The Scribe
By J. L. Young This is my confession to the world. As a child, I knew nothing of the consequences my words carried. I write this hoping someone would see my power was not used intentionally to create suffering. My childhood desires were the ink in my pen. I heard humans used scarcity to inflate value. Precious metals such as gold, platinum, lithium, and palladium, with their many uses, were now prevalent, and their monetary value plummeted to nothing. My hand fulfilled that desire. I grew tired of the world being ripped apart for these commodities. I made them readily available. With a single gesture of my hand, my pen drew upon the paper that war was never to be an option. If all avenues of diplomacy had been taken and war was the inevitable outcome, then a game of chess was to be played. The victors were never to win land, money, or resources. I saved many lives. Soon, food, water, and other resources became scarce. I attempted to correct that mistake. One mistake led to another. And the lives I spared from war were ultimately snuffed out by hunger, thirst, and other means of death. During my teenage years, I wanted to be a professional baseball player. The best that ever was. Somehow, that never came to fruition. Perhaps the desire wasn’t strong enough. That’s when I studied to be a surgeon. That didn’t go well. Many people suffered because of my notes. However, the want for birds to be our friends was a great desire. I wrote they would come in our time of need to help us and guide us through tumultuous times. I was the reason for many bird species to go extinct. I relinquish my ability to cast my desires into reality. My pen will no longer be the conduit for my wants, wishes, or passing thoughts. I will no longer attempt to change the fates of the populous. May my sacrifice bode well for all the creatures of the Earth.
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Silence's Kiss (Excerpt)
By J. L. Young Oreif and the Pocket Chicken ported into Pordaat and waited. It wasn’t long until the controller hailed them. Once they received clearance, they settled on the inner ring to be inspected. From there, Emmi and Amphitrite stepped from the ships to rendezvous at the dockmaster’s station. There was a line at the dockmaster’s station. They cued and waited. Amphitrite said, “I have been here before, but this is different.” “I know how you feel,” Emmi replied as they approached the being with a pad resembling a clipboard. The dockmaster looked up from the pad. “Oreif, it’s been a while since she has been here. She’s quieter than usual.” Emmi replied openly. “Oreif has had an update. We will be seeking provisions directly for both vessels.” “Will the fees be directed to the Ichaal Recovery Agency?” “Yes. We need to speak with your security department while we’re on station. Is that possible?” “I will place the request.” The being tapped the pad. After a hovering cart ride, Emmi and Amphitrite stood before a vacuum-tight door marked ‘Pordaat Station Security.’ They approached and the door rotated open. Inside, a half-sphere with hundreds of monitors built into a stark white bulkhead at the back of the chamber. Several officers manned stations. The lights between the monitors looked like Christmas decorations to Emmi. A small being, no taller than Emmi’s knee, disappeared behind a desk and reappeared to the side of it as it approached. “I’m Sergeant Dunthol Refenjar of the Pordaat Security Force. How may I assist you?” Emmi replied, “Hello, I’m Doctor Emmi Cochrane.” “I am Amphitrite,” she added. Excited to give her new name. Emmi continued. “We have come in search of a friend of ours. She came through this port aboard a ship called the Irenic Relict. We’re hoping to determine the port destination.” “That’s privileged information. We don’t give that out to civilians. You’ll need proper authorization from a Spiral Policing Agency or an authorized recovery agency.” “We are with the Ichaal Recovery Agency. The one we seek is one of our associates and is a dear friend.” Amphitrite spoke. “She’s been missing for quite some time. We desire for her safe return.” “Ichaal Recovery Agency, one moment.” The Sergeant returned to their desk and inputted a query. She reviewed the received data regarding the Ichaal Recovery Agency and looked up at Emmi. “Who is the missing party?” “Syrane Avvel,” Emmi replied. “That name is not listed in the dossier, and neither is yours.” Amphitrite said, “Tholml Hereneghar, that name should be listed as the owner of the agency. The ship I arrived in, the Oreif, should also be listed.” “The owner’s name checks out and the ship, however, since neither of you are listed as agents with this agency, I cannot release the information to you.” “Can you give the information to Tholml Hereneghar?” Emmi asked. “If he were here, yes. He has the appropriate credentials with the New Consortium.” “Can we use your terminal?” Emmi and Amphitrite waited patiently at a restaurant aboard the station. The professor was nibbling on something resembling a french fry when Tholml appeared. He said, “I got your call, something about credentials.” “Yeah, we aren’t listed as employees.” Emmi began