The Starry Rift

by Jonathan Strahan

  “Stupid. You’ll destroy yourself and all your kind. Such is human nature. Such is war.”

  I looked away from the violence of his eyes. Behind him, I saw Jarel move into range. I was fading from lack of oxygen, but the look on Jarel’s face held my attention. It was not a nice look.

  Then Jarel kicked Jack in the head from behind, and Jack toppled over like a sack of . . . sugar.

  “You’ll have to beat us both,” Jarel said, and pounced on Jack.

  He hurt Jack badly. Thanks to his inferior M-ask—and his superior pain tolerance—Jarel seemed to be able to punish Jack without suffering so much damage himself. Eventually, Jack must have taken one blow too many, because the Medusa M-folded him and his poisonous blond dreads into a different timespace.

  Panting, Jarel and I regarded each other. And Diego was back in my ears.

  Maja, are you okay? We’ve been having big problems.

  I ignored him. I swallowed painfully.

  “Thanks, Jarel,” I croaked.

  But he wasn’t even looking at me.

  “I’m frozen,” he whispered. “I can’t access Away Mode, and I can’t M-fold. My M-ask is ruined. . . .”

  Quit talking to him, Maja, Diego said. The Battle is still on. Finish him off and we can all get out of here.

  I swatted at my ears, wishing I could shut Diego up.

  “This timespace isn’t so bad,” I said to Jarel. “When you get used to it, you’ll be okay. Like, try telling people you’re Armenian.”

  He was inconsolable. “You don’t get it. The Leader will punish me. This was our last chance to capture the M-eq. My people have been marginalized for too long. We can’t recover from this. Now your government will monopolize the Scatter. I have failed.”

  Diego had parked his car in front of CVS and was walking up Yawpo toward us. I checked with my onboard and saw that the Battle was still in effect.

  “Hey, I might be able to help you out there,” I said. “You saved me from Medusa. The least I can do for you is—”

  And I turned and broke away. I was only half a mile from the Battleground’s boundary near Route 208. I started running across people’s lawns.

  Maja, no! Don’t forfeit! We’ll lose M-eq control! Maja!!

  Diego ran back to his car and started it. He roared up Yawpo. He was going to cut me off if he could.

  I had that bad leg, where what happened on Losamo would always be with me. I wasn’t sure I could make it. I reached the edge of the woods. Route 208 wasn’t far now.

  It was dark, and my leg was killing me, but I wanted this. Not for the Project, not for the Scatter—for me. Because Jarel had saved me and—dumb as it might sound—there was still such a thing as honor. I had to believe that; I had to make it true.

  I burst out of the woods just as Diego spun his car to a halt on the highway and came barreling toward me on an intercept course. I kept running, and when he charged me, I slammed my knee into his head.

  It was too easy. He was out cold in the fallen leaves.

  Lungs searing, I reached the highway and staggered across the invisible line. My M-ask went wild.

  I switched to Away Mode. My forfeiture had been registered. The M-eq was already signing itself over to the insurgents.

  Just like that, it was over.

  There was no sign now of the Medusa. But then, that was the nature of the beast. It couldn’t be seen. Jack wasn’t defeated, and he’d be back. Or someone like him. Or something harder to name, or even perceive. If the Medusa lived in M-space, I had to be kidding myself to think I could M anymore. Every time I M-folded, I would be at risk.

  I walked back along the shoulder to the edge of the woods and the place where Diego was just coming to. He was on his hands and knees, fingering his face like it was a porcelain sculpture. He didn’t look too good.

  For the first time I realized this was something I could do nothing about. By “this,” I mean the situation. No matter what I did, here, today, the outcome would be the same. Diego, or someone like Diego, would carry on with the M-eq, the Scatter, and everything that the exploitation of M-timespace implied. Even if that meant the Project risked losing its agents to the Medusa. The M-ask technology was a one-way street.

  I couldn’t do anything to stop that. All I could do was make a decision for myself, about the way I wanted to live.

