The Archer at the End of Time: The Prescience of the Summer Ring

By Bob Harrison

Melding fantasy and science fiction, The Archer at the End of Time creates a universe expanding from the apocalyptic end of mans galactic empire to a climax millions of years in the future. Clansman Deron McRey and outcast Kayleen Dei Theene are two of the many people ensnared by a web of a prophecy woven by a messianic religious figure, Peter the Blind, ten thousand years ago. The threads of time are knotted by deadly foes, all aiming for the ultimate and final destruction of mankind. Traversing a land drowning by rising seas and battered by warring sentient machines, humanity struggles to survive while creating a civilization that relies not on technology but mental prowess to once again return to the stars and fulfill its ultimate destiny.

Woven with stunning twists and turns, this fast-paced first book sets the stage for incredible events unfolding through all space and time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524569280

Bob Harrison

Bob Harrison is a retired educator who has been writing fiction since he was a child, completing his first novel at age twelve. Harrison’s college education included degrees in electronics communication, English, and theatre arts and professional writing, with graduate degrees and coursework in education and computer science. Harrison’s other interests include football, soccer, fishing, and computer gaming. An early pioneer in computer graphics, Harrison has edited and contributed to several textbooks. His varied background as a military veteran and college professor gives him unique insights into character and motivation. A life-long student of science and world events, Harrison brings that passion to his writing, creating a detailed and believable future history. He has published short stories, poetry, and a previous novel, Da Bonemon. In this first book in a trilogy, he has created a universe that stretches from man’s galactic empire to the end of time.

Book preview

The Last King Of Andromeda

Day Five, Morning

T HE LAST KING of Andromeda floated high above the Half-Way Gate in his stasis bubble. Even though, in the deepest and darkest gravity free reaches of interstellar space, there was technically no up or down, he always thought of down as below his feet. After all these many years, he had never grown used to the lack of orientation that many others had preferred. Of course, they’re probably all gone now, he mused, as he took one last look around before directing the bubble down into the thousand mile long accelerating station.

The bubble, as it always did, passed smoothly down into the Milky Way deck of the enormous station and dissipated, leaving the King standing and staring back into the inky darkness at the sliver of the edge-on view of the Milky Way, many trillions of miles distant. He paced about the deck for a few minutes, casually observing the comings and goings of the millions of machines that kept the Gate working in prime condition. It had been this way for thousands of years, and if there were one thing that was immortal in this Universe, it would the Gate. Its tenders never faltered, never wavered, and like the Gate itself, was constantly in a state of being maintained. For always. For eternity.

His last friend, the Time Watcher, had warned him the century previous of an approaching Prime Node, and now, as it drew closer and closer, the King could also sense it clearly. He also felt this would be his last tour of the station as he walked over to the command console and settled back into his chair. He had thought long on what his last experience would be and had finally settled on an old favorite: The Rise Of The Third Men, recited, of course, by Brother Wilhelm the Sonorous. Many had been the debates by his peers in the dim and distant years of his youth, when he had sat upon the marbled stone of the Vega Pandorium Atrium and discoursed about the merits of the many storytellers, while overhead the nine moons danced in the clear skies.

He stepped into the transparent vertical tube and twiddled with the controls for a moment, then found one of his Favorites, and sent the VLAMEI projection whirling through the edgewise void between Thinspace and Thickspace and backwards in time. Around him, the great machine throbbed and strained a bit but easily supplied the necessary energy to render the bounds of space and time irrelevant to Man’s will. Then he was there in the Hall of Memories at Olympus Mons College where Brother Wilhem had just entered the lecture hall and taken to the lectern in center stage, and as he spoke, the Last King of Andromeda could feel all his consciousness melding into the story.

