Stopwatch Stories Omnibus: Stopwatch Stories

By M Todd Gallowglas

In 2016, M. Todd Gallowglas challenged himself to write a flash fiction story every day, calling these efforts Stopwatch Stories. This volume represents that journey. Contained within are the 365 flash fiction stories written for that challenge, along with four extra stories, including the first of what Gallowglas calls his "Evolutions."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bard's Cloak of Tales
• Release date: Nov 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386565758

Book preview

FORWARD

By Christopher J. Garcia

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M. Todd Gallowglas. The name itself is one of those that rings of prose brilliance. His works dig into what the characters in fantastical tales would themselves consider the fantastic, and every time I sit down to read, well, I know I ain’t gettin’ up ‘til I done finished.

Which is why I, and the locations where I do most of my reading, appreciate Stopwatch Stories. Tiny tales of terror, of joy, of worlds unseen, of worlds unknown, of worlds unbelievable. These stories aren’t just quick; they’re sudden. They grab with an iron hand wrapped in a velvet glove. They play with plot and character in a way that most novels can’t manage, and at the same time, they allow the reader to complete the circuit.

Stopwatch Stories do some hard work. It is not simply that writing short is harder than writing long; it’s that writing short means you need to know how to drive an audience to the edge of the woods, then make sure they know how to get home. A 250-ish word story (some are longer, some are much, much shorter) is seldom able to evoke much more than a single image, a single character, a single concept. A great writer can make ‘em sing, but what we get from Gallowglas is an invitation to the doorway of a house he has constructed. There is more, much much more to be found, and he gives us everything we need to explore new universes, but at the same time, he trusts that we are able to ride the experience and then explore that space ourselves.

So, enjoy these works not merely as appetizers, or even as desserts, but as the entrée for whole meals, masterfully prepared, given to us in the tightest form possible. You will not leave hungry.

INTRODUCTION

This book represents a year’s worth of writing. In 2016, I challenged myself to write a flash fiction story every day. I collected these efforts in monthly volumes, and in a brain storming session with my friends, David, Cody, and Jenni, we came up with the title of Stopwatch Stories. I think that descriptor fits these stories perfectly. When I first came up with the idea, I thought of a bunch of different rules to apply when I was writing them, but tossed that idea pretty quickly. The idea here was to experiment, go crazy, see where my imagination would go if I didn’t have to apply it to something more than a couple hundred words, at most.

As I put this omnibus together, I have come to realize, this is the most essentially Michael Todd Gallowglas book I’ve done. This book represents the things I love, the things I hate, my core beliefs, my fears, my dreams, and even a great deal of my insecurities. It’s a snapshot of my journey through 2016, including thoughts on the craziest election of my life so far and the plethora of celebrity deaths. Many of those hit especially hard. In writing about those, I did my best to handle them with reverence and respect. The day David Bowie died, I didn’t feel like writing at all. My wife suggested I write my flash fiction piece that day to honor him, and so The Goblin King Is Dead was born. I’ve read that story dozens of times, and even without saying who it’s for, people know. I’m sure some folks out there will have some issues with some of the stories, those that touch on celebrities that passed, my sense of politics, or just some of my choices of language and subject matter. All I can say, is that’s what I had when I sat down to write on that particular day.

Many of the stories explore similar themes, plots, characters, structures, etc. I can only do so much originality with 365 stories. Some of it does get a little weird at times. You can thank grad school for that. I started feeling a lot safer playing around with voice, structure, and themes when I was working in so small a medium. Some of the experimentation paid off. Other time... not so much. But then, I think too often artists, especially writers, are too timid because they are afraid of failing.

But now, I’m rambling.

Welcome to my grand experiment. I hope you find something of value somewhere in these 365 stories.

Without further ado, the stories.

STOPWATCH STORIES

VOL 1

For Howard Tayler

Thanks for inspiring me to be an everyday workhorse.

FORESIGHT

Dibs.

Dibs.

Dibs.

Zormaxqal waited patiently, biding his time. He hadn’t been part of the choosing before, but he had watched. He had watched closely, and he had learned. He also had a better understanding of humanity in its current state, and better yet, what kind of person could truly become a destroyer of hopes and dreams.

