her anxiety, she was heating and deforming its delicate chain, “We need to get ahold of Alister.  If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

“Alister?” was all he could manage.  Last he’d heard Alister had suffered some sort of strange injury and was in a coma.  Remastering, that was what his friend Carl had called it.  Remastering, like somehow you could rewrite someone’s mind to make them bow to your will.  Even if he was healthy, Alister was temperamental.  Maybe Smithy thought he could leverage his position as a government appointed priest, or maybe she thought his Edenian servant could be of use.  Either way, she had grown up with him, and that had to count for something.

Chapter 2.2: Luck is a Fickle Gentleman

There were questions, at least he thought they were questions.  Every sentence, every word was in Edenian, a language that sounded to him like an energetic fiddle playing.  He had questions too, “Where am I?  Does anyone speak Castelian?  Where’s my family?”

“Lineaum te placeum,” responded the skinny, tall one.  His blue hair was cropped short, military-chic.  Like the others, he wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt that showed off his bronzed, muscular forearms.  “Lineaum,” he drew an imaginary line on the desk.

“Line?” Mike guessed.

“Che, che,” The man nodded and pointed at him, “Te placeum.”  He walked his fingers across the imaginary line.

“I walk across the line?”

“Venaca, venaca,” the man waved him over to a door.  He followed him out into the dry heat under a fried egg sky, the golden sun framed by an aura of white.  Wherever they were in Eden was desolate, the cinder-block building the only structure save for a chain link perimeter fence.  A droid rolled up to them, a camera mounted where a human would have a head.  

Mike backed up as the camera focused on him.  “Venaca,” the man waved him towards a drone.  As Mike took a step forward, there was a whirring sound behind him.  He casually looked over his shoulder.  The droid was behind him, taser at the ready.  He looked to his right.  The fence wasn’t that high; he could easily scale it and make his escape.  Humans, even cursed ones, were good at one thing droids weren’t: short bursts of speed.  

He started running, banking sharply to the right as he heard the guard’s footsteps.  “Bastete!” the guard yelled, but it was too late.  Mike hit the fence with a rattle.  For a moment he was climbing, fingers smarting as he linked them through the chinks in the fence, boots slipping as tried to gain purchase.  Then there was a pulse, a sound he didn’t hear, and again he was electrified.

Someone must have pulled him off the fence.  Maybe it was the slender Edenian, maybe it was the droid; but whoever it was had at least put a blanket over him after placing him on the drone’s hard floor.  Mike sat up and groaned.  He hurt all over, which wasn’t a surprise.  He wasn’t bleeding, which was.  He was certain he had been shot in the back, but the only thing he could feel with his painful hands was a large bruise.  There were no chunks of flesh, no gaping hole; and as a matter of fact, his feet hurt worse.  

He stayed seated, peeking above the console at the landscape below him.  He tapped a button on the console.  “Securare puer,” flashed on the screen.  He tried different keys, finally getting a different word, followed by a blinking cursor.

“Pass-eh-ver-boom,” Mike scratched his horns, “Password?”  Stumped he keyed in the same word.  

“Falsa,” lit up the screen.  

“123456789,” he tried again.

“Falsa.”

Frustrated, Mike banged out a random string of letters.

“Falsa,” the screen blinked.

He rested his red fingers on the keys, “Calm down and think.”  

“Falsa.”

“I barely touch you, and you ‘falsa’ me.  I’m having a really bad day today, not that you would understand,” Mike paused.  Maybe he had this backwards, maybe he needed to try to understand the machine.  He didn’t know a lot about drones, just that they ran off a computer mainframe thing-a-majiggy.  Supposedly those things liked zeros and ones.  

“Here goes nothing,” Mike pushed the one.  He pushed it again.  He added some zeros and pushed enter.

“Falsa.”

Maybe that was wrong.  Maybe it was just numbers in general.  “Would you like a song?  I left my fiddle with the wagon, but music can be represented with numbers as well.”  Mike rested his hand on the ten-key and imagined the score of What If?  Painstakingly he typed a string of numbers, pushing enter at the end of each measure to mark time.  The more he typed, the easier it became, and he tapped his foot as the music played in his head.  

He got so used to the screen flashing “Falsa,” that he almost didn’t notice it had stopped.  Puzzled, he pushed some other keys, then rested his ear on the side of the console.  The drone was silent, and there was no sense of vibration, no blinking lights.

“Uh-oh.”

That’s when he noticed the droid was losing altitude.  Mike scrambled to his aching feet, throwing himself at one of the console seats.  Never before in his life had he had such difficulty sitting down.  The seat bucked him off like a wild horse, then dodged his next attempt by ducking left.  Grabbing the base of it, he climbed up the side of it, then strapped himself in.

The drone fell straight down, in an amusement-park plummet.  His stomach screaming, he was almost relieved to see the ground approaching.  The drone hit on the edge of its frame and bounced, flipping as it hit.  He screwed his eyes shut as glass shattered and metal bent.  A wind, heavy with sand, roared around him.  Then, everything was still.

