GRAY MIST WASHED BLACK rock, soaking into black flatland soil. Trees encircled the lone single-story cabin like hooded saints praying over a plague-ridden child. They bowed with the wind, hunching to bestow last rites to the night. The Man considered the waning of the dark with eyes the color of twilight—before returning to his task.

“Now, Peevish,” he warned. Hands at his sides, his voice quiet, almost inaudible over the rustle of leaves overhead. “You back off of Strutter, the poor old gal. Or, come winter, it’ll be your feet in the stew.” The sun rising at her back, the umber hen shot him a withering look. Then she bobbed a few paces away, checking to see if he was still there, before plucking up a corn kernel. 

“See,” he said, scattering another handful of feed around the coop. “Plenty to go ’round.” The chickens squawked, with all the satisfaction and caged menace that twenty-inch-tall, flightless birds can muster. The Man clucked back at them, a sincere effort to flatter and calm.

Closing the chickenwire door behind him, he followed the short dirt path back to the cabin. Dragu sat on his haunches by the front door. Patient, alert. When his master’s heavy boot coaxed a creak from the third porch step, Dragu spun about, crawled through the doggy door, and darted into the kitchen.

The Man opened the door with care. He didn’t want to wake them. Not yet. He enjoyed these small moments of peace, before the world had fully stirred from sleep. Especially in autumn, when the air itself bore a familiar chill and he could stand by the gently puffing wood stove, warming his knees.

The chill reminded him of the day he’d been born…

But Dragu began to whimper, nuzzling the ice box with his snout.

“Alright, incorrigible beast, you win.” The Man moved to the chugging ice box, inside which was kept the one thing the dog cherished more than any other in this life. Retrieving the can opener from one of the drawers, the Man applied the tool, which bit into the can’s lid. The smell of processed meat byproduct wafted throughout the kitchen. “Ah-hah.” He read aloud the label: “Venison and Kidney Tender Cuts. In Gravy? A feast fit for an emperor.”

He upended the can, and the slop splatted into the metal bowl on the floor. His eyes lingered on the can’s colorful label and its bug-eyed cartoon dog. Beneath these details, in a much smaller font was printed: Produced in Xaveyr Province, Nation of El. Processed in a Machinamantic facility; may contain traces of Niimantic exhaust. For a moment, he lost himself in thought. 

Dragu’s attention was fixed on the venison chunks and gravy soup, but he waited for the Man to shake away the memories, step back, and snap his fingers at the bowl. Only then did the hound pounce, attacking, gulping the processed pink slime. Every bit a wolf tearing apart a steaming-fresh kill.

A voice almost as quiet as the Man’s own whispered to him from the doorway, “Father, are we going into town today?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I wake Mother?”

“Not yet.”

Still in his woolen one-piece pajamas, the Boy glanced up at the ceiling as he often did when mulling over a problem. “My bicycle has a flat,” he said. “Wasn’t my fault, though. Hit a nail on the main road.”

“It happens.” The Man squirted some dish soap onto his palms and washed the blobs of gravy from his fingers. “Get dressed. Meet me in the shed. We’ll patch her yet.” Drying his hands, he added, “Then, breakfast.”

The Boy nodded. “What are we having?”

“Dog.”

Dragu looked up from his own breakfast, cocking his head at father and son. When they made no moves to snatch him up, his ears lowered again, and he returned to his feast.

The Boy disappeared into the shadows of early morning inside the cabin. Meanwhile, the Man returned outside, his fingers caressing the metal-pipe wind chimes and the smooth cedar guardrail flanking the porch steps. Of their own accord, his feet followed the gravel path toward the storage shed.

He breathed deeply the scents of last night’s rain, dissipating mist, composting apple skins and other mulch heaped nearby. Entering the shed, he left the door open to air out the smell of old gasoline in its plastic container. From the rack on the right, past the hand-carved kayaks, he lifted and set down a pair of gray steel-framed bicycles. But for a touch or two of rust, they were in solid condition.

The damage the nail had done to the tire was negligible, an easy patch. But he’d have the Boy repair it. 

The Boy had to learn to do for himself.

With the tire patched, father and son returned to the house.  There, again, Dragu sat, waiting. And he padded into the kitchen area—again. Doing his best to appear absolutely pathetic, his eyes watering a little, he whimpered.

“Same cheap trick, every day,” the Man grumbled, but he leaned down to skritch the mutt behind his ears.