Our tale will be told over the next few evenings. I will present a brief synopsis before each recitation. Suffice it to say that we are all generally familiar with the events concerning the end of Second Man and the dawning of the Third, but let us not forget this tale, even though purported to be completely historical in nature, bears no authorship, leading many scholars to believe that it was written by many hands, not one, and more a historical re-imagining than a historical account. No one disputes that various liberties were taken with dialog and description, yet the essential facts remain, and until sometime in the distant future when Man has developed instrumentality to unveil the shroud of time, the truth will always remain cloaked in myth and legend. With those thoughts in close mind, let us now begin our adventure…

Oldfaxdon

D ERON ROLLED FROM Sani’s naked grasp when the gleaming metallic barrel poked through the foliage. He yelled at Sani, pulled her upright, and charged through the deep, wet grass. The forest and refuge stood dark just a few seconds across the meadow. At the other end of the field, a huge oblong machine crashed through the woods. Trees cracked and fell. Its silver hull gleamed in the setting sun as it hovered just above the waving grass. It had three black metallic turrets spaced along its top.

Sani pulled Deron aside as a blinding flash of white crackled above them. They dove to the ground and hid below the grass. Her arms tightened around Deron’s neck as she spotted another similar machine sliding into position behind them, its three dark turrets scanning for a target.

Deron broke Sani’s embrace and pulled her toward the woods. The nearest machine buzzed and a spark of white energy leaped from its forward turret. The bolt burned into the ground below the front turret of the first silver machine. Deron and Sani raced from the grass and into the forest. They scrambled through the underbrush and hid behind an oak. The black machine darted toward them, then swung broadside.

The grass burst into flame in front of the first machine and the machine’s skin turned from sliver to yellow. The other, humming loudly, camouflaged itself to a soft green. Their battle colors displayed, they flew back and forth across the field, sometimes lifting to the treetops, other times plunging down and crushing the grass with their hulls, each firing at the other. When the white-hot lances touched their targets, the wounded machine splashed golden jets of energy across the evening sun.

The two lovers hugged closer as the machines continued their duel. The field was dark with smoke from dozens of small fires, and the air grew thick and hard to breathe. Their hair stood on end, alive with static electricity.

The green machine was broadside before them when a stray bolt sizzled into the woods behind Deron and Sani, the heat from the fireball scorching them as a tree exploded in flames.

They sprang apart, leaping from behind the tree. Then a blinding flash, and darkness.

Deron awoke rigid, head pounding, sweat trickling down his face. The dream again. Again. And again. He rubbed his temples and the flames faded back into the dream world.

The early morning breeze carried the smell of cooking meat into the hut. Deron climbed from his fur cocoon and dressed quickly, the leather britches sliding easily up his scarred legs. He laced the leather vest tight across the thick white ridges on his chest, then stretched and stepped through the low cabin door. His steps were muffled by the soft earth as he joined the family grouped about the cast iron pot.

His grandmother turned to greet him. Sunshine, Deron. How does the day find you?

Deron took the bowl from her gnarled hands. Ready to hunt, he answered as he nudged his way through the crowd of children and ladled some of the thick brown stew into the stone bowl.

The old woman squatted next to Deron and spoke between mouthfuls of stew. It has been three Ring Changes since your loss. Do you still seek solace from the Old One?

Deron glanced down at her. She stared back, demanding an answer. Yes. I see him after eating.

But can he help you? No man can stop the Mechanicals.

Deron started to bring the wooden spoon to his mouth again, but his appetite had fled. He stared up at the dark clouds boiling overhead. Behind him the melodic cant of school children at their lessons help quell the silence that fell over the family.

Deron shifted his gaze to the dark haired teacher, shutting the chant from his mind. He watched her body move beneath the loose leather, fighting the stirring within. After a couple of spoonfuls of stew, he dumped the remainder back into the pot and walked over to a boiling cauldron and dropped the bowl into the soapy water.

From the river side of the village a gong reverberated through the crisp air. Deron stepped away from the fire and, clutching at the knife hanging at his side, walked through the rows of mud and wood huts, his thoughts flashing back to his family, and finally, to Sani.

His eyes burned as he thought of her. Sani. Warm. Dark. Now gone. Lost in a white blaze of hell.

Deron clinched his teeth and, his purpose fixed like the mountains, dodged through the villagers nodding and murmuring greetings, though they were but shadows in his senses.

He strode though Oldfaxdon toward the two-story log building nestled by the river’s edge. He nodded at a group of villagers, all carrying bows and gleaming, sharp axes, strolling toward the dense woods north of the village. Further down the river, he could hear the melodic trilling of the neeshebing.

