“Aw, she’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

“Yeah, she’s slick, right, and I’m thinking we could get maybe, I dunno, 4 or 5 thousand credits for it. What’d you say? Should we ‘ave a go?”

Skivvy bounced up and down on his feet. “Dunno, dunno. This is Ranger territory, this is. May not get out in time.” He scratched the stubble under his oxy-mask and scowled. “Maybe we’d be better off with one of them lot near the back, eh Jaster?”

He turned just as Jaster’s feet disappeared up the underside hatch. “Jaster! Jaster!” Skivvy rasped. He looked around quickly and followed his partner into the ship.

“Keee-ripes. What’s all this then?” Skivvy’s eyes widened as he looked at row upon row of heavy-tech rifles. “No Ranger I ever seen carry this much HotShot? Jaster, what you know about this here?”

Jaster strutted up behind his friend, one heavy-tech rifle strapped to each forearm. His hand gripped the top handles tightly. “Gah, these are heavier then they look.” His thumb lightly brushed the fire buttons. Skivvy flinched.

“Hold on, hold on. Watch where you’re pointin’ there? You don’t know nothing about no HotShots. Put ‘em back.”

But the gleam in Jaster’s eyes cut through the gloom of the ship. He’d found a new prize, a better one. Mounds of credits washed through his brain. Skivvy’s elbow in his ribs woke him from his fantasy.

“Wha?”

“I said, did you ‘ear that?”

“‘ear what?”

The second blast rocked the ship in it’s grav-dock. A wash of hot air, smelling of acid and smoke wafted up from the floor hatch.

“Someone’s blown up the Ranger post?” Skivvy squeaked.

“Wha? The whole post? No one coulda done that.”

The light from the hatch was cut off as figure clad in Ranger assault armour climbed in. Skivvy and Jaster both threw up their hands, though harder for Jaster, with a 20 kilo HotShot attached to each one.

The figure stood, looking back and forth at each one. He had two HotShots of his own, both glowing from use, a large silver pack on his back and two metal canisters strapped to his legs. He nodded at Jaster.

“You know how to use those?”

Jaster’s mouth dropped, but he said nothing.

There was a high pitched whine as the man charged up his own weapons. “Learn quick. About 500 Rangers will try to climb in this hatch all at the same time.” He unstrapped his now fully-charged HotShots with ease and handed them to Skivvy, who buckled under the weight. “You keep them away from the ship, while I get her ready to go.”

They watched him pass, heading to the controls.

“Go,” Skivvy managed. “Go where?”

But the door between the co[nf]ckpit and them slammed shut.

Jaster shook, but steadied his grip on the weapons. There was shouting outside; the shouting of many, many men.

Skivvy worked on the straps of his own HotShots. “Bloody he[nf]ll, bloody he[nf]ll!”

The first Ranger head came into view.

Isaac Asimov was running quickly now. There wasn’t much time and time was the critical mass here. As he rounded the corner, he ran headlong into Ray Bradbury and they both fell to the ground trembling.

“Did you see them?” asked Ray.

“Not yet. But they’re near,” breathed Isaac.

“How did they find out about us?”

“Someone must have slipped up and wrote about time travel a little bit too accurately,” said Isaac.

Ray pondered the circumstances. They had it made and now someone had found out their little secret. Someone was killing off all of the science fiction writers in their perfect world. A world of minds where fantasy became reality.

“I don’t see how that could be. We edit every book. We are the keepers of time and reality,” said Ray.

“I know, but the portal is open and they’ve entered our world,” said Isaac. They were still on the wet sidewalk when Poul Anderson came running around the corner in a panic.

As he kept running down the empty street, he yelled over his shoulder, “They got Heinlein, they got Heinlein!”

“Oh my God, Robert’s dead! Oh my God! He had the key!” cried Isaac.

Ray just buried his head and began to rock back and forth. He grabbed his knees and hugged himself ever so close. “Not Robert, no, not Robert.”

“We’ve got to do something. We have to close the portal before it’s too late. There will be more and if they find out how to create other worlds, billions will die,” cried Isaac.

‘Not my worlds! Not all of my worlds! I love them. I created them. I didn’t have to share them, but I did. Why are they doing this?” wailed Ray.

“It’s jealousy or power or fear. I don’t know. Someone found out that what we write becomes reality. They found out that it’s not fiction once we put it into words. They know about our worlds now. Ray, we have to get out of here and continue to write before the darkness takes over,” said Isaac as he raised himself up.

“My worlds, my people. They’re all disappearing,” cried Ray.

“We can’t give up. We have to fight. A long time ago, you wrote about a door. A door that led to the past. We have to find it again. We have to find it now!” yelled Isaac.

“The past? No, that won’t work this time. They know about it. They’ve read about it. We have to write again. It has to be something new. We have to create a new world and a new solution. I’m sure they’re watching the door, the portals…I know that they’re reading our words right now,’ reasoned Ray.

