With Honor

By Marie Brown

Over four hundred years ago, civilization fell in a cataclysm of nuclear fire. Nature itself changed, shifted, wounded by ancient wars, still struggling to find a new balance. The human survivors exist with no laws, no government, barely any degree of civilization, in a world altered beyond recognition. All knowledge is kept locked away in the University for the benefit of a select few. The limited technology relies heavily on steam power, where it exists at all. Even the weather is enough to kill the unprotected at times.
In this world, where people struggle to survive one day to the next, two young men cross paths in the dark of night. Ari, raised in the near-paradise of the mountains with their clean air and safe water, ran afoul of a man with a big gun and an ultimatum. No longer welcome in his homeland, he wandered the world, searching for a new life. Grief, born in the black sand desert to a people universally known and hated as the Reavers, was the sole survivor of a vicious massacre and has been haunting the edges of the desert ever since, balanced on the knife edge of survival.
One thing keeps him alive: hope that somehow, someday, the world will be a better place. And when he meets up with Ari and finds an unexpected connection, suddenly his hope--his Dream--becomes more than just a wishful thought.
It's a simple plan, after all. Just take over the world. Two young men, alone, against an entire world of anarchic chaos. Their assets? Brains, fighting skills, and horses. Never consider the cost of failure. Never think about the impossible odds. And most especially, Grief must never, ever let Ari know the hidden truth within his heart, or the world might just end all over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marie Brown
• Release date: Dec 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301271351

Marie Brown

"Marie Brown has lived in many locations across the United States, but spends most of her time exploring the realms of imagination. Currently located in Colorado, her brief moments of free time are spent in front of her computer, frequently covered in cats."Blah.Yeah, okay, that's all true. But I'm tired of hiding behind a bland, third-person pseudo-bio, utterly lacking in personality.Hi! I'm Marie Brown, and I write a lot. I self-publish through Smashwords and Amazon because I got tired of getting "well-written, but not our thing" rejection letters. Because, you see, most of my fiction tends to include characters that are either bi or just plain homosexual, and despite increasing acceptance of human sexuality and its many variations across the world, heroes and heroines are still supposed to be straight.Well, mine aren't. So if you're brave, and you don't mind that the main character of a story either isn't interested in sex at all, or is quite likely to hop in bed with someone of the same gender, then give my writings a chance. Come explore my fantasy worlds, or my science fiction worlds, or even spend some time with an occasional random love story set on Earth.And by the way, just this once, I wrote this entire blurb without a cat on my keyboard.

Book preview

Grief

Hey! Get off my head!

Startled, I jumped aside and looked for the source of the strange, creaky voice. An offended mushroom glared up at me.

Uh. . . Did you just say something?

Of course I did, you big oaf! You'd say something too, if some great monster-thing stood on your head.

A sudden sound jolted me out of the weirdest dream I'd had in a very long time, and I opened my eyes, hand clenched around my small firearm. My tiny, stinky fire of oily twigs burned nearly right in my face, but I could still see the man whose sudden arrival must have woken me up.

He ran into the cave and stopped, scanning the environment quickly by the light of the fire. A young fellow, similar to myself, probably driven from his home just as I'd been. I caught a brief glimpse of black hair and fair skin before he assumed a defensive stance and his pursuers thundered into my small sanctuary.

Bare hands, I thought, and immediately stood with the unarmed newcomer. Stranger or no, he needed my help. No way I'd jump in and help the mangy pack of wasteland trash hunting him. I'd had my own run-ins with wasters. They ran the borderlands between desert and normal farmland, hunting whatever might cross their path as legitimate prey. So we stood together, and fought, and drove the wasters back out of the cave system the way they'd come in.

The battle itself consisted of noise, confusion, and the sure sense that the man I fought beside would be where I needed him, when I needed him there. It almost felt as if we were one, or I had split into two, possibly a notion left over from that odd dream. He fought with a deadly, close-in style I'd never seen before, every move precise and focused. Once I'd shot all three barrels of my hand cannon, I tucked it in my waistband, ignoring the heat of firing, and started swinging. I felt awkward and inadequate compared to the intensity if my companion, but the harmony of our movements more than compensated for the awkwardness.

I looked around for another target, and blinked. We'd routed them. The wasters were either dead or gone. Huh, I said. I shook out my hands, rolled my head side to side, then began poking around at the fallen bodies.

Thanks, my new friend said, giving me a quizzical look. What are you doing?

Looking for things of value, I grunted, hoisting one of the dead wasters up with one hand while groping beneath him with the other. I need supplies.

Huh, the young man said, then shrugged and started picking through pockets. "Me too. Just never thought of taking 'em from these scum."

Might as well, I said, giving the corpse an offended glare. Nothing. Nothing at all. And worse yet, littering up my nice refuge. Fucker, I muttered, resisting the urge to kick the corpse. Looter I may be, but I still have some respect for the dead. Then I grabbed his shoulders and started dragging.

The as yet nameless young man helped without comment. Together, we picked our way through the dead wasters and hauled their remains outside. Seven of them total, and that surprised me. I'd thought there were more. The others must have ran away.

We picked a few items of value here and there, including some rather good travel packs and some kind of compressed meat bars. I scarfed one of them immediately. How long had it been. . . Then I ran across something that made me crow with delight.

What is it? He leaned over the dead waster, craning his neck to see my find.