to explain. “Or agents,” Amphitrite interjected. “I neglected to do that before you left. My apologies.” “When you get back, you might want to rectify that. Sorry, I don’t mean to be testy. While you’re here, a wee little sergeant needs your handsome face to let us know where Syrane went from here.” They returned to the Security office. Sergeant Dunthol looked up. “You have returned. You must be Tholml Hereneghar of the Ichaal Recovery Agency.” “I am. You have met my employees. I neglected to submit their employment to the authorities.” Dunthol appeared indifferent. “Your clerical oversight doesn’t concern me. Our aperture tag for the Irenic Relict shows a departure to the Darcnayl System.” “Darcnayl, I’m not familiar with that system.” The sergeant queried their computer, “I understand why. It’s not a normal destination. Darcnayl is in a prohibited region of the spiral. How your Syrane Avvel was given clearance to depart there vexes me.” The being continued reading the Irenic Relict departure log. It read, ‘Authorization override.’ The sergeant’s face presented further disdain. They hopped down from their post and ran to the other side of a glass partition to speak to another being. Presumably, someone higher in the hierarchy. “We done pissed them off,” Emmi said. Tholml nodded. “The partition does not block all the audio coming from that room,” Amphitrite said. “What are they saying?” Emmi asked. “An old bootlegger code was implemented.” The higher-ranking officer stood up and barked out an order. “I think it’s time we make a discreet exit.” Emmi didn’t wait for confirmation and bolted toward the door. They quickly boarded a cart and ordered the onboard computer, “Take us to pads 2-40 and 2-42, most expeditiously, please.” As they were gaining distance from the Security office, they looked back. The door opened and several officers flooded out and threw expanding boards under their feet. Their board engines pushed against the air particles. The distance they gained was shrinking. Amphitrite took it upon herself to climb forward and began accessing the driving computer. “I’m attempting to increase our velocity.” Emmi looked back at the closing officers. One of them removed some things from a belt and assembled them. It splayed outward and began rotating. “They have some kind of device, make this thing go faster!” The officer fired the device and the shot landed short. As the cart negotiated a curve, the officer fired again, depleting their ammunition. Amphitrite expressed elation. “I gained access.” “Great! Go faster!” They gained enough velocity that the officers tailing them could not continue their pursuit. The cart lurched to a stop at the Oreif. Emmi, Amphitrite, and Tholml climbed out and realized they were surrounded by officers with their weapons drawn. Cygnet
By J. L. Young Morning number two. The door on my pod dropped violently, issuing a clang that resonated throughout my body. I slid to out and down the ladder to the cold floor and opened my locker. There, I found my issued gear. The room was slowly filling with inmates. Each of them climbed down from their designated pods to begin their day. The inmates were a mix of people from various ethnicities and genders who emerged from their pods. I stayed silent, not wanting to draw attention. One of them hovered over me. He made a popping sound with his lips. “Ooh, someone smells oh, so fresh. It appears they caught another and dropped them in our bucket.” “Flappy! Leave her alone. Get your gear.” A woman pushed him aside. “Just getting acquainted, Cygnet. Gotta polish the rock.” “I don’t know what crime I committed and they won’t tell me,” I asserted. “No one does. We had to call it something, so we agreed on ‘hangover.’ We have our mental capacity, but who we are escapes us. All we have are our numbers.” I glanced at her forearm. This woman, Cygnet, as she was called, is compassionate and motherly, though she has a sentence of 197 years. “Does that bother you?” “My sentence? It used to. Perhaps they’ll reanimate my corpse to keep me working.” She took my boots from my locker and placed them at my feet. “This is a prison. Where are the guards?” “So many questions. Answers, there are plenty. Does anyone know? Here, we are devoid of answers. So much that has made us human has been taken away or suppressed.” Intake
By J. L. Young I awoke. It was like a switch. My hands are cuffed and secured to the seat between my legs. What have I done? Two rows of people sat looking at a person before us. A klaxon burst alive with ear-splitting feedback. A voice emerged from the noise. It was the person’s. He was standing beyond a barrier. “Good morning guests. We are now on approach to the lovely P-11616. You were tried and sentenced, and now you are here. Your implant on your right arm has your readout. Do take note of how long you have with us. The number below is now your designation.” Mine read: Two years, six months, and zero days. My designation is now 7756725421. He continued, “Once you’re processed, your sentence will commence. You probably have questions. What is P-11616? It is your home, your work for the foreseeable future. Why are you here? That’s