Writers of the Future Volume 31

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Two such eyes were burrowed deep in the haggard creases of Monda’s face. All Abe knew about the man’s past was that he had been in the war and, supposedly, served at the side of Prince Landar the Holy. Everybody believed it, but Abe didn’t. There was nothing holy about Monda. He was earthy and feral, like a warthog, and just about as hairy. When he spoke, it was always in quick, clipped syllables, as though talking was a waste of his time. “Well, boy? Report.”

  Everyone waited. They were a haggard bunch, most either as young as Abe or older than Monda, but every one had a knife or a rusty bit of sword or a weathered crossbow. Abe needed to give them something to be satisfied with, or he wouldn’t walk out of this meeting. “Well … uhhh … it’s been slow-going.”

  “You’ve had all day.” Monda folded his scarred arms across the bushy black forest of chest hair that poked through his open vest.

  Abe licked his lips. Krim was just behind him, her breathing even but quick, like someone preparing for the start of a race.

  “It’s more complicated than I thought.”

  “He said he’d learned a spell.” Krim said.

  The assembly exchanged glances and muttered in excitement. Monda quieted them with a jerk of his hand. “Do the spell, boy.”

  Abe’s mouth went dry. He looked at Krim, and she must have read his expression. “I’m helping you out, Abe. Give ’em something, right?”

  Monda stepped aside and motioned to an open space at the center of the fallen chamber where a flaming brazier belched a thick fume of incinerated camel dung and scrap wood. Abe stepped between them, as their eyes bored into him. How many times would he be stabbed, he wondered, if he couldn’t convince them he’d taken their money wisely? Would they return his body to his mother, or would it be just another son who never came home?

  “Do the spell.” Monda repeated, putting his hands on his hips. “Now.”

  Abe cleared his throat and opened the book. “Just give me a second—I’ve got to find it.”

  He looked inside.

  Frequently practitioners of the High Arts find themselves placed in awkward positions vis-à-vis the common population. In instances where mobs of slobbering thugs and half-witted cutpurses wish to be given a show to demonstrate one’s power, conjuration is a very useful and successful discipline to employ.

  Sweat ran down Abe’s brow. He flipped the page.

  Unfortunately for yourself, even the most basic conjurations require months of training to accomplish with regular success, and years to master; as hitherto mentioned, the study of the High Arts is not an easy one, nor is it quick.

  “Well?” Monda’s thick eyebrows lowered over his eyes like a pair of bristling window shades.

  “Just a second!” Abe said, flipping another page.

  The book read: What exactly did you expect? Did you honestly think you could open some book of magic spells and just make one happen, like baking a cake or something? Did you expect to be conjuring buckets of gold for local orphanages by lunch? Restoring infrastructure with a word by sundown? You’ll need weeks more training before we can even get you to channel energies consistently.

  “You’ve got to give me something.” Abe hissed at the book. “Anything!”

  “What?” Monda looked around at the assembled. “What did he say?”

  “He’s talking to himself,” Krim offered. “He was doing that when I found him.”

  Abe wiped sweat from his eyes, hands shaking. He flipped another page.

  There is only one way in which an inexperienced sorcerer can expect to execute magical spells of sufficient strength to impress dullards and fools. This process, while discouraged by most in the sorcerous field as overly risky, involves establishing an accord with a spirit in exchange for a favor. The most practical variety of spirit to be utilized in this fashion are the creatures of the Ether, also known as “ghul” by the Kalsaaris. Well known for their intelligence and creativity, as well as their basic avarice, they are eager to deal and useful servants.

  Monda’s hand fell on Abe’s arm like an iron manacle. He yanked the book from Abe’s hand. “Can you cast the spell or not, boy?”

  Abe nodded. “Uhhh … yes, yes—I can. Just, can I have my book back, I need to—

  “Your book?” Monda pushed Abe to the ground. “This book belongs to the Brotherhood of Light, boy. It was their money that bought it, their blood that was spilled to earn that silver. We gave it to you because Krim vouched for you, said you could read, and were a good, loyal son of Illin. Said you would work a spell to kill the mirror men, topple the Upper City, kill the thieves that feed on us.”