I held up a small, stoppered jar in one hand, and a soft roll of leather in the other. I ignored his puzzled look and untied the strap on the roll, opening it out gently, almost reverently. I'd noticed several of the wasters were tattooed, and my hopes were rewarded when the tattoo picks came into sight.

Well? Say something.

I blinked and looked at my companion in surprise. The fire's faint glow reflected off suddenly stern features, and the comment bore the unmistakable bite of command. Who are you, anyway, mystery man? This is tattoo equipment.

Name's Grief, he said shortly.

I smiled. Grief, huh? Guess he wouldn't laugh at my own less-than-traditional name. I'm Arriba. I turned back to my inspection of the tattoo equipment. Beautiful, I murmured, touching the bone handles of the picks. Best not to question who or what the bone had once been part of.

I can all but hear you wondering, Grief said abruptly. My mother was weird. Liked girls better than boys. Rage, Hope, Piety, and Grief. Okay?

Of course. Are you Mannite?

Ha! Grief barked. The Church of Man expelled me when I was thirteen.

Why would they do that? I shook the ink bottle. It made a satisfying swish. I felt a surge of pleasure. Oh, for a mirror. . .

Maybe someday I might tell you that. Not today.

Right. Got a mirror handy?

Grief gave me a long, strange look. I'm not sure I even want to know why you just asked that question.

Been wanting a tattoo for a while now, I said, tucking the picks back into their soft home with great care. But I need a mirror to do it.

He smiled, more a feeling than a real expression. I think I can do something for you, okay? But now that all those dead guys are out, you got anything against me sharing this cave of yours? I should keep moving, but I'm just too damned tired.

Depends, I said, standing and dusting myself off, the precious tattoo equipment tucked safely into my new pack. Got a blanket?

A quirked eyebrow, and a hint of humor. Nope. But I'll lend you a warm back.

More than I went to bed with, before you woke me up and invited me to your little party.

With the last of the bodies taken care of and our meager piles of loot stashed away in the new packs, we returned to my tiny stinky fire. It'd burned nearly down to nothing while we worked. I stirred it up a bit, added a few more greasy twigs, and laid down back to back with Grief.

My guts complained gently about the lump of dried meat I'd thrown in there. Not enough complaint to make me sorry I'd eaten, sure, just enough to make certain I knew dried mystery meat wasn't the most ideal way to break a several day fast.

Warmth seeped into me from my companion. It felt good. Grief. A young wanderer with a habit of command, a viciously precise fighting style that made me all hot and bothered wanting to learn it, and no knowledge of tattooing equipment. I smiled, and fell into sleep.

Tattoo

I woke suddenly, panicking. Hot! No air, can't breathe, hot!

I jumped up, panting, searching around me with wild eyes, then saw what had happened and relaxed. The newly risen sun had managed to break through a hole in the ever-present cloud cover and spear through the cave mouth, find the only possible straight path through the short tunnel, and land right where I'd been sleeping, clad in my leather garments. No wonder I'd overheated.

Then I noticed something missing. Grief. The companion whose back had kept me warm and content last night in the cold. I looked around, but no luck. Clearly, he wasn't in the cave, nor in the tunnel now brilliantly lit with rare sunlight. I saw his pack, though, and that meant he probably meant to come back.

I dug a bit of dried fruit out of my new pack and nibbled on it. Some kind of berry. Not bad.

You look like you could use a drink, Grief said, emerging from what looked like a solid rock wall just as the sunlight dimmed. Neat. Here, catch.

Something flew through the air and I caught it. Water! I tore open the waterbag and sucked down a blissfully greedy mouthfull. Where'd you get this?

There's a seep back there. Not much volume, but more than enough to make it worth staying here a bit.

Staying? I said, around another long swallow. I wanted to drink the entire skin all at once, but I knew enough by now to recognize that as a very bad idea. Sure way to make yourself throw up and waste all that precious water.

Unless you'd rather I not? All his certainty from last night may as well have been a dream.

Don't be silly, I grinned. You seem useful to have around. You fight like a fiend, you find water, and last night you said something about having a mirror.

Grief snorted. You and that mirror. What were you going to do with it again? Ruin the little good looks you have?

Ha! Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll just take the mirror from you, run you off, and keep all the water for myself.

No chance, outsider, and suddenly Grief was all predator. You know the look a cat gets when it's not hunting, just watching the birds or whatever? That lazy, half-lidded, yet ready to pounce look they get? Yeah. I was looking at the human equivalent of that now. You'll take nothing from me that I don't give freely.

I know, I replied soberly. Then the predator relaxed and became a friendly young man again. He reached for his pack and rummaged through it.

Here, he said, extending his find towards me. I took it.

Beautiful, I said, examining the palm-sized fragment of real glass mirror. I'd only hoped for silver, or even copper. Where'd you find real glass?

His face closed off. It was one of my mother's most treasured possessions.

Thank you for the loan of it, I said, not sure what else to say. To cover my discomfort, I found the exact right place to prop the mirror on a large rock, angling it just so to show me my face with no effort, then brought out my new tattoo equipment. I'd seen a man with a tattoo on his face when I was very young. Victor escorted my adventurous older cousin back home and stayed while poor Storm died horribly of the sickness. I'd spent quite a bit of time staring at the man's face, and ever since I'd wanted a tattoo of my own, a desire reinforced every time Victor came back with stuff to trade over the years. I had an elaborate design all planned out, all dots and swirls and thin lines. I'd even gone so far as to draw the concept on my face when I'd gotten access to both ink and mirror in the past, so I knew it would look good permanently etched into my hide.