“But my office, my typewriter, my computer….they’re all gone!” screamed Isaac in a panic. “How can I write a story without them?”

Ray stood up with Isaac. He reached over and put his fingers on Isaac’s eyes and began speaking…

“The intruders made their first mistake when…”

Scion thought it was quite interesting, these humans. They were so fragile, yet so interesting to examine. When Scion looked closely, they were quite different, indeed. Small, minute, differences became noticeable as Scion observed them closely.

What was most unique, was their souls. Quite interesting, indeed. Other creatures had no souls whatsoever. They were just shells or bodies. But these humans were so complex. This soul thing was intriguing.

Scion liked to experiment with them and see the changes. No other creature that he had seen had such a wide array of variance.

Scion pondered on the humans before him. He looked closely at their faces and bodily structure. Quite interesting, indeed. How they changed, when he removed their soul! Their faces would go limp and smooth out completely. No expressions. No screaming. No uniqueness from the others. Oddly enough, they still had fear.

But, the next experiment is what Scion pondered the most.

He would remove the soul from one human and put it in another. What changes! What differences! How they would run around at first!

One human would have a pattern that they followed faithfully. A simple expression on their face, a mode of thought, a routine that they adhered to. But a new soul made all the difference in the new body that it resided.

Bodies that were lazy, suddenly became active, productive, and changed their habits. One human might be argumentative with other humans. Yet a new soul and the body behaved differently. Interesting indeed. How the souls could control the bodies!

The bodies didn’t seem to have much influence over what the humans did. Scion discovered that it was the soul that determined the outcome of how the body functioned.

Scion also found that human bodies could break quite easily. Legs would fall off or arms would snap like a twig. Too much pressure and the body would simply expire. The bodies didn’t stay warm for long after that. But the souls, they remained.

Now souls were a different story. Scion could take them out of the bodies and manipulate them for long periods of time. They didn’t seem to break completely. Some would bend and almost end. But the souls never seemed to die.

They were resilient. It was the souls that fought back. Not the bodies. When Scion removed the soul from the body, the body reacted, but it didn’t fight like when the soul was still attached.

Scion loved playing with the souls. Some would give up and quiver, but they never died. Some of them, especially one in particular, fought like there was no tomorrow. They were elastic and pliable. He could do most anything with them. But this one soul that fought so hard was the most fun.

Scion’s mother hovered above him.

“Scion, what have we told you about these humans?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. 'Don’t play with your food.' I won’t do it again.”

Meanwhile, Chase Jackson was going crazy trying to figure out what to do next.

“Sibyl! Come back here this instant!”

Sibyl ignored her mother’s calls and ran along the beaten path to the river, escaping her dreaded chores. She stopped at the riverbed and sat down on an old log, taking the weight off her tired body. Looking at the calluses forming on her hands, she swore never to weave again. Becoming a housewife would not suit her… no, she would become the first lady knight! She could imagine herself now; a white horse, shining armor, and a longsword by her side. Getting up, Sibyl broke off a branch from a neighboring tree and parried an invisible enemy’s attack, countering with her own. The evil doers fell to her might as she struck again and again into the air.

Coming out of her daydream, Sibyl walked upstream along the river’s side to avoid her searching mother. Farther from home than she had been in a long time, Sibyl’s curiosity took over. An animal track led aside from the river, and she turned onto it to investigate. Winding away from the river, it made its way up into the mountains. According to her parents, the mountains were home to fearsome beasts, but she trekked onward. She doubted her parent’s stories but she wanted to see these beasts for herself.

The sun had passed noon when Sibyl came to a stop on the mountainside. From her vantage point, she could see her entire village. The baker’s shop along the main road right next to the blacksmith and the inn. A few houses finished the town proper, and paths led out to the various farms. The forest and river bordered it to the north and west, and her mountain in the south.

After lunching on the berries around her, Sibyl was ready to go home. Her mother would scold her for running away, but all would be well soon after. Dinner would be served and she could fill herself with her mother’s delicious stew and bread. Just before she started home, a glare caught her eye. Moving for a better view, she realized it was a group of armored men riding into town. Perhaps they were the king’s men, coming to check on the town, thought Sibyl. She couldn’t miss an event like that!

Sibyl ran full speed back along the same way she had come, dodging tree limbs and roots in her way. At the trailhead leading to the town, she paused to catch her breath for the final sprint to the town. The town was amiss though, for black smoke billowed up from the town, smudging the sky.

Keeping to the woods, Sibyl crept up to the edge of the forest. The entire town was aflame, and the armored men rode their horses across her view. They carried bags full of loot and to her dismay, several had women draped over the back of their horses. She recognized her mother on one as they rode out of her view. Tears began streaming down her face.

She stood upon the precipice, the dusty land stretching out in the distance.