  I loved fighting. I would not be rewarded for it, in this timespace. In fact, I would probably be reviled. And my unique M-ask abilities would not be understood, much less valued.

  I might as well move to the Stone Age.

  Diego was looking at me. He held his sleeve against his bleeding nose.

  “Okay,” he said thickly. “Party’s over. You made your point. But it’s only one Battle in the war. Time to go home.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Then I took off the M-ask and handed it to him.

  Diego stared at me.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have any idea what your training cost? I ought to leave you here, teach you a lesson.”

  “Whatever,” I said, trying to sound like I belonged in 1994. Diego looked at me for a beat, as if to give me a chance to change my mind. Then he M-folded, sneering.

  I started to walk north along the side of the highway, against the traffic. Jarel was limping toward me. He offered his hand.

  We shook.

  “I guess we’re both staying,” he said.

  “Until they come for us,” I answered.

  “You want to uh . . . hang out . . . sometime?”

  I almost laughed at the idea, but checked myself. I said, “Does your face hurt?”

  “Yeah, but it should be okay, once the M-ask agents disperse.”

  I winced. He still looked green, and there were irrigation canals dug in the flesh of his cheeks by migrating agents. He was no poster boy.

  I dug a pen out of my jacket and wrote my phone number on his hand.

  “I guess we could hang out,” I said. “Fellow Armenians and stuff like that.”

  Jarel smiled.

  After that I went “home.”

  For the first time ever, Salsa the cat rubbed against my legs.

  I went into the kitchen and washed my hands. Tracey was at pottery class; she’d left a note and some pizza. As I was microwav-ing it, I heard the garage door open. Dave (sniff!) was home from the gym. I wondered whether he’d notice the limp. And the blood. The blood could be a problem.

  There was a precalculus test tomorrow. I hadn’t studied because I hadn’t thought I’d still be here.

  Full of surprises, that life.

  I took my bottle of Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi out of the fridge door. I ached all over. My face felt like a fried egg.

  “Maja, you forgot to put the garbage out before you went to your track meet.” Dave was climbing the stairs. “Now, I’m not making a big deal about it but that’s”—sniff—”a really important job. We can’t just let it pile up.” Sniff!

  I looked at my reflection in the shiny black surface of the family’s fridge.

  My old face was back. I even had a zit next to my nose. I put the bottle to my lips. I’d just saved the world from M-self. My old face and I smiled at each other.

  TRICIA SULLIVAN was born in New Jersey in 1968 and studied in the pioneering Music Program Zero at Bard College. She later received a master’s in education from Columbia University and taught in Manhattan and New Jersey before moving to the UK in 1995. Her first novel, Lethe, was published that year, and was followed by science fiction novels Someone To Watch Over Me, and the Arthur C. Clarke Award winner Dreaming in Smoke. She has also written fantasy as Valery Leith, including The Company of Glass, The Riddled Night, and The Way of the Rose. Her most recent novels are Double Vision, Maul, and Sound Mind

  Her Web site is www.triciasullivan.co.uk.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The idea behind this story was to take the concept of
ancient Greek “champions” and stand it on its head. The irony is meant to lie in the fact that in the story the champions are not heroically risking their own lives to save others’, but risking millions of lives in the name of more efficient warfare. Somewhere in the back of my head I guess I was thinking about PGMs, the technologization (that’s probably not a real word) of warfare, and the tendency of the political leaders of our time to lead from the rear, safely.

  I had two problems when I started writing. First, although I started out trying to write a far-future space story, I kept finding myself writing about ordinary suburban America—and in the past! My other problem was that my battle was going to happen between a girl and a guy. I can tell you from personal experience of reality-based martial arts that there are major problems for a girl coming up against a big, trained guy who’s out to hurt her. I didn’t want to resort to the Buffy-style kung fu fighting that we see way too much of in the movies. I wanted to give an accurate portrayal of a male versus female fight, but without my girl getting pulverized.

  Luckily, this is a science fiction story, so I was able to fabricate the M-ask, which solves both of my problems and helps to give the story its focus.