Grief watched me as I set up, a look on his face that all but shouted insanity! Clearly, he hadn't had the same life-altering experience as I. I smiled to myself. I cared little if he thought me crazy.

So how does this process work?

Very simple, I replied. Dip a pick in the ink and pierce the skin. The ink stays behind and becomes a tattoo.

Ouch. And you seemed so sane.

I can do one for you, if you like, I offered, extending one of the larger picks towards him. Grief took a hasty step backwards.

No, thanks! I like my skin just the way it is.

I laughed at him. You sure? Light hide like yours shows up plain as day in the black sand out there.

I know. I supposedly look just like my grandfather. Which, of course, is part of why I got the name I did, because my mother hated her father. Whole rest of my family was a much more appropriate color, way darker than you. But you know what? I don't care if I look like a ghost. I still like my skin.

I do, too. Think it would make a great canvas. I grinned as I returned my attention to the array of picks before me.

He watched me for a while, with the sort of horrified fascination one feels when seeing something truly unpleasant, then disappeared back into the depths of the cave. He stayed gone for hours, and returned with the most amazing thing imaginable: food. He'd found mushrooms and some peculiar little white fish with milky blind eyes.

You're amazing, I told him, working steadily on a curving line of dots that arched over my eyebrow.

Nah, he disagreed, magically fashioning a cookpot out of something that had been part of a waster's leather jacket and some string. I'm just a desert rat. Been living here my whole life, be a pretty sorry state of affairs if I couldn't find food by now.

He set up the newborn stewpot over the fire, using the largest sticks left from the night before to support it, and filled it with water. He disappeared again, this time out the front of the cave, and came back shortly with a double armful of wood. I resolved to stick with this man as long as he'd let me.

Grief tossed the mushrooms in the pot, then cleaned the little fishies and tossed their meat in there as well. Then he looked at me, winced as he spotted a few drops of blood where the needle had pierced too deeply.

It's midday. I'm going to go lay down. Have fun torturing yourself.

Then he found a shady spot against the cool cave wall and laid down, with his pack for a pillow.

Reavers

After I'd made good progress on my tattoo, covering my entire forehead, Grief woke with a stretch and a yawn. Then he slid into some kind of stretching, warm-up exercise that was a thing of pure beauty to watch. I glanced outside, where the light faded away by the moment, and tucked my tattoo picks away in favor of watching the art in motion before me.

He ended his series of movements facing me and caught me watching him.

Teach me how to fight like you do.

That prompted a sober look. You don't want to do that. You'd be marked for life.

I grinned. I'm already marked for life.

Not like that. He bent down and prodded the center of my new tattoo and I yelped, swatting his hand away.

Ow! Stop that. My head's full of holes.

Clearly, he laughed at me. But I mean it. You'd be marked like me, and hunted, as a member of the Clans, because we only teach our own.

Pretend I'm just an ignorant herder from the high mountains that knows nothing about life down here in this black sand torture pit, I suggested.

Herder? What do you herd?

Nothing, now. My family herds mouff.

What's a mouff?

My turn to laugh. Aha, something you don't know! It's a woolly little beast, like a sheep, only different. Now tell me about the Clans, and why it's bad to be a member of one.

Long story, he said, looking outside for a long moment. But it's getting on towards time to eat that stew, so it's not like either one of us is going anywhere. Okay.

Grief settled on the ground, back against the wall. I shifted around so I could see him, stretching to ease a cramp in my back as I did so, filled with curiosity.

The Clans. . . um. Where to start? It doesn't really matter that much anymore. He rubbed at his forehead for a moment, like he had a headache. The Clans used to control the entire desert. We—my people, Clan Nighthorse—well, we controlled the rest of the Clans. So we pretty much ran the entire desert. And, well, the outside world has—had—a different name for us. Not Nighthorse, not even 'the Clans.' No, the rest of the world called us Reavers.

I felt a deep chill at the word. Reavers. A name to conjure images of horror in any mind, no matter how naive. Horror stories about the vicious, inhuman Reavers had penetrated even the mountain communities where I'd grown up. I closed my eyes and wrestled the surge of superstitious fear under control. Clearly, the man in front of me was not clad in the skins of fallen enemies, nor had he eaten a baby for breakfast. True, there were no babies available, but even had there been a dozen of them, Grief would not have eaten one. Reavers. I stood up. He watched me warily. I took the two steps to where he sat and reached for his arm. Come on, then, let's have a look at you.

I hauled him to his feet, feeling his cautious amusement through the contact on his arm. It reminded me of last night, when I knew where he would be without looking, only much clearer, and with an intense feeling of rightness, as though Grief was indeed some previously unmissed part of myself. Touching him felt. . . Huh. Hard to describe. Felt good, though.

Okay, I said, releasing his arm and walking around him, inspecting him like an animal I wanted to purchase. We've got two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears. One each nose and mouth. Good muscle tone, got the black hair, but such pale skin. . . Not at all the color I've heard described. But overall, you're clearly a human. So where are you hiding them?

Grief quirked an expressive eyebrow. Hiding what?

The horns, the forked tongue, and the whippy tail with the spade-shaped tip, of course!

For a long moment, he stared at me, and I felt a tiny twinge of worry. What in blazes did I think I was doing, anyway, teasing a bloody Reaver?