It was so dark, that for a moment Mike thought his eyes were closed.  He pushed the button on his seatbelt before the obvious hit him; he was hanging upside down, the floor now the ceiling.  Grasping the belt as he somersaulted out of his seat, he landed feet first.  A smoky light trickled in through a hole in the cabin, and he crawled through it onto the sand.  All around were broken and twisted pieces of metal, and he found himself thinking there were too many to have been from this crash.  Overcome by his injuries, he lay down in the sand next to a propeller blade.

It may have been hours or minutes until he heard voices, either way, he couldn’t move.  Four men in khaki, guns slung over their shoulders leaned over him.  Two of the men lifted him, while the others checked out the crash site.  The hum of their language blurred into the thrum of their drone’s propellers.  They sat him up, unscrewing a canteen of water.  With no attempt to communicate what they were about to do, they seized him and poured water down his throat.

“Lucky me,” Mike sputtered.

Chapter 2.1: Forbidden

The wagon rumbled along in the darkness.  It was pulled by four barrel-chested mares, their manner as placid as if they were being driven to market midday.  A Devil sat on the box, clenching the reins in his hands. He dared not light the lamps that swung from their posts on either side of him; they were passing into territory where their kind was still forbidden.  Eden, at night, didn’t look like much; even by day the land wouldn’t whisper its secrets. People, on the other hand, couldn’t stop saying it: Rhodium.  Anyone could claim a plot of sand and shale, shift and shake the top soil, and watch for that distinct silvery sparkle.  

Well, almost anyone.  “It’s worth the risk,” Mike reminded himself as he tried not to pull on the reigns.  Even though he trusted the keen eyes of his horses, driving blind was terrifying.

A strong hand patted his shoulder, “It is worth it.”  Smithy squeezed onto the box next to him, her eyes flickering red in the dark, “Think about Anabelle’s future.”  

“A bit hard to think of anything when I feel like I’m flying into the abyss.”

“Want me to drive?” Smithy felt for the reigns, “I’m a Devil you know, I came from the abyss.”

Instead of handing them over, Mike jerked to attention, “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”  There was the thwacking sound of a drone’s blades, then light bathed the wagon. Mike let out a sound, half curse, half giddyup, urging the horses into a canter.  It was odd how he was suddenly aware of everything; the way the downdraft blew sand up around them like flakes of gold, the way the box bit into the backs of his knees, the bitter taste of fear in his mouth.  

“Halt.  Your vehicle has been selected for a mandatory inspection.  You must stop willingly or be faced with additional fines,” a robotic voice announced.  

“That’s the last thing I intend to do,” Mike reached for his whip.  

“Nonpon.  Selectium motore tui par inspectione madatore,” the message repeated in Edenian.

“It’s automated,” Smithy yelled in his ear, “You know, one of those robot things.”

More robot things appeared in the distance.  “Halt. Your vehicle has been selected for a mandatory inspection,” a hatch in the bottom of the drone opened, “You must stop willingly or be faced with additional fines.”  A claw-like device on a chain spun out of the hatch. Mike burned through all the obscenities in his lexicon. The claw hit the wagon with a terrifying thud.

“Anabelle!” Smithy dove under the torn canvas, “ANABELLE!”

The horses slowed, lowering their heads as if they were pulling uphill.  Then, with a creaking groan, the wagon lifted off the ground and stopped.  

It was like being on a boat, the wagon bobbing and swaying under him as he scrambled into the back.  His wife and child huddled together under the torn canvas dome, Anabelle whimpering. “We have to get out,” his mind was already planning their escape; they would unhitch the horses and ride.  “Now,” he insisted. Smithy pulled Anabelle to her feet and Mike climbed back onto the box. As Smithy boosted Anabelle up, Mike hoisted her up by her arms. From the box it was only a short hop to the ground, but the oscillations of the wagon and noise from the drone’s rotors mucked up his perceptions.  Mike stumbled as he hit the sand, falling to his knees before he was able to get his feet under him.

“ . . . inspectione mandatore.  Con permite bastare . . .”

It was so loud he wasn’t sure Anabelle could hear him yelling, “Jump!”  She clung to the wagon, the flames in her eyes dancing with fear. The other drones were getting closer, and he could see their search lights switch on.  Smithy appeared next to Anabelle, taking the little girl’s hand. Together they leapt from the wagon, Anabelle face-planting in the sand while Smithy tried to roll out of the fall.  Seeing they were out, Mike ran to the rear left of the four horses, a horse Anabelle had christened Spot. Spot was frothing with panic, her eyes rolling in her head as she tried to loose herself from the traces.  Initially, Mike had wanted to free each horse separately, but now he agreed with Spot; they needed to ditch the wagon and go.