  INFESTATION

  Garth Nix

  They were the usual motley collection of freelance vampire hunters. Two men, wearing combinations of jungle camouflage and leather. Two women, one almost indistinguishable from the men though with a little more style in her leather armor accessories, and the other looking like she was about to assault the south face of a serious mountain. Only her mouth was visible, a small oval of flesh not covered by balaclava, mirror shades, climbing helmet, and hood.

  They had the usual weapons: four or five short wooden stakes in belt loops; snap-holstered handguns of various calibers, all doubtless chambered with Wood-N-Death® low-velocity timber-tipped rounds; big silver-edged bowie or other hunting knife, worn on the hip or strapped to a boot; and crystal vials of holy water hung like small grenades on pocket loops.

  Protection, likewise, tick the usual boxes. Leather neck and wrist guards; leather and woven-wire reinforced chaps and shoulder pauldrons over the camo; leather gloves with metal knuckle plates; army or climbing helmets.

  And lots of crosses, oh yeah, particularly on the two men. Big silver crosses, little wooden crosses, medium-sized turned ivory crosses, hanging off of everything they could hang off.

  In other words, all four of them were lumbering, bumbling mountains of stuff that meant that they would be easy meat for all but the newest and dumbest vampires.

  They all looked at me as I walked up. I guess their first thought was to wonder what the hell I was doing there, in the advertised meeting place, outside a church at 4:30 P.M. on a winter’s day while the last rays of the sun were supposedly making this consecrated ground a double no-go zone for vampires.

  “You’re in the wrong place, surfer boy,” growled one of the men.

  I was used to this reaction. I guess I don’t look like a vampire hunter much anyway, and I particularly didn’t look like one. I’d been on the beach that morning, not knowing where I might head to later, so I was still wearing a yellow Quiksilver T-shirt and what might be loosely described as old and faded blue board shorts, but “ragged” might be more accurate. I hadn’t had shoes on, but I’d picked up a pair of sandals on the way. Tan Birkenstocks, very comfortable. I always prefer sandals to shoes. Old habits, I guess.

  I don’t look my age, either. I always looked young, and nothing’s changed, though “boy” was a bit rough coming from anyone under forty-five, and the guy who’d spoken was probably closer to thirty. People older than that usually leave the vampire hunting to the government, or paid professionals.

  “I’m in the right place,” I said, matter-of-fact, not getting into any aggression or anything. I lifted my 1968-vintage vinyl Pan Am airline bag. “Got my stuff here. This is the meeting place for the vampire hunt?”

  “Yes,” said the mountain-climbing woman.

  “Are you crazy?” asked the man who’d spoken to me first. “This isn’t some kind of doper excursion. We’re going up against a nest of vampires!”

  I nodded and gave him a kind smile.

  “I know. At least ten of them, I would say. I swung past and had a look around on the way here. At least, I did if you’re talking about that condemned factory up on the river heights.”

  “What! But it’s cordoned off—and the vamps’ll be dug in till nightfall.”

  “I counted the patches of disturbed earth,” I explained. “The cordon was off. I guess they don’t bring it up to full power till the sun goes down. So, who are you guys?”

  “Ten!” exclaimed the second man, not answering my question. “You’re sure?”

  “At least ten,” I replied. “But only one Ancient. The others are all pretty new, judging from the spoil.”

  “You’re making this up,” said the first man. “There’s maybe five, tops. They were seen together and tracked back. That’s when the cordon was established this morning.”

  I shrugged and half unzipped my bag.

  “I’m Jenny,” said the mountain climber, belatedly answering my question. “The . . . the vampires got my sister, three years ago. When I heard about this infestation, I claimed the Relative’s Right.”

  “I’ve got a twelve-month permit,” said the second man. “Plan to turn professional. Oh yeah, my name’s Karl.”

  “I’m Susan,” said the second woman. “This is our third vampire hunt. Mike’s and mine, I mean.”