Then his mouth twitched, and he snorted, then he burst into a howl of laughter. Grief laughed so hard he all but knocked himself off his feet, landing on the cave floor with a thump and holding his stomach. I grinned at him, snickering a bit myself as I returned to my seat on the floor in a more controlled fashion.

Arriba, he gasped finally, visibly bringing himself back under control, what on Earth am I going to do with you?

You're going to finish telling me your story, then you're going to teach me to fight like you do.

He humphed. We'll see about that, you and your soul filled with art. You shouldn't be a fighter. Besides, you may not want anything to do with me, when you know. I'm a hunted man these days.

So? I prompted. Tell me.

Fine. So. Clan Nighthorse was the strongest, and the nastiest, of the Clans, which is how we remained on top. I'll tell you right now I had more than a few differences with how my father the Warlord and my elder brother ran things. In fact, I wanted to leave almost as long as I can remember. I'd. . . well, I had that problem with the Mannites, right before something happened. I don't even know what it was, just that something happened that finally tipped the balance and the outsiders, the wastelanders, banded together and destroyed us all. They struck at us the one time a year when we were all in the same place, the big winter gathering, and they came in such numbers that we had no chance. I was. . . away when they arrived, so I escaped. I came back, thinking I'd. . . never mind. They were there, though, shooting their guns. No one else made it. They all, even the young kids and pregnant mothers, tried to fight, but I ran. Nothing to be proud of, I admit, but I had been planning on running for years already, so I turned my back on my heritage and saved my skin. But now the wasters hunt me whenever I'm in the black sands, and I know little of the rest of the world. So I dodge wasters and try to scrape out a living somehow. Can't trade much anymore, most of the border folk will turn on me in a heartbeat. Everyone hates the Reavers. But I know the desert well. It's been nearly five years since the Clans were destroyed, and you're the first person that's not tried to kill me or betray me since then.

Grief stopped talking, wearing a bemused look. Sorry, he said, after a pause. Didn't really mean to let all that out.

No worries, I said. I scooted closer to him, close enough to reach out and grasp his hand. I'll stand with you, Grief of Clan Nighthorse, come hell or high water. Whatever happens, I will never betray you, or give you cause to regret joining up with me.

Thanks, he said. You sure you won't mind being taken into a dead Clan, becoming the only other Nighthorse? Because we only teach our own, you see. No outsiders know our martial arts.

Me, an adopted Reaver? Huh. I'd be honored.

Fine, then. A slow smile spread across his face, lighting his eyes. Nice. I like you well enough to keep you around. Now. Let's do something a bit weird. I have a theory to test.

He stood up, and I followed. What's your theory?

Based on how well we worked together fighting the wasters, and something else, I think you have a bit of Clan blood in you. So really, if I'm right, you're not an outsider at all. Stand here, close your eyes, and relax, okay? And don't let me touch you.

Weird, indeed. I stood, eyes closed, and let my ears do my seeing for me. I could feel him again as he circled around me. That heightened awareness of him allowed me to block each of his attempts to get through my guard. That is, until he came at me with a full-speed attack, instead of the slower movements he'd been using. Then he actually brushed me with his fingertips before I knocked his hand away.

Enough! Grief stepped away as I opened his eyes. He wore a delighted smile. I knew it! You've got it.

Got what?

"The extra sense. The echo. It sets us apart from the rest of the world. You are part Clan. There's no way you could have done that without the echo! I'd thought I felt it, but it might have been just wishful thinking. Now we know."

Reaver by blood. I felt a momentary horror, then dismissed it as foolish. I was no more monster than this man before me.

Really. If anyone in my family knew that, they never bothered sharing with the rest of us.

Not surprising. Somehow, the entire rest of the world hates the Clans.

Why is that, anyway? Are we mutants, or what? I sank back down into my semi-cool shade patch. We were near the cave mouth, for what remained of the light, and the heat still pouring in from outside made movement uncomfortable. All I know about Reavers is rumor and bad reputation, other than what you just told me. Which isn't much.

Well, some of the rumors are true, Grief shrugged. Simple as that. Some we even spread on purpose, to keep the curious out. People fear what they don't understand, and all of us Clanfolk encouraged that. Best to be feared in this harsh world of ours. And the Clans are downright nasty warriors. Were. Now the Clans consist of you and I. We used to trade, as well, and lots of merchants disliked making deals with us because we were good at it. So combine top-notch fighting skills, smart traders, and fierce territorial control, and you get a group of people no one likes. Plus some of the Clans liked to go out raiding and just take whatever they wanted from outsiders.

Good recipe for dislike.

"Indeed. Now as for the other, we don't use the word mutant. But that's pretty much what we are. We just say different. The echo, the physical similarities, the other weirdnesses, like the fact that Clan men don't grow beards. . . Grief shrugged, then stood and stretched. Mutant or no, I need to check that stew. Bet it's done. Feel up to getting us more water, or have all those holes let your brains leak out?"

I swatted at his leg. He blocked it effortlessly and laughed. Where's the waterskin? And better yet, where's the spring?

Oh, damn. That's right, forgot I didn't show you. Fine. Hang on a minute.

Grief bent over the cookpot, sniffing at it and stirring with a stick. Then he nodded and straightened. Come on, it's back here.

The water seeped from a tiny leak in the wall that trickled down and caught in a rough place in the rock, before spilling out in a tiny waterfall that disappeared into the floor. It was so far back that I had no idea how he'd found it in the dark. I'd always had excellent night vision, but this pushed it even for me.