With the Boy as his assistant, he fried up an omelet in butter, to which he added dried peppers (grown in their garden and picked at the end of summer) and an experimental lump of goat cheese. Cows he’d mastered years before; this was his first year tending goats, and they were truly proving themselves to be a whole other animal. They irritate you because you’re too alike, his wife had teased, to which he’d replied: Proud? Independent-minded? She’d flicked his stubbled chin and answered, Grunting. Hairy.Deftly flipping the omelet in the pan, he chuckled to himself.

“Shall I wake Mother now?” said the Boy.

“No, let me sleep.”

Father and son turned to see Mina leaning against the doorframe, smiling.

“Headed to town?” she asked.

The Man nodded. “Kepzon’s.”

The Boy served the plates and brought out the pewter tableware. Elbow to elbow, the three seated themselves at the circular table.

The Boy needed no prompting. Hands on his knees, he bowed his head and spoke the benediction, a prayer distilling thousands of years of wisdom and truth into two words: “Beyatel Adyne.” Orphaned syllables from a long-dead language.

In Ravenspeak, the native tongue of these lands, the literal translation was Truth through Contradiction.As in so many cases, however, the literal failed to communicate a millionth of what the phrase signified. The Boy wouldn’t yet understand; he hadn’t lived long enough, experienced deeply enough, to embrace the words with all his soul. But he would. As his mother had. As his father must never do.

Indeed, the Man himself kept his eyes open, his neck straight. His part was neither to question nor partake. To him, in accordance with the commandments of the faith, the words and their meaning must remain abstractions only.

He nodded, once and solemnly, to his son as the Boy opened his eyes. And they began to eat.

“We need more fishing wire. Netting, if he’s got it handy.” Mina took a bite of the omelet. “Eilars, my love, you have outdone yourself.”

“The cheese,” he said hopefully. “It turned out alright?”

“Well…”

The Boy took a bite, his face souring immediately, and he spat the lump of egg and crumbling white cheese onto his plate. “Blegh.”

“Hmm,” said the Man, chewing thoughtfully on his own mouthful of the truly atrocious-tasting stuff. “Well. Goats are tricky.”

“You must have really upset them, Father,” said the Boy, a wry smile on his lips. “Right, Mother?”

“Yes,” she said. “Must be your temper, love. Why, just the other day, I heard you raise your voice to a mutter. Likely, that’s what set them off.” She told their son, “Eat your food, Eetan. There’s nothing wrong with it. Aside from it tasting like unwashed boar’s rump.”

Her husband rolled his eyes, grinning. 

Bundled up with scarves and gloves, for the autumn wind had teeth this morning, father and son climbed onto their bicycles and began to roll down the winding gravel path off their property. Minutes later, their wheels bounced onto the smooth pavement of the main road—weaving between its minimal potholes—which they followed for five flat miles. The town of Krabbendrak, ahead, grew steadily larger.

Some troubling cloud formations lined the horizon. The Man thought about his wife’s warning: foul weather coming. Not till tonight, he had assured her. The radio weatherwoman had promised as much. Still, she’d asked, be careful, would you? The Boy hasn’t fully recovered. He’d told her, The Boy’s fine. He only needs fresh air. Best thing for him.

The open fields disappeared behind tall, orderly trees flanking the country road. A plastic shopping bag whipped past as they crossed into town, and they signaled with their arms that they were turning left into the parking lot of Kepzon’s Sundries.

There were four or five cars out front, one of which belonged to Kepzon himself. Fairly busy for so early in the morning.

Most of the other lots in the mini mall had been shuttered in the past five years or so; the only evidence of the kickboxing studio, smoothie bar, and VR arcade’s ever having existed there were the ghostly outlines of where their signs had been yanked from the walls. 

Besides Kepzon’s, only one shop had survived the latest recession: Ten-Minute Tweaks, a garage of sorts. Rather than working on cars, though, the owner Otniushku was an expert in body mod surgery and maintenance. And she didn’t mind working under the table when possible. In addition to tuning up the mechanical appendages of the local blue collar retirees, she made ends meet by fiddling with wrists and knees rendered nearly useless either by time or sports injury. Arthritis in your knuckles? Tight shoulders? Stiff neck? Head on over to TMT.

Otni’s primary customers, however, were several folks in Krabbendrak who’d endured various refinery accidents a decade earlier, when ELCORP company Tytan LLC. had hired on thousands of temporary workers from all over the region. (Until these could be replaced with automated assembly systems—more bots.) Corporate hush money had bought the amputees almost-as-good-as-new replacement limbs, complete with trademark and barcode so everyone knew whose property they were. (The limbs and the amputees.) ELCORP hadn’t been able (or willing) to do anything for the unfortunate dozens who’d died because of long-term exposure to sulfur dioxide leaks in the refineries.