  Abe rose slowly, eyes fixed on the book. “I do hate the toppers; I hate them as much as anyone.”

  Monda threw him the book. “Work a spell. Show us we haven’t wasted our money. I want to see what you can conjure, boy, and it better be good.” The assembled Brothers nodded solemnly.

  Abe opened the tome, hands shaking. There, in a flowing, red script, were the words:

  Shall we make a deal, then?

  Abe took a long, slow breath. This was what Carlo was talking about—it had to be. He was in over his head, and there was only one way out—a way he knew was wrong. Still, what choice did he have? He looked at the words, nodded and flipped the page.

  There, covering both pages of the book, was a detailed contract, indicating how the book would assist him and the price it would demand. At the bottom, beside his name printed in the same maroon ink, were the words “Sign Here.”

  “I’m running out of patience, boy.” Monda growled.

  Abe, throat dry, dragged out his words in barely audible croaks. “I need a pen and some ink.”

  Monda cocked his head. “What?”

  “I’ll get it.” Krim darted into the shadows. Oddly, Abe found himself missing her presence. She was the closest thing he had to an ally here.

  Monda pushed Abe by the shoulder, like a bully jostling a child around a schoolyard, “Why a pen and ink?”

  Abe squared his shoulders and tried looking Monda in the eye. All he saw there was suspicion, pure and icy as the winter sea. Abe tore his gaze away and looked back at the contract. “I need one for the spell.”

  “What’s the spell do?”

  Abe buried himself in the complex language of the contract, remembering what his mother had always said about his father and legal documents—“He always read every word—every word—and that made him the best.”

  The ghul offered to destroy Abe’s enemies in exchange for … for …

  “Well, boy, I asked you a question!” Monda pushed Abe again, but Abe didn’t notice. He was trying to parse the sentence: In exchange for the services detailed herein to be completed by the signee, as defined above, the signer shall relinquish whatsoever claim, be it legal, emotional, physical, or mystical, he has heretofore established with the flesh whose reproductive proclivities led to his issuance in this time and place and transfer that claim to the signee immediately upon completion of said services.

  It took him another moment before he had it figured. When he finally had it, he felt as though he had just been punched in the gut.

  The ghul wanted his mother.

  “Got the pen.” Krim announced, handing over a filthy quill and a greasy bottle of blue ink. “Get on with it.”

  Abe looked up at her, barely noticing as she backed away. They were all backing away—all except Monda. “I’d better see some magic, boy.”

  The pen felt hard and prickly in his hand as it hovered over the line. He could save himself or save his mother—the choice was his to make, right now. He knew what Hann would want him to do, and Prince Landar, but it was a hard choice. It was especially hard as it was different from what his mother would want. She hadn’t suffered so much and so long to see her son murdered because his anger led him to this dark place surrounded by these dark men. If he
died now, what difference would it make? Would his mother want to live without him?

  “Let’s have it, boy!” Monda snapped, drawing his knife.

  Abe signed. The letters glowed and then erased themselves, as though unwritten—only Abe’s signature remained. It was the only thing, he realized, written with real ink. He looked up at Monda, heart quivering in his chest, mouth dry as sand, palms sweaty. “You got it, Monda.”

  The torches darkened, dwindling to little more than flickers. The air grew stale somehow, as though robbed of its lightness and motion by … something. Something black and amorphous, crouching like a pile of black velvet in the center of the chamber. It had one, solitary eye—green and glassy, with a slit-pupil that rapidly scanned the assembly.

  Monda stepped toward Abe, eyes wide. “What … what’s that?”

  Abe didn’t say anything—he, too, was backing up, along with everyone else. The ghul grew from a squat pile to a pillar of pure darkness, twice as tall as a man. The cloying air was pierced by its laughter—dry and dead as leaves in the wind. “So … like to pick on studious young men, do we?”