How in hell did you find this? I asked, patiently holding the water skin to the trickle of water.

Smelled it, more than anything, he replied. I could barely make out his shape as he leaned up against the rock wall.

You're a very impressive person, Grief of Clan Nighthorse, I said. I saw his teeth glint as he smiled.

Thanks. Too bad you're the only one who thinks so.

Huh. I checked the water level in the skin. Still a long way to go.

I'm heading back to the fire. You'll make it back?

Yeah, yeah, get out of here. I waved him off, then settled in to the long wait for the skin to fill.

The Dream

I have a plan, Grief said, blocking my attack with ease. I watched how he did it closely, absorbing every detail of his movement with such focus the words nearly didn't make sense.

What's your plan? I asked belatedly, trying out a strike I'd learned from him. He blocked it. Damn.

I want a core.

I dodged a flurry of new strikes, soaking up how he moved like a sponge. Then I tried it myself. What's a core?

That got to him as my hands did not. He stopped and blinked at me, looking almost childlike in his sudden confusion. What do you mean, what's a core? You know, the heart of a city.

No, I don't know, I replied, wiping sweat off my face and breathing heavily. Grief looked comfortable enough, in his billowy loose garments made of that curious fabric he called bagsilk, but I felt nearly boiled alive in my leather pants. Even without my shirt on, the heat was intense. I've never been to a city. What's a core?

You're serious. Grief shook his head, then resumed the attack. A core powers a city. Lights, water, the whole deal. No one knows how they work, but they do. It's just like the old days.

Block, block, strike, swear. Damn. I rubbed my ribs. That one hurt. I need a break, starting to lose focus. Tell me more about your plan.

Inside, Grief replied, after shading his eyes to squint up at the sun, a bright spot barely visible in the clouds. We've been out too long.

I could've told you that. I'm so hot, if I could take my skin off to cool down, I would.

The heartless creature laughed at me and patted my bare shoulder as we moved deeper into the cave. All the more reason to take a core. The ancient cooling systems still work.

So what would you do with such a thing, if you succeeded in getting a core?

Start over, he said, then picked up the precious water skin and had a drink. He offered it to me, then sat in his preferred spot against the wall while I drank.

I splashed some of the water over my overheated torso and face, fanning myself. I'm almost afraid to ask, but I'll do it anyway. What do you mean, start over?

I sat opposite him, then judged the distance between us and changed my mind. No need for shouting. I moved to his side of the cave, aware of his amused gaze upon me, and settled against the cool wall near him.

I mean just that. We need to start over. This world we live in can not go on this way forever. Somebody needs to take charge, make some effort to rebuild.

I should have asked a different question, I grumbled. So. Tell me first what's wrong with the world, then tell me what your plan is for starting over.

Grief gave me a sardonic look. Poor, sheltered mouff herder. He shook his head, then sighed. Why are you out on your own?

I blinked at the abrupt subject change. I got run out of my home. Happens fairly often to guys about my age. We get old enough to start fretting at the restrictions, start wondering about the wide world outside the high and low pastures, maybe question an elder or two—next thing you know, someone's running us off with only the clothes on our backs. Me, I got in trouble for talking to someone's daughter. Got chased out of the home village by old Tightass and his really big gun.

Okay, so that was somewhat less than half the truth. But I didn't feel like going into the rebellious streak that had gotten me in trouble for years before I finally took off, two steps ahead of a pissed off father. Perhaps it'd been my Reaver blood pushing me to be a rebel all along. Huh.

Sounds like the way a king stallion manages his herd. Young studs get old enough to start sniffing mares, they get chased off to form herds of their own. Okay. So, you were sent off into the world young and utterly unprepared, knowing nothing but mouff. Do you think that's right?

Never thought about it, I confessed. It's just the way things are.

There! Grief pounced on what I'd said. "That's part of the attitude I'm looking to change. You accept the way things are because that's the way they've always been, right? Because you can't conceive of a different way of life. I don't know how long you've been out on your own, or how many people you've seen, but most of the world lives in abject misery and poverty, in unspeakably harsh conditions."

Part of me noticed that when Grief got worked up, he started using some really fancy words. Rather than dwelling on how dumb I suddenly felt, I set my mind to filtering out the sense of what he meant, because I could feel him heading towards something important.

"I've seen things outside the black sands that would turn that crazy red hair of yours white. The cities are out there, pristine and secure, but run by utter scum who ignore the outside world and even exploit the miserable suckers every chance they get. Children die from starvation and illness all the time. Women don't dare step more than twenty paces from their homes without an escort for fear of murder and rape. Disease. . . You wouldn't believe, since you come from a nice nomadic background up in the mostly clean mountains, the pits of diseased hell that are out there, just because nobody bothers to keep the water supply clean. People try to farm, they regularly get raided and lose most of their harvest. There are no laws, none at all. The only thing close to a law is the code of survival, a cross between two ancient concepts: do unto others, and an eye for an eye. Men do whatever they want. Women hide, for the most part. I met one woman who chose to ride the world as a trader, and she was harder than an iron nail. That woman scared me. Her eyes were dead, like she'd seen too many terrible things. And the children. . ."

He trailed off then, eyes squinched shut to shut out the sight of some horrible memory.

I reached out and laid a hand on his thigh, squeezing sympathetically. Let's skip the part about the children, okay?