Only losing a limb or two seemed like the better end of that deal. Thankfully, the Man himself had dodged any such misfortunes; even in leaner years, the farm kept his family fed.

Father and son leaned their bikes against the brick wall as Otni flipped the lights on inside her shop. She waved at the Man, and he waved back.

The Boy shouldered open the door to Kepzon’s Sundries. When the bell didn’t ring, he shouted over to the proprietor behind the counter, “You should let me fix that for you. I’m good at fixing things.”

From behind several aisles overpacked with sacks of animal feed, hanging power tools, rope, cans of plump coffee beans, and more,  Kepzon grunted. He poked his head around the corner, greeting the Boy with a jutting, kindly, underbite-smile that stretched his ruddy cheeks, and he dragged a hand over his head, bald but for a single tuft of blond at the precise center of his scalp. “And ‘hey’ to you too, Eetan,” he said before returning to the customer at the register, who left a moment later.

Near the door, the joints of a decades-old robot squeaked as it stocked the shelves. Its sensor—a single red “eye” —catalogued Kepzon’s inventory. As the Man stepped onto the welcome mat, the ’bot stuttered, the light of its eye flickering as it lightly bonked its arms against a closed glass freezer window. He quickly moved away, and the ’bot’s glitching fit subsided, allowing it to resume tallying bags of ice.

Joining Kepzon at the counter, the Man exchanged a few pleasantries as, to his quiet satisfaction, the Boy busied himself collecting all the items they’d come to buy. Soon, he waddled over, arms full of fishing wire, netting, boxes of iron nails, and bags of doggy bones.

Kepzon reached over the counter and snatched up the bag of treats, glancing at the Man. “For Dragu, eh? You spoil that pup to no end.”

“Don’t I know it,” said the Man as he counted out gelder coins and slid them toward the register.

Scanning the items, Kepzon said, “The old Temple’s flooded, dunno if you heard. Rickety roof hit the tipping point just last week.” Beep. “Rusty supports finally started snapping.” Beep. “Groundwater’s rising since the damage done to the dike—well, you know, of course. Sorry, I’m rambling.” Beep.

“What about the Town Council meeting, Father?” said the Boy.

“We’ll have to hold it someplace else, eh?” Kepzon said.

“Should we have it at our house?”

Hand resting on the Boy’s shoulder, his father said, “I’m sure the school gym will do.”

Kepzon nodded, placing their smaller purchases into a tote bag with his shop’s amateurish but charming logo on its side. “Your old man’s right, son. Besides, wouldn’t dream of sullying your home’s good vibrations with the humdrum of municipal politics. Mina’d never forgive us.”

“Okay,” said the Boy.

“How’s she doing by the way?” said Kepzon.

The Man grunted. “Better.”

“Hubby and I were praying for you all when we heard your household had come down with—” His statement died in the air as another customer entered the shop.

“Thank you for that,” the Man said softly.

Kepzon continued, “It’s a downright miracle you at least were spared, Lars. A miracle, and no mistake. Praise Ninithin.”

They both made the holy sign, tapping their thumbnails twice against their foreheads. The Man said nothing more until Kepzon took the hint and waved him off with a “Cards tonight at our place? That’s still on, right?”

“Have I ever missed a chance to take your money?” the Man answered, and he and the Boy headed out.

Kepzon called after them, “Makkle’s bringing the beers.”

“Is that a threat?” the Man laughed quietly.

“I’m sure he’s… changed his formula. It’ll get the job done, anyway.”

“We’ll never learn.” The Man waved, closing the shop’s door behind him. 

Outside, he stopped abruptly, his son thudding into him from behind.

A hovercar—black, with dark-tinted windows and covered license plates—idled in the middle of the parking lot. From the driver and front passenger seat, respectively, exited a middle-aged man in a high-necked dark blue suit and a young woman in a sharp-shouldered pure-white jacket and matching pants. Brown bangs brushed the glimmering rims of her black sunglasses.

The woman leaned against the car, mouth ever so slightly open, face angled toward the Man and the Boy—or, maybe, to a point in space just above their heads.

The middle-aged man in the suit approached. “Pardon me, gentlemen. But I’m looking for someone, and I’ve a keen suspicion that you can help me.” His accent declared him a native Ravenspeaker, though his clothes and car and demeanor suggested otherwise. He smiled widely, creases forming around his ears—the right one having been mangled in some kind of fight or accident long ago. Crouching to meet the Boy’s eye, ignoring the Man, he said, “Tell me, sonny, would your papa happen to be Eilars Palderman?”