The flames illuminated the likenesses of humans who might either be easily corruptible or, if not, could still cause massive havoc if corrupted.

Dibs.

Some, those who had shown themselves capable, could claim more than one soul. Zormaxqal was not one of them. He had one chance, one soul, to prove he was capable.

Dibs.

And so Zormaxqal waited. And waited. And waited.

Dibs.

The rest of the gathered host hesitated, not knowing quite what to make of the human presented in the flames. Zormaxqal knew. He knew very well. And so he called...

Dibs.

The rest of the gathered host did not know what to make of his wide grin.

When the choosing ended, Zormaxqal ascended and began digging his claws into his human’s spirit. Slowly at first, little whispers here and there, nudging the fate of the network that employed his human. With the help of Zormaxqal’s cunning, the human rose in power and influence.

England has this show that’s doing well, Zormaxqal suggested. But call it American Idol.

Then, with the power that suggestion brought, time to shatter more hopes and dreams, Cancel Firefly.

A few years later, Hire that Hannity guy.

By the time Zormaxqal’s human died, Zormaxqal was a hero of the denizens below. The dark powers gave Zormaxqal first pick of any two humans at his next choosing.

Michael Bay... and... Donald Trump.

TRUTH AND LEGEND

LEGEND:

And Mathaeus the Cunning strode forth.

Long before he earned the name of Cunning,

Shame burning his cheeks and ears still ringing with

His father’s sharp words. Weak-hearted one!

Again and again, Father’s voice echoed within his mind,

Somehow, some way, Mathaeus would earn his father’s respect.

As his sister called behind him, urging him to return home,

Mathaeus spied a strange creature

In the field beyond the village.

He watched, and watched, and hushed his sister, as he yet still

Watched the strange creature, and then decided...

Ignoring his sister’s calls, Mathaeus stalked toward the creature,

The horse,

And each step took him closer to earning the name the Cunning,

And to giving humankind the gift of the horse.

TRUTH:

It’s not fair, Mathaeus said, tears streaking his face. No matter what I do, Father only sees me as a runt, the smallest and weakest of all my brothers.

Maybe you should stop trying to be like them, Kaelani said. You can’t match up to them. You’ll never earn his respect that way.

Then what do I do? Mathaeus asked.

Be braver and smarter, Kaelani replied.

But how?

There! She pointed at one of the huge but skittish beasts that lived in the grass plains outside their small village. Ride that.

Mathaeus swallowed. That? Really?

Ever see anyone else ride one?

No.

Exactly, Kaelani said with a wide grin. "You do that, and Father with have to acknowledge the deed."

I...guess... Mathaeus said.

Don’t guess, Kaelani said. Act. Go and make a name for yourself in a way no other hunter in the village would ever dare. The smallest boy riding the largest beast.

Yes! Mathaeus said. I’ll do it. Earn my name. Become a legend.

Mathaeus walked into the plains. Two years, breaking one arm twice, the other once, many cracked ribs, and more bumps and bruises than he could count, Mathaeus rode a horse into the village, and began to earn his name.

CHARRED

After years of war and loyal service to his king, at long last, the Sun Knight rode home, to hang his sword above the mantle and spend the rest of his days with his wife watching their children grow. When he saw smoke rising above the hill, the Sun Knight kicked his horse into a canter. Coming over the last rise, he saw bandits or renegades attacking his estate, setting fire to his manor, and slaughtering his family and servants.

Grief struck the Sun Knight like an icy blade to his heart. He unleashed his battle fury, and while the men attacking his home were many, they could not stand against the prowess of the Sun Knight, save for one. The Sun Knight recognized one of the men, who he had seen time and time again standing as a member of the King’s honor guard.

Go, the Sun Knight said. Go and tell him I am coming.

The man fled, knowing he could not match the Sun Knight in single combat.

The Sun Knight gathered the bodies of his family and vassals and placed them in the manor house. He finished what the attackers had started, and burned the building to the ground. He watched the flames through the night. As dawn came, only smoke rose from the remains. The Sun Knight took his golden tabard and silver armor and rubbed ash and soot all over them, grinding the gray into cloth and armor until they no longer glowed and gleamed.

