alien scythe from beyond that had cut the world to the bone and left a bleached skeleton of a planet dead in the cold of space, never to rise up and look at its stars again.
The humming from the teardrops stopped, as did the fiery lances, which had finished their toil. Thousands of spacecraft hung above the dead world for a moment, then all but one left, back the way they had come. All but one.
It descended to a spot, burned to glass, now cooled enough for landing. The teardrop alighted and all was silent there, save the burning breeze that carried the smell of smoke of the city, of flora, and flesh.
The teardrop sat there, then opened like a glistening flower, misleading to its destructive nature. Then two space-suited figures came out. Both aliens turned about and surveyed the work.
“You know, Mike,” said one, “I really didn’t want it to come to this.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “We didn’t have any choice, Joe.”
“I know,” Joe said. He thought for a moment. “What was it that you called it?”
“Gimme a sec.” The one called Mike wiped his visor of the wind-blown soot that dusted the landscape to the horizon. “Oh, yes.”
He scanned a column of black smoke, its pall turning the sun a hellish red.
“An eye for an eye.”
Allen Quintana is a California native. He doesn’t need a “feminine side” since he’s sided from all points of the compass by five daughters and his lovely wife of 24 years and counting, which inspires his muse with plenty of drama and humor and then some.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SECRETS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3 3.
The Question
D C Mills
I attend the trial in disguise. Of course, I do just about everything in disguise these days, except maybe shower.
For today, I have chosen a vaguely military or Guard-style look: black bodyglove, high boots, crimson leather tunic. An embossed scabbard holding a short, pointed sword on my left hip, and a shoulder holster with two snub-nosed laspistols. Over it all, a long, black cloak with the hood drawn up to shadow my face. Probably an unnecessary precaution these days, but old habits die hard. The overall effect is intended to keep people from looking at me too hard, to avoid risking a violent response to their curiosity.
The trial results, predictably, in a guilty verdict, and the convicted girl is brought straight to the scaffold in the courtyard outside. The crowd pours through the wide doors, now flung open, to take advantage of the full entertainment package. Everybody loves a good burning.
I haven’t seen who I came here to find, so I make my way upstairs to the private chambers of the higher officials. I go to the door with the right name on it, knock, and enter immediately, as if I really were an officer, taking access to any room for granted.
He is standing by the window behind his desk, reading from a data slab while making notes. I have, of course, been watching him for a while, but being in the same room elicits a response from long unused neural pathways. Old emotions awaken.
He looks up, surprised, annoyed at being disturbed, but quickly feigning politeness at the sight of my uniform.
‘What can I do for you, officer?’ He puts down the data slab to show cooperation. Sensible, even for a man of his rank. I wonder, briefly, if I can still trust him.
I pull down the hood of my cloak, releasing the holographic visor.
‘It’s me.’ I say. ‘I’m back.’
He stares at me, as if unsure whether I am real. I can’t say I blame him.
‘I have been mourning you for over a century,’ he says at last. ‘You were said to have died in the fire.’
The fire, indeed. The huge conflagration that destroyed not only our native city, but the surrounding countryside and neighbouring towns: most of the continent, actually, causing the ecosystem of the planet to tilt and slide over the edge.
‘I’m sorry. It was safer to stay in hiding.’
‘Safer? For whom?’
‘For everybody. You,
The humming from the teardrops stopped, as did the fiery lances, which had finished their toil. Thousands of spacecraft hung above the dead world for a moment, then all but one left, back the way they had come. All but one.
It descended to a spot, burned to glass, now cooled enough for landing. The teardrop alighted and all was silent there, save the burning breeze that carried the smell of smoke of the city, of flora, and flesh.
The teardrop sat there, then opened like a glistening flower, misleading to its destructive nature. Then two space-suited figures came out. Both aliens turned about and surveyed the work.
“You know, Mike,” said one, “I really didn’t want it to come to this.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “We didn’t have any choice, Joe.”
“I know,” Joe said. He thought for a moment. “What was it that you called it?”
“Gimme a sec.” The one called Mike wiped his visor of the wind-blown soot that dusted the landscape to the horizon. “Oh, yes.”
He scanned a column of black smoke, its pall turning the sun a hellish red.
“An eye for an eye.”
Allen Quintana is a California native. He doesn’t need a “feminine side” since he’s sided from all points of the compass by five daughters and his lovely wife of 24 years and counting, which inspires his muse with plenty of drama and humor and then some.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SECRETS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3 3.
The Question
D C Mills
I attend the trial in disguise. Of course, I do just about everything in disguise these days, except maybe shower.
For today, I have chosen a vaguely military or Guard-style look: black bodyglove, high boots, crimson leather tunic. An embossed scabbard holding a short, pointed sword on my left hip, and a shoulder holster with two snub-nosed laspistols. Over it all, a long, black cloak with the hood drawn up to shadow my face. Probably an unnecessary precaution these days, but old habits die hard. The overall effect is intended to keep people from looking at me too hard, to avoid risking a violent response to their curiosity.
The trial results, predictably, in a guilty verdict, and the convicted girl is brought straight to the scaffold in the courtyard outside. The crowd pours through the wide doors, now flung open, to take advantage of the full entertainment package. Everybody loves a good burning.
I haven’t seen who I came here to find, so I make my way upstairs to the private chambers of the higher officials. I go to the door with the right name on it, knock, and enter immediately, as if I really were an officer, taking access to any room for granted.
He is standing by the window behind his desk, reading from a data slab while making notes. I have, of course, been watching him for a while, but being in the same room elicits a response from long unused neural pathways. Old emotions awaken.
He looks up, surprised, annoyed at being disturbed, but quickly feigning politeness at the sight of my uniform.
‘What can I do for you, officer?’ He puts down the data slab to show cooperation. Sensible, even for a man of his rank. I wonder, briefly, if I can still trust him.
I pull down the hood of my cloak, releasing the holographic visor.
‘It’s me.’ I say. ‘I’m back.’
He stares at me, as if unsure whether I am real. I can’t say I blame him.
‘I have been mourning you for over a century,’ he says at last. ‘You were said to have died in the fire.’
The fire, indeed. The huge conflagration that destroyed not only our native city, but the surrounding countryside and neighbouring towns: most of the continent, actually, causing the ecosystem of the planet to tilt and slide over the edge.
‘I’m sorry. It was safer to stay in hiding.’
‘Safer? For whom?’
‘For everybody. You,
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