  “She’s my wife,” said the belligerent Mike. “We’ve both got twelve-month permits. You’d better be legal too, if you want to join us.”

  “I have a special license,” I replied. The sun had disappeared behind the church tower, and the streetlights were flicking on. With the bag unzipped, I was ready for a surprise. Not that I thought one was about to happen. At least, not immediately. Unless I chose to spring one.

  “You can call me J.”

  “Jay?” asked Susan.

  “Close enough,” I replied. “Does someone have a plan?”

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “We stick together. No hotdogging off, or chasing down wounded vamps or anything like that. We go in as a team, and we come out as a team.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Is there . . . more to it?”

  Mike paused to fix me with what he obviously thought was his steely gaze. I met it, and after a few seconds he looked away. Maybe it’s the combination of very pale blue eyes and dark skin, but not many people look at me directly for too long. It might just be the eyes. There’ve been quite a few cultures who think of very light blue eyes as the color of death. Perhaps that lingers, resonating in the subconscious even of modern folk.

  “We go through the front door,” he said. “We throw flares ahead of us. The vamps should all be digging out on the old factory floor; it’s the only place where the earth is accessible. So we go down the fire stairs, throw a few more flares out the door, then go through and back up against the wall. We’ll have a clear field of fire to take them down. They’ll be groggy for a couple of hours yet, slow to move. But if one or two manage to close, we stake them.”

  “The young ones will be slow and dazed,” I said. “But the Ancient will be active soon after sundown, even if it stays where it is—and it’s not dug in on the factory floor. It’s in a humongous clay pot outside an office on the fourth floor.”

  “We take it first, then,” said Mike. “Not that I’m sure I believe you.”

  “It’s up to you,” I said. I had my own ideas about dealing with the Ancient, but they would wait. No point upsetting Mike too early. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?” asked Karl.

  “There’s a fresh-made vampire around, from last night. It will still be able to pass as human for a few more days. It won’t be dug in, and it may not even know it’s infected.”

  “So?” asked Mike. “We kill everything in the infested area. That’s all legal.”
r />   “How do you know this stuff?” asked Jenny.

  “You’re a professional, aren’t you?” said Karl. “How long you been pro?”

  “I’m not exactly a professional,” I said. “But I’ve been hunting vampires for quite a while.”

  “Can’t have been that long,” said Mike. “Or you’d know better than to go after them in just a T-shirt. What’ve you got in that bag? Sawn-off shotgun?”

  “Just a stake and a knife,” I replied. “I’m a traditionalist. Shouldn’t we be going?”

  The sun was fully down, and I knew the Ancient, at least, would already be reaching up through the soil, its mildewed, mottled hands gripping the rim of the earthenware pot that had once held a palm or something equally impressive outside the factory manager’s office.

  “Truck’s over there,” said Mike, pointing to a flashy new silver pickup. “You can ride in the back, surfer boy.”

  “Fresh air’s a wonderful thing.”

  As it turned out, Karl and Jenny wanted to sit in the back too. I sat on a toolbox that still had shrink-wrap around it, Jenny sat on a spare tire, and Karl stood looking over the cab, scanning the road, as if a vampire might suddenly jump out when we were stopped at the lights.

  “Do you want a cross?” Jenny asked me after we’d gone a mile or so in silence. Unlike Mike and Karl, she wasn’t festooned with them, but she had a couple around her neck. She started to take off a small wooden one, lifting it by the chain.

  I shook my head and raised my T-shirt up under my arms, to show the scars. Jenny recoiled in horror and gasped, and Karl looked around, hand going for his .41 Glock. I couldn’t tell whether that was jumpiness or good training. He didn’t draw and shoot, which I guess meant good training.

  I let the T-shirt fall, but it was up long enough for both of them to see the hackwork tracery of scars that made up a kind of T shape on my chest and stomach. But it wasn’t a T. It was a tau cross, one of the oldest Christian symbols and still the one that vampires feared the most, though none but the most ancient knew why they fled from it.