As the sun set, the Charred Knight rode out, seeking his revenge.

CLOSE CALL

Ignorance is bliss.

Sarah Masterson would never know how lucky she was that she happened to walk into that particular coffee shop on that particular night. On any other night, she might never have made it out the door, or if she had, she certainly would have never made it home. That evening was a microcosmic mirror of the macrocosmic reason that the supernatural world doesn’t run roughshod over the human race.

The vampire being emo at the counter who tightened his fist at the demon in the corner shot a warning glance at the werewolf by the door, who snarled at the banshee lounging on the sofa, who shook its head at the two satanic cultists playing chess, who subtly opened their jackets to show off their stakes to the vampire.

Venti breve latte, hot, Sarah said to sluagh behind the counter.

What’s ‘venti’? the sluagh asked in a harsh whisper.

Oh, uh, Sarah said. Starbucks thing. Means large.

What’s ‘breve’? the sluagh asked, again in a harsh whisper.

Half and half instead of regular milk, Sarah replied with a smile.

Sarah paid, and the sluagh said, Gimme a minute, still whispering harshly.

After a few minutes, because the sluagh wasn’t really used to making coffee, Sarah got her drink and left.

Just enough denizens of the darker side of the world had gone into the coffee shop that wasn’t really a coffee shop to keep all the others from following Sarah. It wouldn’t do to draw that kind of attention to the coffee shop and each other.

Though, if Sarah ever goes back to that coffee shop, and it doesn’t have such a diverse clientele, she might not be so lucky...

SPIRALING DOWN THE BOOK PORTAL

Aurelia wandered through the stacks and shelves of books, stopping every few steps to take in a deep breath through her nose. Nothing pleased Aurelia quite so much as the smell of old books, well except reading old books, well, reading old books alongside a nice cup of tea. Well, the smell was pretty fine.

Aurelia thought she knew about all of the bookstores in her city, but had never heard of this one. As it was, she happened upon The Book Portal by only the craziest of random happenstances. She had been looking for a second hand consignment shop, but her GPS seemed to have goofed up. Well, that search could wait until tomorrow. For now, she had a bookstore to explore, and that particular activity would suffer no time limitation. That task would be complete when it was complete, and no amount of scheduling would change that.

Meandering through the store, which went deeper and deeper into the building than someone other than Aurelia would have thought possible — Aurelia knew better, as she believed firmly and completely that all used bookstores were built at least partially on T.A.R.D.I.S. technology — Aurelia ran her fingers over the spines of leather-bound, hardback, and paperback books, reading the titles as she went, looking for something that caught her fancy. She stopped at one particular title, Scottish Dogs in a Bar, chuckled and moved on. Every so often, other books with titles she’d never heard of caught her eye: The Voices in the Walls, The Child of the Flapping People, The Battle for the Ares Factor.

And then her finger passed over the spine of a book, an ancient looking tome bound in black leather with gold script. Of a Young Lady in a Repetition Loop Within the Book Portal. What an odd coincidence that she would find a book title like that in a place like this. Aurelia pulled the book off the shelf and opened to a page at random, and read a sentence about a third of the page down...

Aurelia pulled the book off the shelf and opened to a page at random, and read a sentence about a third of the page down...

Aurelia pulled the book off the shelf and opened to a page at random, and read a sentence about a third of the page down...

And so Aurelia stood, trapped, reading deeper and deeper into the tome, waiting for someone to come and close the book and release her own story loop.

BLAME IT ON SHANNARA AND MATT DAMON MEMES

Our heroes stood, panting and gasping for breath in the aftermath of the battle. The corpses of elves lay in mangled and dismembered heaps all around them, blood flowing into the dust of the Red Planet. And these were no ordinary elves, which our heroes would have been able to dispatch with but the smallest of efforts, these were the black-skinned, white-haired, scimitar-wielding dervishes of destruction that spelled certain doom for all but the most stalwart of adventurers. Only utilizing a blend of technology and psychic powers had allowed our intrepid band of heroes to survive this skirmish.

What the hell, man? Lortyx called out. This campaign is supposed to be Sword and Planet, not Sword and Planet and Sorcery.