A small knot of children, late for school, was clustered about an old man clad in bleached leather. Deron smiled. Tyatt was a favorite of most. Children loved his riotous tales of the woodlands; the men admired his martial skills. But he was simple. His mind, it was rumored, had been damaged by Mechanicals many Changes ago.

Deron was passing the squealing children when Tyatt broke from them and trotted toward Deron. Lad, I’m told you plan to head into the flatlands, Tyatt said as he fell in step beside Deron.

Deron smiled at the old man. Perhaps.

Tyatt brushed a strand of gray hair from his pale eyes. The curl sprung back and Tyatt tossed his long, thinning hair to loosen the tiny tangles woven by the cool morning breeze. I wish to go. I am skilled with the canoe.

Canoe? If I were planning such a forbidden trek, why wouldn’t I go overland?

Your anger lies nay within the trade routes.

Deron stopped, a bit confused. Someone had figured his plans. Tyatt? Unlikely. A dangerous journey you assume, Tyatt. Too taxing for one of your years.

Nay, young Deron. You mean a man of my mind.

Deron flushed. The old man had guessed his thoughts correctly.

Tyatt clutched at Deron’s arm. Because I can nay remember my morning meal nor understand addition, means not that I am without use.

You have always spoken well, Tyatt.

True. But the time of speaking and of stories nears its end. I must journey with you.

No, my friend. You must stay and bring comfort to the kinsmen still here. I must go, Tyatt. We will speak again.

Deron walked away, a last fleeting glimpse of Tyatt’s wrinkled face floating in his mind.

Tyatt’s knowledge of his plan meant that stealth would be even more important and Deron dwelt on his plans as the wide dirt street narrowed into a network of paths at the edge of the village. Deron chose the left path and turned down it toward the river. The path disappeared in a clearing that surrounded the huge, sprawling Government House that dominated the placid river bank. Deron crossed the clearing and stopped at the entrance. The tall man guarding the entrance dipped his lance in greeting.

Deron returned the greeting with a short bow. Sunshine, Felar. I come to see the Old One.

Sunshine, Deron. How heal your wounds? Felar asked as he propped his lance against the weathered logs and picked up a small wooden clapper.

Deron shrugged. The question was old and oft repeated. Few had survived such a close brush with a Mechanical’s fiery breath. They leave white scars on the outside and black scars on the inside.

Felar started to speak, but closed his mouth in a grimace, and struck the smaller of the two gongs hanging beside him. After the ring died, Felar intoned the ceremonial speech. You may enter. The Parliament sits on the left and the Keeper of the Book sits on the right. State your business to the Parliament, or hear the story of our people. You may enter.

Deron nodded, unsheathed his knife and jabbed it deep into the weapon board. There it stood ready with a dozen other knives. Deron bowed, his dark hair streaming nearly to the ground, and stepped forward in the Government House. While he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Deron listened to the Parliament debate the Elder Law. Gradually, the interior details emerged and Deron could see well enough to slip silently down the hall and into the darkened chamber on his right.

As he waited in the doorway, the shapes in the room emerged. The room was mostly bare with hides scattered about the wooden floor. From the ceiling spheres of various sizes were hung by fine thread. The Old One, The Keeper of the Book, sat cross-legged in the front center of the room. Time expanded, and Deron fancied he saw the nine spheres begin to glisten and gleam as they drifted about the old man’s head.

The Old One finally spoke. Come. Sit. Listen to the story of our people.

Deron walked into the room and sat, legs tucked beneath him, across from the white haired story teller. The Old One reached out and Deron bowed his head so the Old One could touch him. The Old One drew his hand back and fixed his sightless eyes on Deron.

You come full of hate.

I come to hear the story of our people.

The Old One nodded and straightened. In the time before the Rings, when the night held the Watcher, Man divided his house into the Two Elements, that of Darkness and that of Light. And in the twilight of the twain the Mechanicals were created…

Deron drifted in time as the story unfolded. He had heard it so many times. He would have to wait until the Question time came. One could not interrupt nor ask questions until the story had been told. He almost dozed in the warm darkness as he waited for the ending lines.