The Boy said nothing.

The Suit’s smile crystallized on his face. “Don’t talk to strangers, that it? You’ve been taught well to mind yourself.” The smile dropped as he stood, his knee cartilage popping like a log on an open fire. When he said, “Mr. Palderman, I presume?” he switched to fluent Ellish—the language of the Nation of El.

The Man grimaced. “Who’s asking? And do get to the point. The Boy and I have chores to attend to.” He now also spoke in Ellish, noticeably better even than the Suit’s, and he kept an eye on the woman in white. He found himself wishing a distance greater than fifteen feet lay between them.

Blue eyes locked with the Man’s now, the Suit said, “You’re not really going to play this game with me,are you? Eilars?”

“I don’t know you.” He stared the Suit down. In Ravenspeak, he told his son, “Boy, go on and load the bikes. I’ll be there in a moment.”

The Boy tensed, seeming for a moment a spooked cat. But he planted his feet, stiffened his jaw. He accepted the tote bag from his father and walked off.

“You couldn’t possibly have forgotten me,” murmured the man in the dark blue suit, brushing two knuckles from his ruined ear down his pocked cheek. “Unless, maybe, somewhere along the line, you had, ahem, a screw knocked loose.” He reached into his front jacket pocket. “Maybe this will jog your memory.” The Man shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, raising his hands to chest-level, palms outward.

The stranger offered him a crisp off-white business card with dark gold-leaf lettering.

Daal M. K. Vaneiter, CTO

Walazzinco.,a division of ELCORP

The Man did not accept the card. After a moment’s pretended consideration, he shook his head. “Never heard of you. Should I have?”

Vaneiter glared at him. “My mistake.” He backed away toward the shiny company car.

“Were I you, I’d head on out now,” said the Man, pressing his luck. “This is a quiet town. Law-abiding citizens, we pay the imperial tax, keep our noses out of trouble. You should do the same.”

“Of course,” said Vaneiter, his congenial smile resurfacing even as a glimmer of sunlight cut through the clouds. “Salt of the earth, these people. I can tell. Kind, decent, good people who deserve to live on in peace.” The driver-side car door lifted open. “Take care now.”

The Man walked quickly toward his son, never losing sight of the black hovercar as its engines fired up and it zoomed out of the parking lot and down the country road. In the direction of his home.

That had to be coincidence, he thought. Had to be.

“Boy, head back into the store. Ask to use Mr. Kepzon’s phone to call your mother. Tell her to pack a bag and head to your aunt’s.”

“But Mother’s sick! She’s not supposed to—”

“This is more important.” The Man’s tone offered not an inch of room for argument.

“Father, who were those people?”

“Boy.”

He ran into Kepzon’s as he’d been told.

The Man watched the road for the black car’s return, for more black cars.

The Boy’s came out of the store, and father and son looked at one another. “Head over to wait for your mother, now.”

“Father, who—”

“Do as I say,” the Man barked. When his son flinched, he remembered himself, adding, “It will be alright. Don’t be afraid. I’m sending you away for a day or two while I take care of some things.”

“You’re lying.”

“Don’t you talk back to me, Boy.”

“I’m not,” he yelled. “I just wanna help.”

“That’s what I want also. I do this for your own good. But not just yours. I need to know you’re with your mother. That you’re protecting each other.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, eyes reddening. “What’s happening?”

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he lied again. “You’ll see. In a few days, we’ll be together once more, and everything will be normal.” He so desperately wanted to believe himself. “That’s a promise.”

The words seemed to placate the Boy, or at least calm him enough to obey.

Before the Boy mounted his bike, the Man grabbed his son in a tight, one-armed hug, lifting the kid’s heels off the ground an inch or two.

“I love you, my son.”

“I love you, too.” His voice shook only a little. “See you soon. At Auntie’s.”

“Ride straight there. Stop for no one. Not even me.”

That last order had obviously confused him. Yet, the Man knew his son would be safe. The bright, honest young adult he was becoming…

As the Boy rode off toward downtown, the Man stepped into Kepzon’s Sundries to inform the owner that he would not, after all, be attending the card game scheduled for that night.

Leaning on his mop, Kepzon furrowed his brow. “Why ever not? Lars, is everything okay?”

“Just some old business.”

END OF CHAPTER 1

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