Well, it’s not totally unforeseeable, Marianna replied, patient as always. She was the peacekeeper of their group, both here on the Red Planet and back on Earth. Adjusting for only a few slight variations, their magic wasn’t too far of a stretch beyond some of our psychic talents—

Save it, Lortyx said, reloading his gaux rifle. If that’s the way it’s going to be, we better be prepared for anything.

Before Marianna could interject, Baron Zarmoth of the Skyripper, held up his hand. I understand your perspective, Mari, but Lortyx is completely justified in being upset. We undertook this mission under certain assumptions from our employer, which seems that they were either vastly misinformed to the nature of the Red Planet or we have been bamboozled.

Okay, Lortyx said. "I get it that you like to play in character. And I’m okay with Dave mixing things up a little. But Key-righst, can we have some consistency? This is the third adventure in a row he’s thrown something at us that he’s seen

Well, that’s where he keeps his notes, Marianna replied.

Yeah, I guess, Lortyx said.  I remember my dad telling me that in his day, they did everything on paper. But whatever. Let’s just get ready for whatever Facebook-acid-trip thing Dave is going to come up with next.

That’s when a high-pitched grinding sound came out of nowhere, and, a moment later, a rectangular blue box materialized in front of them.

Noooooooo! Lortyx yelled.

Alright, Dave, Marianna said. That’s a bit much even for you.

CONFIDENCE IN NUMBERS

The Enchanted Forest had several crossroads where, by the laws of story, creatures and heroes met from time to time. They met not by anything so crude or random as chance; rather, they met because the Enchanter who lived at the center of the Enchanted Forest like to arrange for these meetings. His magic afforded him near immortality, and with that came a certain amount of boredom, especially as he couldn’t leave the forest as, outside of its boundaries, his true age would catch up with him and he would die in an instant. So, to alleviate his boredom, the Enchanter would arrange the forest to cause unlikely pairs of beings to meet and he would sit back and observe what followed, usually accompanied by much chuckling on his part.

One particular day, he set the forest in motion to deliver a cat and a dragon to a crossroads at the same moment.

The dragon looked down at the cat. And while, because of the size difference between them, the cat physically looked up at the dragon, its posture, the slight cock of its head, and a well-timed ear twitch made it perfectly clear that intellectually and spiritually, the cat very much looked down on the dragon.

Really? the dragon asked. You’re just a cat.

Indeed, the cat replied.

Isn’t that being a little full of yourself? the dragon asked. Especially considering the differences in our species?

I did indeed consider, the cat replied. You saw my ear twitch?

I did.

That was me considering.

I like you, the dragon said.

This does not surprise me, the cat replied. I am, after all, a cat.

I should very much like to be friends, the dragon said.

The cat’s ear twitched.

I believe we can be good friends.

And with the combined strength of their confidence, the cat and the dragon broke free of the Enchanter’s hold upon them, left the Enchanted Forest at long last, and proceeded to conquer the world.

SQUEAK

Joshua Matthews inhaled the aroma of the twenty-one-year-old single-malt Scotch whiskey. Smokey and sweet all at the same time. The year to the day before that day, he decided that he would drink one snifter from this bottle on this day, every year, until it was gone.

As he enjoyed the aroma, Joshua thought he heard a noise somewhere in the house. Maybe upstairs.

He cocked his head to the side.

Nothing. Probably just the house settling or something.

The Scotch, bottled on the day his son was born, went down smoothly. Drinking it was like licking all the best parts of a campfire, and it left him with the faint aftertaste of coffee, vanilla, and caramel.

During the thirty-minute-long ritual of finishing the snifter, Joshua thought he heard something twice more. Each time he tried to focus on the sound, he couldn’t hear anything.

Once Joshua finished the snifter, he took it to the sink. He’d wash that tomorrow. Today, he just wanted to enjoy the whiskey.

When he reached the stairs, Joshua heard the sound again. Only, this time, he knew what it was. His son’s bed squeaking away with a steady rhythm.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Joshua’s son Steven, who he had purchased the whiskey for exactly one year before, had been dead, exactly one year, to the day.