…and so Man roams and hunts the world, ever watchful for the Mechanicals as they hunt their kin. The Old One stopped and Deron jerked himself back into the present.

He would have to be more careful. A question must be asked or he would have to return and listen to the story once more. Will you speak the lines of the Door to the Deep?

Aye. I speak again: Beyond the burning desert, where the Rings surround the Mountains of Mars, lies the Door to the Deep!

Where does the Door lead?

The Door leads into the Deep.

What is the Deep?

The Deep is the heart of the Mechanicals, where no man has been since the Watcher fell and the Rings came to guard the Mountains of Mars.

Old One, if you pluck the heart from a thing, will it not die?

Yes. But, no man can pluck the heart from a Mechanical.

But, the story says that is where the heart of the Mechanicals lies… Deron’s voice trailed off as the Old One fell mute. In his haste, Deron had committed a Breach of Conduct. He had failed to ask a question. Deron, heart thumping, stood and bowed.

Thank you, Old One. May your story be told again. He walked toward the door as the Old One spoke.

Legend says that the Imbod will someday come. Deron whirled around, but the Old One was staring without seeing at the spheres suspended from the ceiling. The Old One had also committed a Breach of Conduct, the first known to Deron, but he would not commit another one. Deron puzzled over the unknown Imbod for a second, then turned and walked from the chamber back out into the warm morning air.

How went it, Deron? asked Felar as Deron pulled his knife from the board.

The Old One committed a Breach. His years of rigid training compelled him to speak, even at the risk of a afurther delay in his plan.

Felar frowned and traced lines into the dirt with his lance. It will have to be reported to the Parliament.

What does it matter? The Old One has told his story for a hundred summers and made only one Breach.

True. But the Law is the Law and must be— Felar hushed himself and listened to a voice floating down from the hills.

Deron turned toward the sound as a woman crashed through the brush at the top of a small knoll and tumbled down the bank. One of the Elders appeared in the doorway and Felar yelled, Strike the gong! Strike the gong!

Deron understood the desperation in the woman’s headlong flight when he heard her scream A Mechanical! Coming!

The two men were within a few steps of the woman when the Mechanical broke through the brush. The woman leaped from the ground but the Mechanical glided silently into her and she fell beneath its hull.

The tubular machine swung toward Deron and Felar.

On The High Plateau

K AYLEEN DEI THEENE bundled the furs tightly against her lean body as she struggled against the frozen gale that blew constantly across the wasteland known as the High Plateau even in early spring.

Sharp, deep shadows leaped from towering jumbles of quick frozen stone. Where it touched the frozen earth, the late afternoon sun glared from the sheen of ice that covered all immobile objects on the frigid plain. The twisted evergreens that formed the sparse boreal forest groaned in the wind. A thin sliver of green, the Summer Ring, was rising above the mountain peaks to the west and to the north the bloated edge of the Red Ring wound across the horizon like a bloody scar.

She paid no attention to the ice crusted, dripping boulders that formed the rude homes of her People. Even if the howling polar wind had allowed her to hear the frozen dirt crunching beneath her feet, she would have ignored the brittle sound for she thought only of her birthday, two days hence. And of the loathsome Genefest that would follow it.

She knew she should not think of the Genefest in such terms. It was a Holy Day. But she hated with an all consuming passion her father/brother, her sire, Obar.

She did not want his child. She did not want her People. The Liners were savages, always fighting, scratching and clawing all year, all the while reciting Peter’s holy dictates. Surely there must be a better life down below. Perhaps in Toli, where it was rumored that girls wore dresses and silks. Where there was dancing and music and life and…

Kayleen felt the movement among the rocks before she saw it. It was the Wart. Once more he was waiting for her. Kayleen tried to slink through the shadows but she felt the Wart’s thoughts churn and whir and then he was jumping from the shadows.

The Wart, a squat, hairy barbarian. Arms that hung nearly to the ground. And his face --scraggly hairs growing from an infestation of warts that covered his body like the pox.

Kayleen, unlike many of the People, was sound of mind and body. A lithe blond erupting into womanhood. Strong of heart. Strong of limb, and, as her mother said, strong of head.

The Wart landed in front of Kayleen, his face creased in a savage grin. Aargh, Kayleen, he-heh. You come.