Mike was blinded as another drone reached them, its lights shining in his eyes.  It lowered itself over them, and instinctively, he ducked. The swirls of sand increased as the drone hovered, the dull thud of its propellers deafening in their intensity.  The four horses bolted, straps snapping and breaches splintering. For a moment the left side held, and he feared that the horses would come down on him in a pile; then something gave and they were off, tails high as they vanished into the dark swirl of sand.

The drone landed a good fifteen feet away from the wagon, settling on the ground like a bee landing on a leaf.  A door rolled open and aluminum stairs folded down. “Please enter the drone for processing,” the new drone had the same voice as the first one.

“Like hell, I will,” Mike turned back towards his family.  There was percussive burst, and a scream. Mike was laying on the sand before his brain could process what had happened.  “They shot me! Those blue-haired sons of-arggh!”

A droid picked him up with a pneumatic arm.  All he could see as it dragged him along was its caterpillar track wheels.  It deposited him inside the drone, unceremoniously dropping him in a corner before tasing him.  

“Okay, okay, we’re stepping into the robot-space-ship,” Smithy’s voice drifted up him.  Mike lifted his head to see if Anabelle was with her. The droid responded by hitting him with the taser again.

“Daddy!”

Well, that answered his question.  “I’m okay, Sweetie,” he tried to stay as still as possible.

The drone shifted and vibrated as it took off.  “Are you, uh, Robot Sir, taking us to your leader?” Smithy asked politely.

Mike couldn’t help it.  The laughter bubbled up inside him and escaped in little gasps.  The droid tased him again.

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Epilogue: Home Free

Like every day, she paid a visit to Alister.  “There’s ice on the roads today,” she opened his blinds, “The cleaning droid got stuck in the parking lot.  Spun its wheels until the motor burned out.”  She pulled the covers off his bed, rolling him to the side as she pulled off the bottom sheet, “The stubbornness reminded me of you.”

A door opened behind her and she could hear the tap of Kadeem’s cane.  “Good morning, Princess,” he picked up a basin and carried it into the bathroom.  She could hear the faucet turn on with a squeak.  Kadeem had changed so much it a short time; cutting his hair and working so hard at his physical therapy that except for the cane, he looked like one of the Ostrum.  Even the way he said, “Princess,” had changed.  It no longer carried a barb.  Indeed, sometimes she almost thought she detected a tenderness in his voice.  Shaking her head, Tatiana stuffed the dirty laundry into a hamper and buzzed for a servant.

The door opened again.  “Please take the hamper to the laundry and . . .” Tatiana did a double-take.  It wasn’t a servant coming in the door, it was Mina.

“I come all the way here to visit you, and you have me doing laundry,” Mina joked.  She sat in the chair next to Alister’s bed and touched his hand, “How is it, being ascended?”

“It’s not that bad,” Tatiana shrugged, “I don’t really feel that different.  I’m still me.  I can carry a tune now, I never could before.”  She shrugged again, “I had this weird dream about a week afterwards.  Tate was standing outside of my parent’s house.  It was on fire, and there was someone who looked like me inside.  He ran into the house trying to get to me, but the smoke and the heat drove him back.”  Tatiana bit her lower lip, “The thing that really hit me was the look on his face.  It was something like, well, it felt like, anyway . . . it made me feel loved.”

“Interesting,” Mina undid her hair and Tatiana watched it sweep the floor behind the chair.  “I heard you have been the model of a good priest, with the exception of keeping a witch and a devil as servants.”

 “Carl and Amber are the only ones I trust,” she looked across the room at the adjoining bathroom.  The sound of running water trickled out of the cracked door.  “And Kadeem,” she said softly, “but don’t tell him I said that.”

“My lips are sealed,” Mina smiled, wrapping her hair back into a tight bun.

“You know what I realized the other day?”  Tatiana unknotted Alister’s sash, “You sent Alister to the mayor of Errant, knowing he would turn him back over to Van.”

“Spies and double-agents,” Mina helped Tatiana lift Alister and pull his arms out of his robes, “Alister played the part I needed him to play.  You’re the reason they opened the gate between Egregia and Citadel, right?”

Tatiana nodded, smoothing Alister’s robes down and tucking them around his waist.  Kadeem limped into the room with his basin of soapy water and a sponge.  “I have been working with Andra, the current head of the Order,” Tatiana moved out of Kadeem’s way, “She is much better at the political thing than I am.”

Mina gazed at Alister as Kadeem washed him, “I thought it would be Alister who would lead the reconciliation.  I never thought it would be you.”

“Sorry,” Tatiana turned away from her, looking out the window at the icy cement.  A drone was parked in a visitor’s spot, and she had little doubt that it was Mina’s.

“Don’t apologize,” Mina joined her at the window, “I’m just trying to explain to you that this,” she gestured at Alister, “was never my intent.  He was born in Egregia and knew first hand that there was no real difference between the cursed and holy.  He had been through remastering and he knew how horrible it was.  I sent you to him to wake him up, not to put him back to sleep.”   Mina held out her hand to Tatiana in truce, “Ollie ollie oxen.”

Tatiana took her hand, “Home free,” she whispered.