THE SOLDIERS AND THE EARTH

What the hell is going on, sir? Corporal Lance Carmichael asked. It’s supposed to be crawling with aliens, not people.

No clue, Lieutenant Masterson replied. Kill all links to the ship. Send in plain text: purge all previous files, contamination warning. Scariest thing about the enemy they thought had taken over humanity’s home world was their capability of adding a virus to audio and video data streams. As long as our camo suits are functioning, let’s look around. Break into fire teams. Spread out, gather what intel you can, and rendezvous here at sunset.

And the elite platoon of Marine Space Cavalry, sent by the United Fleets of Humanity in Exile, began to observe the inhabitants of the Earth. The mission had been to assess the difficulty in retaking the planet and possibly setting up for a beach head. Lieutenant Alex Masterson’s platoon represented the absolute best of the M.S.C, if they couldn’t succeed, who knows what fleet command would do?

At sunset, they all confirmed that it was actually humans inhabiting the planet, or, at least, this portion of it. More data needed to be collected.

In the first month, the platoon scouted, observed, and learned that the aliens had gone. More than that, humanity had no wars and very little crime. They’d managed to figure out the alien’s technology, and adapt it for their day-to-day lives.

In the second month, the Lieutenant and the platoon medic discovered that the aliens hadn’t left, they had interbred with the humans the various countries had left behind when their fleets took to the stars.

This is bad, sir, Ivan Ptiotrivich said.

Yeah. Sometimes that’s the only word that will do.

The Fleets will come in here and slaughter everyone.

Yeah.

Masterson went for a walk...a long walk. He turned the situation over and over in his mind. After a few hours, he had a potential solution. It wasn’t a great solution, and required a hard choice, but that’s why he was the officer in charge: to make the hard choices.

Ivan, Masterson said. I think have a solution.

The soldiers gave themselves over to the new Earth government. They brought down the crew of their transport ship, and sent the ship back to the United Fleets, broadcasting dozens of viruses a second across all frequencies and communication wavelengths.

The Fleets might come, but probably not for a long, long while. Even if they did, the soldiers would be waiting with a mix of Fleet and Alien technology to uphold the oath they swore upon joining the M.S.C., to defend the people of the Earth.

THE CTHULHU CELL

One of them is coming around, Tripod said.

Gas them again. We only need a few more minutes. After that, it won’t matter. Always the pragmatist, our leader Bandit. How’s it coming, Slider?

Without looking up from my tablet, I replied, Good. Faster than I thought. Only need two more digits. Less than a few minutes and we’re good to go. You can tell cell two to get things going... iiiiinnnn... I drew the word out until I had the next digit, just to make sure everything would happen just as we needed it too. Sixty.

One minute later, Bandit spoke one word into his satellite phone. Go.

And I went to work getting the last digit of the launch code.

Almost there, I said.

Launch as soon as you have it, Bandit said.

Roger that, I said. Aaaaaannnnd, nuke is on its way.

I didn’t waste any time switching from the launch code hack to getting into the satellite surveillance over the Atlantic. Right now, governments would be scrambling because a nuclear missile was speeding toward a tiny little island in the Atlantic. That’s where cell two was busy performing a ritual of dark sorcery. See, we figured out that the elder gods were coming back someday, whether we liked it or not. So, we decided to pick the time and hit them with something they wouldn’t expect. Cell two all knew what they were getting into. They would be known as heroes. After we nuked dread Cthulhu, cell one (that’s the one I’m in because I’m a coward, and the best hacker we’ve got) would outline how the world governments could take out Haster and all the others.

Didn’t take me long to get the satellite footage streaming from the island. Not long after that, the sea started boiling. Something big rose from the waves. Then, the nuke hit. We all looked away, to save our eyes from the brilliant blast.

Oh shit, Bandit said, then put together a stream of incoherent babble.

I looked at the screen, and just before my mind became tapioca, I managed to grasp how stupid and foolish we’d been. Chthulu filled the monitors...and...he was glowing.

THE GOBLIN KING IS DEAD

For David Bowie

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All across the world, children went to bed a little easier. Most were satisfied with just one story. They didn’t ask for another glass of water or plead for Five more minutes...two more minutes... One more minute... You see, children knew something their parents didn’t, because children were still in touch with the magic of the world, they still listened to the whispers that crawled up from the deep shadows and danced upon the fluttering of the crispest winds.