Jump, Wart. Go. Jump off the Ledge! Kayleen pointed toward the edge of the Plateau, where it dropped to a series of steppes that were lost in perpetual mist, and eventually to the warm Lowlands.

Three days! Three days! The Wart screamed. Kayleen shoved the misshapen young man aside and trudged toward her home among the rocks.

Behind her the Wart yelped and squealed. Kayleen closed her mind to his sounds and thoughts. She tramped forward into the wind, ignoring the occasional fur-clad figure that struggled by her. They were her kinsmen, but she didn’t care. Let them hunt platir; she thought only of Obar, his leers, and of the Wart and the twenty smooth platir that he paid for her. Worse still --if Obar decided to keep her. Again, the Bliss completed --wife of thy Sire! Kayleen shuddered as she stepped across their sitting rock and scrambled up the slippery ice staircase to her home.

She paused at the mouth of the cave and gazed across the Ledge, where the Plateau began its drop to the Lowland, at the dark mountains and their frozen white peaks. Beyond those lay deserts of salt and sand, but below her the brutal steppes gave way to warmth, trees, and civility. Far to the northwest, a distant volcano built into the sea, the eastward winds providing the spectral warmth that kept the High Plateau from glaciation. Kayleen paused and looked to the north, into the face of the freezing gale, at the ice cap. If only the ice were higher, she thought; but, it wasn’t. For as far to the north as she could see, the ice stretched ghastly white, painful. The numbing winds of the Pole swept directly across the High Plateau; thus, the People suffered while their home protected the Lowlands. It was a miserable life, but it was the only one she had. Unless…

Inside the cave, Kayleen dropped the pieces of platir she had collected into the communal pot. Obar was singing. Drunk again. Kayleen gritted her teeth and with more bravado than she felt, fixed her jaw defiantly and pushed through the fur cape and stepped into the heat and stink of her family.

Her uncle/brothers, Spiz and Lant, sat cross-legged in one corner of the cave, their man-bodies tensed in a childish game of face-slap. They were matching fingers, and the loser was rewarded with a resounding slap by the winner.

Kaylee! Kaylee! Play with me! implored Spiz as Kayleen stalked by and deposited her day’s find of platir in the urn next to the fire pit.

Obar leered from his bed of furs by the fire. Soon, daughter. Soon. His eyes narrowed to black pins of lust and he groped for Kayleen but she dodged away and scurried over to her dam.

Margit poked at the fire and stared into the dancing flames. Do you sense him, my daughter?

Kayleen bit at her lip. I feel his mind.

Margit nodded dumbly. I too. He will discard me. I know it.

Kayleen stroked Margit’s dark hair. I will not let him, Mother.

You cannot stop him. It is the Law.

The fire danced furiously as Kayleen thrust another fuel chip into the embers. Her dam was condemned. A discarded woman had no place with the Liners. They were shunned. They froze and starved in the wastes of the High Plateau; no one would allow them to enter a home.

Kayleen began to ladle some of the bubbling gruel into her stone bowl. It will not be. The Law of Peter the Blind is old. Too old. Things must change.

Margit shook her head. No. We must suffer the sins of our fathers. It is not holy to change—

Bring me food! screamed Obar. Margit was slow to respond so Obar tossed a stone into her back.

She grimaced with pain then carried the bowl to Obar. Kayleen’s eyes blazed. Surely it was not so everywhere.

Spiz and Lant scrambled over to the food, their faces flushed with the slapping. Kayleen stood and tried to push past her brothers with her bowl. Spiz grabbed her wrist and twisted.

My food! he demanded. Kayleen sighed and kneed him in the groin. Lant lunged toward her; Kayleen slashed him in the throat with her free hand. She stepped across her prostrate siblings and crouched in her corner.

The older boys were dull, and Obar was having difficulty instructing them. Kayleen herself had received no instructions in combat, but she could defeat almost anyone on the Plateau --except Obar. He was strong and vicious beyond belief.

Kayleen ate silently with a flattened stick, listening to the inevitable squabbles over the meager rations. Obar cuffed Lant and knocked him against the cave wall. Lant sat dazed a moment, blood trickling from his mouth. Then a spark returned to his eyes and he was charging Obar.