He opened his eyes, surprised, then gave me a tiny smile. "Right. The fact is, life doesn't have to be this way. We exist like animals, picking a living from the bones of the old world. Not one person knows why the wars were fought, or even when, exactly. But it's been nearly four hundred years, give or take a few decades. Isn't it time for humanity to pick itself up and become civilized again? Maybe we'll never fully understand the power of the atom, but we still have access to the cores that do understand. Not on a conscious level, clearly, but on a purely mechanical level, the cores harness nuclear energy and will continue to do so for thousands of years. So we should take one and use it for a firm, solid base to build upon. I've met modern artificers that know how to work with steam and chemicals to produce amazing results. If we offer them a safe and secure place, with a steady power source, who knows what they will come up with next? And a core comes with a city attached, a walled safe place to grow food and raise families. We could find smart people, attract them to us with that very same safety and reliable power, and have them teach our children so the next generation need not wallow in ignorance. The cities are there. The cores are there. Even the knowledge is there, hoarded by the single University left in the world. And it is all being wasted by fools that think only of their own good. We would not waste anything. We, you and I, could remake this world into a place of safety and prosperity! Can you see it? Can you feel the dream?"

Yes! I leapt to my feet, excited. I had to move. I paced back and forth in the cool shady cave. I can see your Dream! You want clean food, and clean water, and safety for the children, am I right? A world where nobody has to make the Choice.

I saw his blank look and stilled, suddenly sobered. The Choice of death, that others may survive, I said quietly.

Grief didn't quite flinch. Rather, it was more like he briefly clenched in on himself. Yes.

I could see it now, a glorious, beautiful world, sprung from the ashes of the old. I'd never seen a city, but one formed now in my mind's eye, a place of shining high white walls and clean, smiling people, who moved through their lives of ease and safety singing with joy and creating beauty as they moved. I laughed aloud at the fancies of my mind and threw my arms wide. Where do we start? I'm with you all the way, my friend!

It'll be hard, he cautioned. This world knows nothing but violence. We will have to build the dream upon a base of bloodshed, because the only way to survive is to be meaner and nastier than the other guys.

I can see that, I nodded, flopping back down on the ground. There's no way somebody's going to give up their nice comfy city because you bat your eyelashes at 'em and say please.

Grief snorted. Right. And doubtless, we'll have to continue the Clan tradition, and train up the nastiest batch of warriors around to hold our city safe. You, now, you'll be easy, much though it disturbs me to teach an artist the arts of death. With your Clan blood, it's more like I'm reminding you than teaching you. But others. . . well, it'll be work.

I'm up for it, I said, grinning. Let's get to it.

Not so fast, Ari, Grief laughed and held up a hand in a slow down gesture. Easy there, big guy. We need to finish your training first. And I think you need to learn more about this world as it now stands.

Okay, teacher. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Get busy. Teach me.

Grief chuckled again, then yawned and stretched. Nope. You know what I always do midday.

Sleep, I humphed, pretending annoyance. Fine, then. Be that way. I'll just finish my tattoo. It's almost done, after all.

You do that. Personally, I can't see how you tolerate sticking a blasted needle into yourself over and over again. Doesn't it hurt?

Only for a couple minutes, I shrugged. Then it goes numb. Have a good rest.

I got up and sought out my tattoo equipment. Only my chin and jawbones left now to complete the design.

Hours later, I surveyed the result of my labors in Grief's precious mirror. My own eyes looked back at me through a mask of artwork. I could detect a few errors here and there, where my hand wobbled or a line curved a bit oddly, but overall, I felt a great sense of pride. At last, my own, complete tattoo! I'd only wanted one since, oh, about my fourth summer. I tucked the tools away with a great sense of accomplishment and glanced at the sky outside. Still about two hours before sunset and cooler weather. Now that I didn't need the light of day anymore, sullen though it often was, time to set myself to Grief's odd schedule. Adopting his desert-dweller ways might make this black sand pit more bearable. I stored the tools and the mirror safely and laid down quietly, near Grief.

Laying there, trying to sleep in the midday heat, I wondered about my companion and my own weird response to him. How had he picked up all that knowledge of the outside world, when he'd claimed to stay here in the black sands his whole life? Huh. Hearing him talk about his Dream had lit an answering fire in me. I'd been out and about for a while, traveled around this poor, broken world to see what it had to offer, before getting a case of insanity and deciding to go see the desert. Stupid! But. . . I'm glad I came here. How else would I have met Grief?

I found myself wishing for nighttime. I'd be able to tuck myself up against his back again, to share warmth. This new sense, this echo, was completely addictive. It just plain felt good. The more time we spent together, the better it got. I could feel his emotions now, just in general, without even needing to touch him. But it got so much better with physical contact.

See what I mean about the weird response? Whole new world for me. I won't even mention the dreams I'd been having.

Well. . . Okay, so I will. They'd started our second night together. Grief had gone out, hunting small desert creatures, and I'd stayed at the cave, thoroughly adapted to sleeping at night. I dreamed that he came back. Or rather, he just appeared, right in front of me, in the kind of strange lighting you only find in dreams. He looked at me, smiling, then he kissed me.