Children had heard the call during recess, walking home from school, taking care of their chores, and while avoiding doing their homework. Normally, not every child hears every secret that bubbles up from the Hidden World, but something like this...they all hear, one way or another.

And so, the children of the world played a little harder, their food tasted a little better, and bed time was not at all terrifying. Every aspect of their young lives brightened, though not at the cry of, The Goblin King is dead!

Rather...

Because they had not heard the cry that normally followed...

Long live the king!

For the Goblin King had two sons and a daughter, and each of his offspring refused to take the throne, not because they didn’t want it, but because their father was so great a king, so feared, that each believed they could never live up to his legacy, could never steal away as many human children as he had.

Then, the morning after the Goblin King had died, his daughter went to his sons and said, What if we leave the throne vacant for a time, and have a contest to see which one of us should take it.

What kind of contest? both of her brothers asked at the same time.

The contest lasts for a year and a day, she replied. After that, whoever stole the most human children takes the throne. That should ratchet up their fear.

Both of her brothers grinned their wild grins, showing off twin rows of nasty teeth. That plan was just the thing to terrify the children into truly fearing the change in leadership within the Goblin Kingdom.

That night, bedtimes became harder as children wanted two more stories, yet another glass of water, and, Fifteen more minutes...fifteen more minutes...five more minutes. All through the day, they heard a new cry bubbling up from the Hidden World, something they had never heard before. We are coming for you. We...are...coming...

UPGRADE

If you could have your choice of a new magical focus, what would it be? Dad asked. Tome, Wand, or Sword?

Easy, Wade said. Tome all the way. And you might check out the new Merlin’s Tome of Clarity with the crystalline pages and AethyrWeb link upgrades and the fractal quill accessory.

You don’t think small, do you? Dad asked.

I gotta be able to compete, Dad, Wade said. Not just at school, but also on the AethyrWeb. If I don’t have the absolute best, then my grades will suffer and I won’t get into a top academy. ‘These days, a student’s choice of magical foci can affect their entire future’.

Mmhhhmm, Dad replied. "That sounds an awful lot like an ad I keep seeing on the back of Arch Mage Quarterly."

Well, Wade said. "It is ‘The foremost periodical of arcane studies in our reality...or any other’."

And that sounds a lot like the subtitle on the cover of each issue. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the AethyrWeb dueling club you joined? Such a focus certainly couldn’t do anything but enhance your performance, could it?

Wade opened his mouth to reply that such a fringe benefit had never occurred to him, but before Wade could voice any more arguments, Dad raised his hand, showing Wade his palm. Wade knew this was the universal sign fathers used to warn their sons that any further discussion would do more harm than good.

For days and days, Wade wandered through his life as if affected by Zanarath’s Slow as Molasses in Winter spell. Was Dad seriously talking about a magical focus upgrade? Or, more likely, it fell somewhere on the rhetorical question scale. But where on that ephemeral scale did the question fall? Could it be near the I’m asking because I’m considering this end or the I’m asking because all dads are inherently sadists and love to torture their sons with the temptation of unrealistic dreams on the other? Could further discussion affect its placement on the rhetorical scale?

The day before Wade’s next match, a package arrived addressed to Dad. Wade saw it as soon as he came home, and his heart leaped into his throat, cutting off nearly all his breath in his excitement. Dad never had packages delivered to the house. Later, when Dad opened it, Wade’s heart dropped out of his throat and into the pit of ice that had formed in his stomach. It turned out to be the Obsidian Wand of Naming, complete with phoenix feather core and dragon leather grip that Dad had been eying for as long as Wade could remember.

Oh, Dad said over dinner, A package came for you today. It’s in my study. It will go nicely when we compete tomorrow. Since I joined your dueling league and signed us up for doubles tournament, I decided we both needed upgrades. Try and use it for school work, too.