Kayleen dreamed as the squabble continued. There had been a bright spot in her life. Once two years ago, she had a friend. Tady, though misshapen like so many of her People, had been intelligent and kind. He had even brought her an illicit flower from the Lowlands.

But, Obar had sensed Tady’s ultimate aim and challenged him. Tady’s dwarfed arms were no match from the towering Obar. The shuddering image of Obar lifting Tady above his head flashed through her mind. Kayleen could still hear the awful crack as Obar snapped Tady down across his knee. The scream of pain within Tady still dwelt within her, as did the bestial howl of victory that raged from Obar’s mind. Tady lived three days, freezing and finally dying in the blizzards that swept daily across the Plateau in winter. She could not help him. It was the Law. Only the strong must survive. The defeated must not be helped.

Obar roared again. The wine they bartered away from the Lowlanders was again moving him to rage. Perhaps he would drink himself to sleep this night, for tomorrow he would certainly be awake and ready to begin the ceremonies.

Kayleen tossed the bowl aside and curled up in her skins, using her platir mining kit for a rude pillow. Thoughts of Tady and the tiny purple flower filled her dreams.

But Obar would not sleep. He sat in front of the fire swilling wine and watching Kayleen as she tossed to and fro among the furs. One by one, Lant, Spiz, and Margit fell away from him toward sleep and he was alone with the wine and his thoughts of Kayleen. The fire had burned low when Obar lurched to his feet.

Kayleen was awake instantly. His thoughts had reached into her mind and ripped away the dream-haze. She lay still, hoping he would forget, or perhaps wander outside to relieve himself.

But, he didn’t.

Kaylee, my sweet. The days are too long to wait. He took a final pull from the skin and tossed it aside. Then, with one drunken leap, he was on top of Kayleen pulling the bedskins aside. His wet lips and beard crushed her face while his calloused hand worked up her legs.

Kayleen, her senses filled with his lust and wine stink, clawed at his face. But Obar didn’t notice. His hands were at her waist tearing at her leather under-breeches.

Kayleen struggled against him, but he was too strong. She could hear the others stirring but they wouldn’t dare interfere.

Obar forced her legs apart with his knee, and Kayleen was spread helpless before him. And now you shall obey the Law!

No, cried Kayleen as she tried to squirm from beneath him. This is a crime. The People will punish you—

Obar roared with laughter. No. Not me. I am the strongest. My word is the Law. He laughed again and released his grip on Kayleen’s wrists and let his hands wander down her exposed body.

Kayleen reeled with hate. Her training, her status as a child/slave, her sense that the Law must be obeyed, all dissolved in a red mist of blood-hate.

She ripped at Obar with her mind, but his wall of wine and lust deflected the blow. Her hand snaked into the platir sack and she pulled a honed platir digger from the pouch, its point sharp and slender like a dagger.

Obar was struggling, cursing, ripping at the thong bound about her waist when Kayleen sat up and plunged the digger into his neck.

Obar screamed and leapt back, tearing at the sharp platir blade deep in the side of his neck. Kayleen was on her feet in an instant. Obar, the digger still in his neck and blood spurting down his chest, grabbed at her. For a few confusing moments, they wrestled through the cave, stumbling over the others, overturning utensils. But Obar’s great strength waned and Kayleen saw an opportunity to escape.

As Obar made another drunken lurch, Kayleen shoved him and darted toward the entrance.

Confused shouts echoed through the cave as Obar toppled backwards into the dying embers of the fire and Kayleen burst through the cape into the searing night coldness of the High Plateau.

Above her, the Summer Ring sparkled its emerald brightness down to earth. But, she did not notice. She only knew to run. She had broken the Prime Law. Ye shall not take the life of thy Sire. There was only one punishment: death by torture.

As she scrambled through the rocks, Kayleen could hear Spiz crying, Kaylee girl! Kaylee girl! She kill the Sire! and then she heard a horn echoing through the freezing night and she knew the People would soon be on the chase.

She was closest to the center trail, so she raced across the frozen ground toward the Ledge. The wind ripped at her; she had only her leather undergarments; she had forgotten her fur cape in the cave. Kayleen knew she could not long escape freezing if she did not find shelter from the piercing wind.

