Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline by Glen Cook Page A
Authors: Glen Cook
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy, Short Stories, Fantasy - General, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction And Fantasy, Space warfare, Fantasy - Short Stories
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original will left Moira more than anyone had anticipated. It set up a trust that assured her a place in Edgeward’s life.
And life went on.
----
Twenty: 3052 AD
We were not a cuddly, loving family, but we had our moments. Most of them were a little bizarre.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
----
Twenty-One: 3031 AD
The Faceless Man smiled and reached out to Benjamin. He wore nothing. He had no hair, no sex. Benjamin cowered, whimpering. The Faceless Man came toward him with a steady, confident step.
Benjamin whirled with a weak wail, ran. The gooey street grabbed at his feet. He pumped his legs with everything he had, yet they barely moved, pistoning in slowed motion.
The streets and walls of the city were a uniform, blinding white. The buildings had no windows. The doors were almost imperceptible. He flitted from one to another, pounding, crying, “Help me!”
No one answered.
He looked back. The Faceless Man followed him with that smile and confident stride, hand outreaching, his pace no greater than before.
Benjamin fled again, along the molasses street.
Now they opened their little peepholes when he pounded. They looked out and laughed. He flung himself from door to door. The laughter built into a chorus.
His tears flowed. Sweat poured off him. He shuddered constantly. His body ached with his exertion.
He looked back. The Faceless Man was at exactly the same distance, walking steadily, hand outstretched.
He ran in a straight line, trying to gain ground. They laughed at him from the rooftops. They called his name, “Benjamin! Benjamin!” in a feral chant. “Run, little Benjamin, run.”
He gasped around a corner into a cul-de-sac. He moaned in terror, whirled, and . . . The Faceless Man was corning to him, reaching.
He threw himself against the walls. He tried to find a foothold, a way to scale their ivory slickness. “Please! Please don’t!”
A hand touched his shoulder. The palm and fingers were icy. Thumb and forefinger squeezed together. Fire lanced through his muscles.
He spun and flung himself at the Faceless Man, clamping his fingers around the throat beneath the unyielding smile.
An unseen hand slapped his face, back and forth, back and forth. He did not relax his grip. A tiny fist began pounding his nose and cheeks.
The real pain reached through his terror. He shook all over, like an epileptic in the first second of seizure.
His eyelids rose. He stared into Pollyanna’s terrified face. His hands were at her throat. Her bed was a sweat-soaked disaster. She had scratches on her face and marks on her throat that would become bruises. She kept punching weakly.
He yanked the offending hands away. “Oh, Christ!” he murmured. “Oh, Holy Christ!” He slithered back out of the bed, stood over her for a moment. The shaking would not stop. The layer of sweat covering him was chilling him. He seized a robe. It did nothing to warm him.
“Polly, Honey. Polly. I’m sorry. Are you all right? It was the nightmare . . . It was worse than I ever had it. He caught me this time. I’m sorry. I thought I was fighting him. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?” He could not stop talking.
His heart hammered. The fear would not go away. He almost expected the Faceless Man to step into the apartment.
Pollyanna nodded. “Water,” she croaked.
He crossed to her bathroom, found a glass, tried to fill it. He dropped it twice before getting it to her half full.
She had hitched herself up in bed. She was rubbing her throat with one hand while staring at him timorously. She accepted the glass. “You need help,” she whispered. “No! Stay away.”
“That’s the dream . . . I run through these streets yelling for help and they all laugh at me. And he keeps on coming . . . He caught me this time. Polly, I don’t know what it means. I’m scared. Honey, please don’t pull away. I’m all right now. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was fighting him.”
Pollyanna
And life went on.
----
Twenty: 3052 AD
We were not a cuddly, loving family, but we had our moments. Most of them were a little bizarre.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
----
Twenty-One: 3031 AD
The Faceless Man smiled and reached out to Benjamin. He wore nothing. He had no hair, no sex. Benjamin cowered, whimpering. The Faceless Man came toward him with a steady, confident step.
Benjamin whirled with a weak wail, ran. The gooey street grabbed at his feet. He pumped his legs with everything he had, yet they barely moved, pistoning in slowed motion.
The streets and walls of the city were a uniform, blinding white. The buildings had no windows. The doors were almost imperceptible. He flitted from one to another, pounding, crying, “Help me!”
No one answered.
He looked back. The Faceless Man followed him with that smile and confident stride, hand outreaching, his pace no greater than before.
Benjamin fled again, along the molasses street.
Now they opened their little peepholes when he pounded. They looked out and laughed. He flung himself from door to door. The laughter built into a chorus.
His tears flowed. Sweat poured off him. He shuddered constantly. His body ached with his exertion.
He looked back. The Faceless Man was at exactly the same distance, walking steadily, hand outstretched.
He ran in a straight line, trying to gain ground. They laughed at him from the rooftops. They called his name, “Benjamin! Benjamin!” in a feral chant. “Run, little Benjamin, run.”
He gasped around a corner into a cul-de-sac. He moaned in terror, whirled, and . . . The Faceless Man was corning to him, reaching.
He threw himself against the walls. He tried to find a foothold, a way to scale their ivory slickness. “Please! Please don’t!”
A hand touched his shoulder. The palm and fingers were icy. Thumb and forefinger squeezed together. Fire lanced through his muscles.
He spun and flung himself at the Faceless Man, clamping his fingers around the throat beneath the unyielding smile.
An unseen hand slapped his face, back and forth, back and forth. He did not relax his grip. A tiny fist began pounding his nose and cheeks.
The real pain reached through his terror. He shook all over, like an epileptic in the first second of seizure.
His eyelids rose. He stared into Pollyanna’s terrified face. His hands were at her throat. Her bed was a sweat-soaked disaster. She had scratches on her face and marks on her throat that would become bruises. She kept punching weakly.
He yanked the offending hands away. “Oh, Christ!” he murmured. “Oh, Holy Christ!” He slithered back out of the bed, stood over her for a moment. The shaking would not stop. The layer of sweat covering him was chilling him. He seized a robe. It did nothing to warm him.
“Polly, Honey. Polly. I’m sorry. Are you all right? It was the nightmare . . . It was worse than I ever had it. He caught me this time. I’m sorry. I thought I was fighting him. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?” He could not stop talking.
His heart hammered. The fear would not go away. He almost expected the Faceless Man to step into the apartment.
Pollyanna nodded. “Water,” she croaked.
He crossed to her bathroom, found a glass, tried to fill it. He dropped it twice before getting it to her half full.
She had hitched herself up in bed. She was rubbing her throat with one hand while staring at him timorously. She accepted the glass. “You need help,” she whispered. “No! Stay away.”
“That’s the dream . . . I run through these streets yelling for help and they all laugh at me. And he keeps on coming . . . He caught me this time. Polly, I don’t know what it means. I’m scared. Honey, please don’t pull away. I’m all right now. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was fighting him.”
Pollyanna
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