not my place to know. You may not remember your crimes, but I assure you, if you’re here, you done fucked up. Now stand! I did as ordered, and a light appeared above my head. “You have been counted. Turn about and make a single file line. Once that door opens, you step out and keep formation. If not, the implant takes control and you take a backseat.” The door opened and the line moved. My shackles forced me to shuffle down the ramp and onto the concrete apron. Light barely penetrated the dark gray clouds. It smelled of something acrid. My lungs began to burn. “Breathe it in, folks. It burns, doesn’t it? That’s humanity’s contribution to this once-thriving ecosystem. The sky used to be clear, there was green everywhere, and the vast ocean was teeming with life, but our ancestors were piss poor stewards so, here you are. You are the clean-up crew. Once you remove the toxic elements from the ground and water, our air purification systems can go to work. In the building, you go. I’m not a guest here. I have somewhere better to be, so move.” Large doors opened and we shuffled inside. The anti-chamber functioned like an airlock. We waited until the inner doors parted. They were thick and opened by large screws attached to even larger motors. Inside, the air was clean. Our tour guide entered through another door and into an adjacent walkway. Once the door behind him was secured, our bonds disengaged and fell to the floor. He spoke again, “Breathe. Now that’s what you’re trying to achieve. Now, strip. Fold your jumpsuits, and place your shoes and socks on top. Stay in a single file line, and take your belongings to the recycler at the end of the room. Step into the shower booth. Stay until it is complete. Loop around and collect your new gear. This will be yours for the remainder of your stay. You will keep your gear cleaned and maintained.” I stepped into the booth and did as the walls instructed. I held a T-pose. Robotic arms with shower jets moved into position and doused me with uncomfortably cold water. The robotic jets ceased their onslaught and sprayed a cold foam from head to toe. I got some in my eye, but it didn’t irritate them. A second later, the jets fired cold water until the foam was washed away. The robotic arms retreated into the walls and a high-pressure blast of air left my skin dry. I exited as the wall ordered. A readout on the table had my designation number from my arm. There, I donned the translucent jumpsuit, socks, work boots, and a breathing apparatus. Somehow, the jumpsuit felt like cotton, as did the socks. “Now, I suspect the lot of you are feeling hungry. Here, you work for your day’s food. Your sentence commences. Enjoy your stay on P-11616.” The Kotothi
By J. L. Young ‘Fire emanating from my chest. No. Not fire. Pain. Why am I feeling pain in my chest? The pain is worsening. What’s wrong? Look, damn you. Work muscles. Eyes, what do I see? Arms flailing, useless. Get control. Fireworks! What the fuck! Punch out! Punch out!’ The intermittent hiss of the ocean crashing on a beach entered my consciousness. The world breathed around me. The familiar smell of rubber and bad breath filtered in. I’m alive, face down in the sand. My hands found the quick-release, setting me free of the ejection seat. It was night. A glance at my watch revealed I’d been out for three hours. A scan of the horizon revealed a glow over a large dune. My ship still burns. It’s a beacon drawing the Kotothi. Who are the Kotothi? Well, they were here before us. From what the scientists say, the Kotothi were here during the snowball Earth period and fled when the ice receded. Why would they come back now? They developed the tech to permanently revert the Earth to a glaciated state. They learned our language from the radio signals we sent out. When they made first contact, they demanded we vacate. We, of course, told them what to do with themselves. Diplomatically, of course. However, their arrival did do something. It united the world, just like in the movies. The Kotothi love a protracted war. We ramped up production on our highest tech ships. They produced equal technology. When we had nearly depleted our stockpiles, they held off waiting for us to make the next step. To advance our technology, then created weapons something with similar advancements. They have been playing with us for a century. All my life I fought the Kotothi. I have killed them in space, in the air, and in hand-to-hand combat. They are a formidable foe. They do have a weakness. It’s their anatomy. They can’t survive temperatures above -89 degrees C. They rely on their environmental suits. Granted, they are awesome and dreadful things. However, when their suits are removed, their blood boils and they pop. When they do, they smell oddly like a bakery. We nicknamed them poppers. Wanderlust