It ended there. I'd die rather than admit it out loud, but I knew nothing about the ways of man and woman, and even less about the ways of man and man. In fact, I'd never even found anybody I wanted to kiss before, so it was a bit of a surprise that I'd dream such a thing about Grief, but there it was. When he returned after his hunt that night, I woke enough to watch him by the light of the small fire. Orange glimmers danced across his light skin, waking glints in his eyes, playing with shadows on his odd garments. So this was who I'd decided to find attractive. I already knew being around him felt good. So did touching him. But. . . Some instinct told me I'd better not just jump right in and tell him so. I'd never met someone so intensely private and, well, cautious in my entire life. What if I offended him? Maybe his people didn't accept relationships like that between men. The dead gods knew there were plenty of intolerant people in the world, what if he was one of them?

He'd dug into his pack and come up with a comb, then unbound his hair. I found myself watching, utterly fascinated, as he pulled his hair over his shoulder and started combing it out, one long, slow stroke at a time. I fell back into dreams watching that long, shiny hair, wondering what it would feel like in my hands.

Needless to say, I didn't get the chance to play with his hair at all. I just got to look at it, and think of it. Kind of like I am right now, in fact.

Eventually, I managed to fall asleep, still haunted by thoughts of Grief.

Hidden

Is it time, then? I asked, surveying the meager pile of our supplies.

Not quite yet, Grief said, giving his pack a final pat. He stood, brushing his hands off. One more aspect of your training we need to take care of before we go out into the world.

Okay, what is it?

Grief pulled his shirt over his head and started folding it flat. He was too thin. We both needed to eat more.

Which, of course, was part of why we were leaving our little sanctuary.

You need to learn how to control the echo, Grief said. It looked like the shirt was shaping into a blindfold. Here, alone, it hasn't mattered so much, because there's not much going on. Out there, though, life can get interesting, and sometimes a distraction can be fatal.

He tied his shirt over my eyes. It smelled like him. I smiled.

What are you smiling about?

Just thinking about the contrast of your pale hide against the black sands.

Huh. So. I'm sure you noticed the echo isn't only present when we're touching or fighting, right?

Yeah. Very helpful to know you really do have emotions in there.

Knock it off, smartass, this is for real. But I could feel a flicker of amusement all the same. You don't need me hanging around in your head all the time, and I certainly don't want you knowing everything that goes on in mine. So. Here's a nice demonstration.

He stepped back and disappeared.

Grief? I said, unable to stop my hand from reaching out to his last known location. He wasn't there. Where'd you go?

Then I heard a slight rustle and turned my blind eyes towards him.

Right here, he said, and touched my arm. The brief contact was muted, but I could still feel a faint amusement, and something else. What it was, I couldn't say, but something lurked deep under the surface, as happened so often with this man. Now you need to learn how to do that.

Why? I promise, I won't spy on you! Just come back!

The comic desperation I pretended was half real. I hadn't realized how comfortable I'd gotten with our closeness, how much I'd grown to depend on that previously unused little sense that told me right where Grief was and what he felt.

He laughed, as he was supposed to. This is what it is to be Clan, one of the best reasons normal humans have for disliking us. We've learned over the years to keep the echo hidden as much as possible. It causes fewer problems when people aren't scared of you for more than two or three reasons.

I snorted. Fine, then, show me and let's get it over with. I don't like this one bit, but if you say it's necessary, I'll do it.

Suddenly I could feel him again, just a little bit. I sighed and some of the tension eased out of my back.

I need you to learn what's me, what's you, how to distinguish between the two, and how to control what you let in or out. I know you already do, to some extent, but it's a pretty crude level of control, pure instinct. This needs to be conscious.

I set myself to learning what he had to teach willingly at that point. His words tickled at my mind and pointed out that I really didn't want him knowing about the dreams. At least not until I knew better how he'd react.

And in the course of the lesson, I decided I was right to be so cautious. I felt an awful lot of him as we worked on this control thing, and none of it felt like anything more than friendship. Well, damn. Better watch myself.

I'd rather watch him, though.

Night On the Town

And here we are at last, Ari, Grief said, gesturing expansively at the squallid mass of humanity before us. It's our first night on the town.

Is that what you call this place? I asked, picking a bit of black grit from between my teeth. Damned sand got everywhere. Looks more like a pile of adobe huts and dirty scroungers to me.

I'd have to agree with that assessment, Grief grinned. But you see, this is what passes for a town out here on the edge of the desert.

If you say so.

I say so. Be prepared, they really hate Clanfolk around here.

I followed Grief into the town, alert. Despite my comments, I was glad to finally get here. Towns and cities came with food. And by food, I don't mean cacti and scrawny little desert creatures. Grief wanted me to see the way people lived in the rest of the world, outside the nameless mountain range I'd grown up in, where life was hard but manageable. The wars hadn't scarred the mountains like they had the plains. Or, come to think of it, the rest of the world in general. I'd heard wild tales from travelers of massive craters covering the entire eastern portion of the world, and a huge chunk of land in the west that had broken completely off the world and drifted away into the sea. But to get to that, you had to somehow get around the vast, hellish crater and lava flow from the massive volcano that erupted from the stresses of too many planet-killing bombs dropping nearby. Anyway, my life had been relatively easy, and now I needed to see the reality of the lives of others. Or so Grief said. I'd never actually told him of my travels, because I'd stuck mainly to the mountains and had a bit of a detour to see the sea. Not much exposure to the real world at all.