  “Treachery!” Monda snarled, and hurled himself at Abe, knife raised.

  Abe put up his arms to defend himself, falling back onto the floor, but Monda’s blow never struck home.

  When Abe looked up, he saw leathery black tendrils wrapped around Monda’s chest and arms. The ringleader’s face froze in an expression of horror and shock, the color somehow leeching from his skin, his body hair sloughing off like so much ash. He opened his mouth to say something—a curse, a scream for help, a call to arms—Abe never knew before the tendrils pulled him back into the black pillar of the demon’s body and Monda vanished forever.

  The Brotherhood of Light turned and fled in all directions at once, their half-dead torches dropped and forgotten. The ghul’s glassy green eye followed where they went and then fixed itself upon Abe. “This will only take a moment.”

  The ghul collapsed into a pool of shadow and flitted from the chamber as quick as blinking. In the darkness surrounding the fallen antechamber, Abe heard a chorus of screams rise from the tangled ruins of the Undercity.

  Abe didn’t wait for the creature to return—he scooped up the empty book and ran for his life, shooting through narrow alleys and ducking beneath half-collapsed buildings in the utter dark, tripping and stumbling, until he finally reached home. He didn’t know how long it would take the ghul to find and kill everyone in the Brotherhood, but he doubted it would be long. He burst in the door, panting and out of breath, spots dancing in his eyes. “Mother! Mother!”

  “In here.” The voice didn’t belong to Abe’s mother—it was Krim’s.

  He raced into the parlor. Krim knelt on his mother’s back, the glittering mageglass shard in her hand, pressed to the back of the old woman’s head. Her other hand held a fistful of Abe’s mother’s hair, pulling her head up. Tears mixed with blood ran down his mother’s face. Abe knelt in front of them. “No! Let her go!”

  Krim’s big black eyes were wild. “Call it off, first. Call the creature off!”

  “Abe, dear … wha … what’s happening … ?”

  Krim smashed his mother’s face into the floor. “Shut up, bitch!” Abe noticed strange, gray wounds along Krim’s spindly arms—she had barely escaped. “Call it off, Abe, or the old lady gets hers.”

  Abe shook his head. “You don’t understand—I don’t have a choice. I can’t call it off!”

  Krim flicked her wrist, and a blood-red ribbon of flesh was stripped off his mother’s cheek. She shrieked in pain. Abe felt jolts of electricity shoot down his spine, but remained still. “Figure out a way, schoolboy, or after I finish her, I come for you.”

  Abe’s hands balled into fists. “If you want me, leave my mother out of it!”

  Krim snorted. “Noble talk, schoolboy, but you’re no better than me.”

  “Is this what a daughter of Illin does to her own?” Abe scanned the room for a weapon—nothing. He wouldn’t even have known how to use one if he found one.

  “Do you really believe that crap, huh?” Krim laughed. “It’s all nonsense, Abe—fairy stories. This is a dead city and we’re the maggots. Maggots don’t get to care what they feed on. Get it?”

  “That can change!” Abe scooted closer, but Krim pressed the knife to his blubbering mother’s throat. “With the … the book, I can change all that! I can force the mirror men to listen!”

  Krim shook her head. “Poor little schoolboy, still buying into the Big Dream. Don’t make me lau …”

  Krim whooshed up through the ceiling with a sudden jerk. Abe glanced up to see the big green eye staring down from the gap in the roof. He heard Krim swear once, then scream, then a second later her polished bones fell to the floor.

  Abe’s mother, who had dragged herself upright, saw them hit and fainted dead away.

  “Time to collect my payment, Abrahan Anastasis.” The ghul announced with a hissing chuckle.

  Abe stood between his mother and the creature. “No, it isn’t.”

  “You read the contract—you know the bargain. You aren’t going back on your word, are you?” It said, sliding down through the ceiling like heavy smoke, the lime-colored eye scanning his face.