By J. L. Young I come to the inlet for my weekly constitutional. There, the many beasts on exhibition at the menagerie mill about their cages. I especially love the tigers. Some dull-witted guests are daft enough to reach between the bars to give them a pet. To my knowledge, none of the white furred beasts have taken a meal of an arm. While I find the cold sea air invigorating, I long to be elsewhere. Where it is I desire to be? That is somewhere I have, as of yet, to determine. A suggestion has come from a confidant, allow a suitor to woo me and that will satiate my wanderlust. I haven’t the heart to tell my advocate. Although their meaning is decidedly wholesome, she can bugger off. Do I desire to travel the gray sea I peer at longingly? Or do the uncharted lands hold sway over me? I stole another look at the tiger cubs pouncing on their mother’s tail before my boots clapped on the peer. With passage purchased and the sails unfurled, my adventure lies ahead. The captain requested my presence for dinner that eve. I obliged. Between bites of his fish he queried, “You grace old oak with such beauty and form, I ask, Miss Bell, whatever possessed your mind to cast convention astern?” “Please me Perdita. I have read many books, learned from the scholars, and all they have done is give me a desire. Not of academia, but to find the dragons beyond the tattered and singed edges of the cartograph. To take in the splendor that no word, nor painting, can do justice.” “By my guide, the spirited crew of the Argestes shall calm the sea and her canvas capture the swiftest of the four winds. If a tempest shows herself, I’ll ensure the crew be gentlemanly and not look up her skirt.” His sun kissed cheeks pulled his mouth into the warmest of smiles followed by a wink. “I trust you will, Captain.” Buried in the Past
By J. L. Young A woman’s ear lobe vibrated. “Phone, answer.” She commanded. “Yeah.” The voice of an artificial being replied, “Kaida Niekawa, I am Police Robot 191. A deceased body was found at Building site 3,909.” “Please, repeat location?” “Building site 3,909. Instructions?” “Create a thirty-meter parameter surrounding the body and standby. Send my phone the coordinates. I am on my way.” “Understood.” She tapped the collar of her jacket. A helmet unfolded from the material and surrounded her head. More armor unfolded from the garment and covered her body before she mounted a motorcycle. The machine activated and produced a slight whine. She made a gesture akin to throwing a ball from her ear to the screen between the handlebars, and a map appeared. The coordinates filled the search field and presented a path to the site. Upon arrival, she dismounted, and the armor retracted as she stepped through the holographic caution tape. The artificial being, with its high visibility, painted body, waited patiently. “Welcome, to Building site 3,909, Kaida Niekawa. I am PR191. During the excavation of this section, construction workers found the body below. Immediately upon discovery, you were notified.” “Is it stable down there?” “The clay is soft. They have yet to reach bedrock. Standing in the excavated zone would be perilous and OSHA would not approve of your presence there.” “I need to scan the area surrounding the body,” she said. “Understood. We have delayed further excavation in this zone until you release them to continue. Expedition your investigation has been requested.” She removed a pen-shaped object from her jacket and held it parallel to the ground. A HUD appeared before her eyes. Soft blades sprang from the fuselage and spun up. She released the drone and it took flight. It swooped down into the pit and hovered over the body. Kaida began dictation, “Medical Examiner Kaida Niekawa, location: Building Site 3,909 north quadrant. From preliminary observation, the remarkably well-preserved body is of a Caucasian male, human, approximately aged thirty to forty years. White hair, blue-gray eyes. The exact age is TBD. Scan presents some accompanying paraphernalia, eyeglasses, a wrist-mounted timepiece, paper and metal currency from the former United States of America. Judging from the depth of the excavation, the individual is from the end of the first quarter of the twenty-first century. Preliminary cause of death: wound to the frontal region of the cranium penetrating the cerebral cortex and two wounds in the thoracic region, penetrating the heart. Identity TBD. A Pre-excavation scan could not be performed due to the minerals present in the clay substrate.” Sometime later, Kaida arrived at her office. The transport for the body arrived moments later. The body was placed on an available slab and the zero-degree containment bag was removed. A secondary biotic containment shield remained in place. The slab measured his weight before the autopsy. Lights above the man hovered into place and powered on. “Subject Identity confirmed through archival retrieval. The subject is identified as Liam Cardinal, a journalist, born August sixteenth, 1988, age upon death thirty-six. Preliminary cause of death confirmed. Gunshot wounds to the brain and heart. Ballistic reconstruction determined the weapon used: chemically propelled kinetic projectile. Cartridge bore, nine-millimeter hollow point with a copper jacket and lead core. Bore scoring suggests the weapon is a handgun, mass-produced by the Nova Shadow Arms Corporation. Death was instantaneous. High levels of epinephrine and norepinephrine in the brain chemistry indicate the subject was in a state of anxiety or fear immediately before death. From the condition of Mr. Cardinal’s body, he was buried immediately upon cessation of life. Suggesting the perpetrator had malice and forethought.” Chapter Thirty-four