THE ATOMIC BOOKKEEPER

The cart rolled across the plain of dust, wheels squeaking. Buildings rose in the horizon, reaching into the sky like jagged fingers. Tabularius brought up his notepad app to his heads up display, making a reminder to look for oil as well as his normal search for books. He checked his calendar. He hadn’t been this way in over a century, and then he hadn’t been able to make a thorough search of those ruins. People had lived there and they had wanted to steal the books in his cart. By this time, they’d probably all died.

The next day, he rolled the cart through the city, past the first few buildings. He checked his map. The closest library wasn’t far and a little past that had been a gas station.

Stop right there, a voice called out.

Tabularius did as commanded. Not for fear. Rather to assess the situation.

He counted six life forms on nearby rooftops. A quick bio scan showed them as human. They were all armed with railgun rifles. A possible risk.

We’ve heard about you, the voice called. We want what you have.

No, Tabularius said and powered up his weapons. Three well-placed shots would bring the buildings down, eliminating the threat to his cargo.

Why won’t you share the books? the person asked. We might be able to use what you have to make our lives better.

I don’t care, Tabularius said. I’m going. Do not try to stop me.

He took a step. One of the humans fired. The aim was dead on, right in the chest, but the rail gun lacked sufficient power to pierce his metal body and hit his power core. Good thing. The explosion would have destroyed the cart and its cargo.

He fired his three shots. The three buildings came down.

After clearing the rubble and searching the bodies, Tabularius found three books in the spokesman’s satchel. Tabularius took those books and put them in the cart with the others. As he had since the bombs and poisons scorched the Earth, Tabularius kept every book he found safe and out of human hands. After all, humans had possessed all the knowledge in those books and more, and look at what they’d done to their planet.

VILLAINY BY DUTY

For Alan Rickman

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Arcameon lay in his bed, eyes closed, but despite his weariness, he could not sleep. The wasting sickness had wormed its way into his joints and every part of him hurt with a dull ache. Soon, he would suffer spikes of pain here and there as the sickness worsened, claiming more and more of his body as it went.

He heard the door open. He wasn’t expecting a nurse for at least a few more hours, but then, over the last few days, the sickness had begun to play havoc with his sense of time. Someone came in. No. Make that two someones. One large person and one small. Over the years and decades, he’d learned to determine the number of people approaching by their footfalls alone.

That’s him? a youthful voice asked.

Arcameon opened his eyes. He recognized the taller of his visitors. They’d battled enough times that Arcameon would recognize Sir Traesyn even after all these years, despite his muscular frame having deteriorated and his sleek black hair now shot through with gray. The eyes, those pools of such irritating unselfish goodness, gave him away. Traesyn’s companion came as a complete surprise, a little girl of about ten years old.

The girl had taken after her grandmother, mother, and father, being fair and pale. However, she shared her grandfather’s purity of spirit shining in her eyes.

People say you’re a bad man, the girl said. They also say my grandfather killed you a long time ago.

Do you believe everything you hear? Arcameon asked.

Only when it’s true, she replied.

And can you tell the difference between a truth and a lie? Arcameon asked.

Yes, the girl replied, matter-of-factly. It’s easy. Grandfather says not everyone can do it. That those of us who can have a special duty to those who can’t.

He’s right.

He also said you can do it, too.

Yes.

The girl looked at him, her face scrunching up in concentration, as if trying to figure out a puzzle without having all the pieces.

If you can do it, too, and that means you have a duty, then why do all the stories say you’re a bad man?

Arcameon smiled. Because nobody said the duty was to be a good person. The duty for those of us with this talent is to help the world be a better place.

But you could have been a hero, the girl said. Like Grandfather.

And if I had been the hero, Arcemeon asked, what would your grandfather be?

Her face scrunched up again, trying to puzzle that out.

A hero? she asked, though the tone of her voice indicated she already knew that wasn’t the correct answer.

Some worlds, Arcemeon said. Are sad and dreary worlds. They have no true heroes.

Why not? the girl asked, eyes wide in wonder at the thought of such a place.

Arcameon smiled. "Because while those worlds have bad men, men who do terrible things, they do not have men to play the role of a true villain, those who understand their duty is to give heroes someone to defeat. People look up to heroes. Heroes help guide their choices and actions. A hero is only as grand as the villains he faces. The stories paint me as a monster, and they are mostly right, but while those stories rail upon what I did, they