  Abe took a deep breath. “No, you are.”

  It stopped. “What? Nonsense.”

  “The contract calls for you to destroy my enemies, but you haven’t done that yet.”

  A leathery tendril referenced Krim’s skeleton. “This was the last of the so-called Brotherhood.”

  “They aren’t my only enemies.” Abe said. “You haven’t destroyed the mirror men. When you’re done with them, you need to go after the war profiteers and the collaborators and the traitors to Prince Landar’s memory.”

  “If you insist …”

  Abe raised his voice. “Then you need to fix the roads that destroy commerce. You need to repair the aqueducts that pollute our drinking water and do away with the barren farmland that keeps us hungry. You need to rebuild the ruined schools that keep us bereft of knowledge, and the ruined churches that destroy our faith. It won’t be until the sun shines again in Undercity that you, demon, can be said to have destroyed my enemies. Can you do all that?”

  The ghul’s green eye turned yellow, then red. “This is … this is preposterous. There was no indication that your ‘enemies’ were to be metaphorical and …”

  Abe pointed directly at the eye. “Then you should have included that stipulation in the contract. You didn’t, did you?”

  Dead silence. Abe’s heart pounded—he felt as if he might drop dead right there, just from terror. One flick of those horrible tendrils, and he’d be only bones. At last, however, the ghul seemed to sag down to the floor. “What are you, boy? How can you have beaten me?”

  “My father was a lawyer.” Abe held out the spell book. “You are in breach of contract—back in the book with you.”

  And, in the twinkling of an eye, the ghul was gone.

  Seven days later, Abe deposited a wheelbarrow full of bones at a post where the mirror men paid bounties on wanted criminals. It took them a few auguries to verify that the bones belonged to twenty-eight wanted murderers, thieves, and terrorists. They didn’t ask too many prying questions, paid him in gold, and sent him away.

  The next day, Carlo diCarlo appeared at his door. Abe invited him inside, but the smuggler shook his head. “So, you made it, did you? I see you have my money.”

  Abe kicked the heavy strongbox of gold in Carlo’s direction. He also held out the book. “I don’t want this anymore.”

  Carlo looked at it and chuckled. “Neither do I. The damned thing is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Abe gazed down at it—he hadn’t dared to open it since the incident. The thought of those words swirling across the page had practically put him off books altogether. “What am I
supposed to do with it, then?”

  Carlo leaned over, a smirk on his face. “If you want my advice, I’d sell it to some idiot for a king’s ransom.”

  Abe shook his head. “That’s a death sentence.”

  Carlo scooped the strongbox up under one arm and began to stroll away. “That’s funny, Oz—I once thought the very same thing.”

  Twelve Minutes to Vinh Quang

  written by

  Tim Napper

  illustrated by

  QUINLAN SEPTER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tim Napper is an Australian from a quiet country town currently living in the “City of Noise”—Hanoi, Vietnam.

  In 2002, Tim worked for a year as a volunteer in Mongolia, managing a project to support street children. International aid work became his profession after this, and he spent the subsequent eleven years living and working throughout Asia. He lived in Laos for three years, implementing programs that provided basic education to the poorest children in the country, and has also worked in Burma, Indonesia and Papua New Guinea.

  While a voracious reader of science fiction since he was a young boy, Tim only began writing fiction two years ago. He is a fan of Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Kurt Vonnegut, and has a particular obsession with the movie Blade Runner.

  Tim has eased back on his regular job to devote himself to writing and to raising his three-year-old son. Sometimes they have been known to dress up in Star Trek costumes and pilot the couch spaceship on dangerous missions while mum is at work.

  Tim maintains a website at www.nappertime.com and can be found on Twitter @DarklingEarth.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Quinlan Septer was born in 1992 in Tucson, Arizona, and raised in the small town of North Muskegon, Michigan. His desire to experience more than what could be seen with his eyes led him to imagine worlds and characters that he now brings to life through illustration.