The town consisted of about twenty adobe buildings, made of what looked like a combination of the black sand and the charcoal-grey earth skirting the edge of the desert. They were short and round, fat domes squatting on the edge of the desert with gaping mouths for entrances and smoke holes in their heads. Grief headed towards the largest of them. The setting sun turned the clouds a vivid red-orange, lending the buildings a bit of magic. The few people I could see watched us warily. One mother in particular struck my eye: she looked at Grief, striding tall and proud in his bagsilk garments with his Clan heritage plain to see, gasped, and grabbed her child close to her. I moved closer to Grief, an instinctive response. The mother merely acted out what the other people felt. Tension built in the air until my shoulder blades itched.

Then we reached the large adobe structure, and Grief led me inside. Immediately, a burly fellow stepped up and blocked our progress. Behind him I could see a bar, of sorts. Nothing at all like the one at the Fair, of course, but recognizable enough.

We don't serve your kind in here, the big man growled. You know that.

So began the test.

Truce, Grief said mildly, holding his hands up. We're unarmed.

Not strictly true, of course. I had my hand cannon, tucked safely into my pack, and Grief had ensured that neither of us ever needed to fear an unarmed conflict. Hell, he'd made me into a weapon, hands, feet, mind.

Since when does that matter to scum like you?

I felt a spike of anger from Grief, but no reaction showed on his face. Easy now, Pella, he said, calm and cool. Have I ever wronged you? Or do you just like picking on me because now there's no one left to back me up?

The man, Pella, shuffled awkwardly. You're a Reaver.

The Reavers are dead, Grief said quietly, then cleared his throat and repeated the words, louder. The Reavers are dead. All that's left of an entire civilization, hated though it was, stands before you now. Are you going to hold the sins of our fathers against us? Me, the only survivor of the massacre, and my companion, who grew up thinking himself a simple herder and unaware of his heritage?

C'mon, now, kid, Pella grumbled. Stop making it sound like we're the bad guys.

In my eyes, you are, I spoke up, glaring around the room. Has this man given any of you reason to dislike him? Personally, I mean. Not because of his bloodlines.

The uncomfortable looks spread around the room, and Pella stepped back a pace.

No, a new voice admitted. It came from the man behind the bar. Personally, he never did us no wrong. But see, there's a little matter of the bounty on his head. It's gone up near double since the last time he came round.

I twitched, more reaction than Grief showed.

Do you really think you'll collect that bounty, Elgar? If so, come and get your paycheck. Otherwise, let it slide. My money's as good as anyone else's. We're just here to have a drink and buy some supplies. Then we're leaving the desert for good.

One night. Yet another new voice spoke up, this one from a man at the bar. That's my judgment in this matter. The Reaver, and whoever you are, redhead, can stay for one night, but you have to honor your word and never come back. No one will attempt to collect the bounty. We'll not even make a go at this new Reaver friend of yours. Never knew you lot came with red hair, but no kind of fool would make a false claim to Reaver blood.

Grief nodded at the man. Many thanks, Mayor, he said, and I knew him well enough by now to hear the irony in his voice. I give you my word. One night, the purchase of supplies, then we're gone. I have no intention of returning to the black sands ever again.

Grief stepped into the bar and I followed. He sought an empty table in the crowded room, and one hastily emptied. I fought not to smile at the ludicrous haste of the men as they vacated their seats.

After we'd taken our seats, a serving girl showed up out of nowhere with a wet cloth. I say wet because it was that much for sure, where clean was not such a good word to describe the thing. She used it to wipe our table down quickly, mopping up a bit of spilled beer and giving the table at least the appearance of cleanliness.

What'll you have tonight, boys? she said, smiling at me. Huh. Maybe it was the tattoo.

Two beers, whatever food you've got cooking, and someone willing to trade, Grief responded, but the girl smiled at me as though I'd been the one speaking.

You've got it. I'll send for the outland trader. Came to town yesterday, he don't drink, but he also don't know to hate Reavers.

Thanks, I said, with a polite smile. The girl walked off towards the bar with an extra sway to her hips.

Going to have her tonight?

Huh? I looked at Grief quickly, wondering at the sharp tone.

Looks like you've got her already. Looks like you won't be sleeping alone.

Whatever. Not my type, I said, to skirt the issue and avoid revealing that I'd never had a girl before, nor was I likely to any time soon. I'd been ejected from my home before getting married, and where I came from, marriage was about the only sure way to get near a woman other than your mother or sister. I mean, just talking to a girl had gotten me run off by a man with a big gun. I can hardly imagine what would happen for anything else.

The beers arrived first, followed in short order by plates of surprisingly tasty stew, then the trader. I saw him enter, despite the smoky dim light of torches, and stared as he came into the bar. He deserved a second look. And a third.

He wore leathers, but far more elaborate than mine, with pockets and clips and loops and shiny brass fasteners. He wore a close-fitting leather skullcap, and some kind of protective eyewear that looked like insect eyes.

Beside me, Grief tensed and sat straighter, spoon poised halfway to his mouth. An artificer, he breathed, barely audible.

What's an artificer?

Someone we need. Badly. Artificers know all there is to know about technology.

How do you know that's what he is?

They're the only ones ever look quite that weird. It's like a trademark or something.

The artificer/trader approached us with none of the caution of the townsfolk. I sipped my beer quickly, then Grief introduced us as I wiped a bit of foam from my mouth.

Hullo, the trader said, shaking our hands. I'm Aurelien. Mind telling me how you managed to scare the shit out of all these people?

Grief laughed. Easy, friend. They don't like our ancestry.

Huh. Well, I assume that's a local thing?

Somewhat, Grief acknowledged.

"No worries, then. I'm