The dark brow of the Ledge loomed in front of her and she slipped quickly to her knees and squirmed across the Ledge until her feet touched the network of ropes that draped downward to the next ledge. She quickly climbed down the rope ladders until she touched the smooth path circling below the first ledge.

Kayleen stopped, gasping in the cold, her breath billowing in steamy, white clouds into the still blackness. This was a calm zone; the wind rarely blew across the path, but she knew that three yards lower the wind would blow again.

To the path! Kayleen started at the voice. They were closing in.

She jumped from her nook and scrambled over another ledge to a second network of ropes and climbed down into another icy, howling gale; but, even above the scream of the wind, she could hear voices above her.

Get stone!

Throw rocks over the side!

She no escape!

Kill!

Kill!

Then the rocks began to fall. Kayleen saw the first one sail by, a dark blob whirring evilly through the ringlight. A rock struck the ledge above her bounced next to her shoulder. The rocks began to fall faster. Ten yards lower was another ledge, and she could duck under its protective lip.

I see her!

There!

Throw! There!

Kill!

Kayleen was climbing furiously down the ropes when stones of every shape and size began falling past her. A flash of pain in an arm. Another in a shoulder. Then white lightning danced through her head and she was swinging drunkenly out from the ropes. One hand held fast while multicolored sparks arced through her vision. She swayed outward again. More rocks pelted her.

Another bright flash ripped through her vision and Kayleen was falling. The Summer Ring spun crazily through the night sky and the ghostly white polar caps tilted as she fell to the next ledge, hit hard on cold stone, and rolled off into the blackness that ringed the High Plateau.

The Cell

T HE CELL WAITED in the darkness.

It knew neither heat nor cold, thirst nor hunger, pleasure nor pain, love nor hate.

It only waited.

The Cell knew only of the Purpose. The Cell knew to wait. It had waited for eons. It could wait for eons more. The Purpose was its life, so it waited.

Waited in the darkness… waited… waited…

But… now there was something more… something in the darkness.

Warm… breathing… blood. Skin. Bone. It was a Carrier.

The Cell need wait no more.

A Host Found

T HE HUT STOOD squarish and squat, a painful white mirage amidst the undulations of the desert heat. Along one side of the crumbling adobe a lone figure pressed handfuls of slippery mud into the pock-marked adobe. His lean, brown frame was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, his black hair, long and knotted in the back with a small bone, dripped globules of sweat down his back into a ragged loin cloth.

Mandil paused, flipping the sticky mud from his hands while he squinted at a distant hill. His brother was late. Adreat had left for the hills at first light, no doubt searching for platir, for it was too early for the kova harvest to begin. But he was needed here --before the kova harvest, before the winter. Platir searches rarely yield even a fragment.

Mandil ignored the discomfort of the sweat clinging to his body as he forced the mud into the chinks in the hut. The hut must be complete before the kova harvest began. Once the plants bloomed all able inhabitants climbed into the cooler mountains to bring down the crop. Kenans knew only labor, day and night, through all the Changes. Their lot was work. Into the day and the night. The crop was their tribute. Their protection from the petty lords of the Drylands. So they worked.

He cursed. Adreat should be here. Maybe the soldiers of Lord Tona would come to announce the new Captain, though Mandil doubted they would bother with the TaPopes. Adreat stood a better chance of finding platir than either of them did in gaining the honor. Neither he nor Adreat would follow in the steps of their father. The families of dissenters were not rewarded.

Mandil grabbed a handful of mud from the wooden bucket and began packing another crack. He labored steadily, occasionally scanning the glaring jumble of boulders that made up the low mountains. Shadows had begun to fall from the hut when he spied a distant speck maneuvering toward him through the boulder strewn remains of a dead river. Mandil wiped his hands on the stained loin cloth, cursed, and walked toward Adreat, who crawled up the sand bank and strode toward the hut.

Ha! You finally return. Look, I have patched the—

Quiet, man!

Mandil stared at his brother. Adreat was much the same as he, a bit taller and heavier, perhaps his hair and beard even darker. But now he seemed even larger --and his eyes! They