Tholml’s Ship, En Route to Ararandaari Emmi sat staring out the starscreen. She hadn’t touched the meal she’d prepared and brought to the flight deck. Her head fell to her palm. Moments later, light footsteps filled the cabin. Without raising her head or opening her eyes, Emmi asked, “Why would the board turn down the chance for profit?” “There are those who still fear technology like Oreif. They fear they will become obsolete.” “I see where Syrane gets her wisdom. You should be proud.” “I am. I am proud of all my children. I may not have raised you, but I am proud of you, as well. Even when life has been taken from you, you have a great fight within you. A desire.” “Perhaps it’s just a human instinct to live.” “No, I think it goes beyond that. Something hidden. It has shape, but the imag--.” Emmi snapped up from her seat, nearly toppling her food tray. She pulled the case from the cargo netting at the aft section of the flight deck, unlocked the latches, and flipped the lid open. The lattice that held Oreif’s symmetrical field gate remained. She lifted it from the case and turned it over. Within was not the original component, but the one Rigbah’s team had designed. “Rigbah, you sly devil.” The Sorator met them upon landing. Emmi and Tholml connected power cables to Oreif’s junctions. Once inside, she settled before the pedestal. Several thousand cells of the Sorator infiltrated Oreif’s system. Emmi placed the lattice, laden with the component, into the pedestal. The Sorator surveyed the connections and designed an adaptor. The cells returned to the colony. They took to a cabinet where spare components were placed. Then set to work constructing the adaptor. As Emmi watched, the adaptor took shape. Once complete, she took the component and placed it in the pedestal. Sorator made the connections. Emmi stood before the console, paused for a breath, and initiated the core. Impatiently, she watched the screen to the left. “Come on, come on.” A few moments passed and the screen produced an error. Her implant translated the text. ‘File Compilation Error. Auto-correction Attempt In Progress.’ The screen went blank and remained so for several blinks of Emmi’s eyes before text filled the screen and climbed upward. Again, the screen blanked. “Auto-defense system engaged.” The motors of the overhead rail weapon activated, pushed downward, and aimed. Emmi backed away from the console. “Oreif, it’s me, Emmi. I’m a friend. We’re friends. Tholml is your friend, too.” A slow voice filled the cabin. “Emmi.” “Yes.” Emmi smiled with reserved relief. “Disengage the Auto-defence system, please. Do it now.” “Emmi is a friend.” “Yes,” Emmi replied. The rail weapon retracted into the overhead. Emmi and Tholml breathed a sigh of relief. “What do you remember? It’s alright if you don’t remember anything, you’ve been hurt badly.” “I remember the nebula within the undulating filament. Calling. Calling for the Sorator.” The Sorator appeared and spoke. “You have succeeded in your mission, Oreif. We have returned you to Ararandaari, to your friends. The signal has been passed to the Sorator throughout the Home Spiral, as per your request.” “Have you received Syrane’s location?” “No. I must commune with the other Sorator.” They phased out of the visual spectrum. Once out of the atmosphere, the Sorator dispersed and ported in millions of directions simultaneously. A few moments passed and the Sorator reappeared. “A communication was detected. It was sent from a ship registered to Syrane Avvel.” “What ship? Where?” “The Irenic Relict. It was an automated departure clearance request in the Pordaat system,” the Sorator replied. “Pordaat. They have a reputation for being meticulous about arrivals and departures. They may have the port termination point,” Tholml said. “Do you think they’d give that information freely?” Emmi asked. “I don’t know.” “‘I don’t know’ is the beginning of the answer. Let’s ask and see.” Tholml deplaned and went into the house to access the network. The Sorator departed without a word. Emmi stayed and continued to repair Oreif’s primary systems. Emmi realized she had fallen asleep when she heard an unexpected slapping thud come from the forward section of the ship. The cabin was dark save for some life support indicators on the bulkhead. “Oreif, can you turn on the lights?” There was no response from the ship. Disconcerted, Emmi moved her hand over to a manual light switch next to the bunk. The lights engaged. Another sound emanated from the forward section. The shape of the sound suggested it was a gelatinous substance being pressed by hands. She moved forward and a being in distress came into view. The being appeared to be covered in a substance similar to a petroleum-based corrosion inhibitor used to pack old World War Two weapons and equipment. Emmi scooped away the waxy substance from the eyes, nose, and mouth. It smelled oddly like peppermint candy. The being lay there looking up at her while gasping for air. Emmi looked up at the opened sarcophagus. “Oreif?” She immediately looked down at the pearlescent blue-gray-skinned female before her. Large black orbs locked to her. “I got you.” Oreif’s movements were jerky, akin to a newborn. At first, Emmi thought it was a seizure, but the randomness fell into a rhythm. A shoulder rotated forward, lifting the arm and hand slowly toward Emmi’s face. As the hand approached, the fingers spread. Between the digits, thick translucent webbing retracted toward the palm as she released a series of sighs. Soon, Oreif’s facial movements were now purposeful. Emmi assumed the muscles required for speaking were seen as a priority. A voice now accompanied the mouth movements, but she only babbled incoherently. Emmi realized what Oreif was going through. She remained patient and dozed off. The newborn heard the sound of boots on the deck. A sound she was accustomed to. She knew from the gait who it was that came aboard. Her eyes opened and angled toward the familiar, onymous being. She shifted her mouth into the open, “Tholml is here.” Her voice did as intended and awakened Emmi. The professor looked down at Oreif and up at Tholml with a smile, “Look who I found.” “Welcome to the world,” Tholml said warmly. “Let’s get you to the hideaway and get you cleaned up.” “That would be desirable,” Oreif replied. Aspis
By J. L. Young A man in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans leaned over the front of a car in the barn when a caller came. The footsteps on the gravel driveway made it clear it was a woman. He didn’t bother to look up from under the hood. She reached the doorway and he called out, “One step further and you won’t have time to regret it.” She paused. “You pull your gun and you’ll have wasted taxpayer money.” He suspected a red laser dot had painted the back of my skull and released his pistol grip. She gave a wry smile and proceeded into the building. “Why are you here, Lierian?” She looked at the torn-down engine and shifted her gaze toward him. He held a gleaming chrome ratchet, ready to strike. She admired his beard, which had several months of growth. “Not here.” He understood, stepped over to a workbench, sat down the ratchet, and collected a red rag to wipe the grease from his hands. They climbed into one of several closely parked black SUVs, their engines idling quietly. “I see the taxpayers sprang for leather seats.” Lierian disregarded his comment. The doors locked and a partition raised as the windows opaqued. A light on the console before her shifted from green to red. The SCIF had engaged, blocking all signals in and out of the vehicle. She sat comfortably in the seat next to him, despite knowing his training. “You didn’t travel 2,360 miles from Washington just to catch up. Whatever it is, I’m retired.” “As of 8:22 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, Orcianus, I have reinstated you.” I knew I had no choice in the matter. “Who’s dying of lead poisoning?” "A defected rogue agent, code-named Aspis," Lierian began. “Encrypted sensitive operational information on a two-zettabyte microdrive is in Aspis' possession and needs to be recovered. The agent is to be neutralized. The encryption has not yet been circumvented. Kamal Al-Azer. You’re familiar with him. He’s the buyer. I want to clarify Al-Azer is not a target and is off-limits to any action.” She continued, “Be warned, Aspis is part of Operation Deep K14. This Spec-ops superseded your specialized training. She’s enhanced and may have had facial reconstruction surgery to throw off recognition software.” “Enhanced, how so?” “That’s above my pay grade.” She handed him a plane ticket. He glanced at it, Dubai, as she said, “Have a safe flight.” Balor
By J. L. Young A bird swooped down and landed next to a yellow-haired Labrador Retriever sitting in the sunlight and tucked his wings to his sides. “Hello, Nacho.” “Balor. How goes the campaign?” “I’m advocating in the best interest of the murder and they don’t care. They turn their back feathers to me.” “So, Oberon is ahead?” “Like he was last year. They don’t seem to care about accessible food, clean water, or security. They love his personality. If he wins another election, the birds of prey will eat the murder.” “What is it they want?” “Calix, she’s always looking for the shiny.” “That is how you bribe humans, isn’t it?” “Well, yeah. But it’s all she thinks about. You’re saying I should appeal to that?” “If it gets her vote,” Nacho replied. “So, I should appeal to Zya’s ban on extra-pair copulation? That’s ridiculous. We’d go extinct.” “What about Val? What does she want?” “Oh, she’s deceitful. She wants to eliminate educating the young about the ones that have done wrong to us. And you want to know something? Oberon will placate them with lies. He’ll make them believe what they want is what he wants, then turn around and do nothing. The status quo remains. Our murder will be no better than the year before.” “Their beliefs will be hard to change. But it must be done for the sake of the murder.” “If I fail, Nacho, I’ll be exiled. And I fear for the fledglings. Only I will speak for them.” |
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