Behind her, the queen bled.

"Faith, dear ruler, your kingdom will be well looked after."

Turning slowly, taking in the glory of her new bounty, Falon faced her victim. The queen lay prone in the sand, bright velvet robes matted with dirt and blood, her crown lost during the chase. She tried desperately to force herself up, but she coughed more blood and fell forward.

"Your strength is legendary, my lady, as is your pride. But I fear your intelligence was exaggerated."

Falon prodded at the queen's side with the bottom of her pike. She stepped closer, wanting to watch the woman die.
With the last of her will, the queen gripped the base of Falon's weapon. The warrior, tugging hard, could not free it from her grasp. Spilling blood and slime from her lips, the queen looked up and spoke.

"Valhalla itself shall not be succor to your misery. From Odin's own eye shall your tears flow." She spat the words, her right hand holding onto the base of the pike, her left frantically scribbling runes in the dust.

Falon jabbed down, trying to shake the woman loose. "Your curses have no power here. On this rock, you are outside of your kingdom. This is not your land, this is not your magic."

The queen's voice rose, speaking an ancient tongue, "Feldroon, bathlierden," she shouted, the fingers of her left hand blurring as she wrote.

"Queen, this is not your land!" Falon yelled. She lurched backward as the queen suddenly let go of the pike.

"My land," she choked and turned to face the runes in the dirt. She breathed deeply and spat a mouthful of blood onto the crazed patterns. The queen brought her hand down on the slick mess and spoke once more.

"Where my blood meet the soil, there is my land..." she coughed and closed her eyes, "where my land meets the sky, there is your curse."

As the queen took her last breath, Falon howled.

My trouble all began when…

No, that’s not right. I could start there, but I should really give a small preface to my tale first.

I’d gotten into the village of Rainwater a little early, relatively speaking. The first inn I came across was called The Leaky Barrel, and seemed as likely as any would be for dinner and a night’s rest.

Entering, I took a seat in a dark corner of the common room, as I prefer to not be noticeable.

The first trouble walked in the door shortly after I did. Five people—three women, two men—came in. I knew their type as soon as I saw them: They called themselves adventurers, but I thought of them as troublemakers. By themselves, they weren’t a problem. They came in and sat down at a table reasonably well away from me, which I thought was a good thing.

Then three men—three overly-macho men—walked in. This was trouble brewing, as their sort caused trouble for adventurers. Sure enough, in less than fifteen minutes they were harassing one of the waitresses.

Bouncers stepped up, and were promptly knocked down. An armor-clad adventurer shook his head, stood up, and stepped over to the troublemakers’ table.

Nevermind the details; suffice to say words were passed. A punch was thrown, but it never connected. The adventurer used the momentum of the punch to flip his attacker onto a table behind him. Alcohol and cards went flying everywhere, upsetting the occupants of the table.

This is not where my trouble began.

A barroom brawl was quickly in progress. I began edging towards the exit, but my attempt to leave was a bit too late. I ducked and twisted, trying to get to the exit before the city guard showed up. I was several feet from the door when I sensed something was headed in my direction.

I looked and saw that it was one of the three adventurer-women sailing through the air. I had not seen her get thrown, but I knew she was gonna smack her into the wall pretty hard; she was going to miss the door by several inches.

Now, I’m no hero type, but even I’m not so cold-hearted as to let a pretty girl get her face broken up or worse. I leapt, intercepting her. It was something of a flying tackle I launched, knocking her out of the air while going airborne myself.

We landed on the other side of the doorway, doing a funny roll that somehow kept us from hitting any of the people or the bar’s furniture. I’m not sure how it happened, but we split apart, then I tumbled into a sitting position while she skidded to a stop face down two feet in front of me.

Her head popped up, and she gave me a curious look.

“I love you!” she exclaimed.

That, good reader, is where my trouble began.

"Two ships were stolen from the city where he was last reported seen, one a shipper and one a privateship. The shipper was found two days ago on Deedian Ori in the possession of a merc who claimed he acquired it when he picked up another wanted, Osis Madry. The privateship is still missing, and we believe that to be our best lead to Endder.

"The offer made by..."

The governments always vie against each other for their wanteds. Each one tries to outbid the others so they can make an example of those who have wronged them, to show that they are the one power in the universe that is meant to be feared above all others.

In the world of wanteds and mercs and bounty hunters, government punishments are laughed at and ridiculed. It's the prison bids that keep wanteds on the run. Governments want to make an example of you, but prisons want to break you.

Some of us are bounty hunters only because we have prison bids on us. They're the places of our nightmares, those prisons. They're dark places where nothing is sacred, where you have to fight to keep your sanity and rarely succeed. They're places we've been before but managed to escape from, and even knowing we could escape again, would escape again, none of us want to go back.

We're the weakest of our kind, wanteds who've sold our souls to escape the black pits of our own fears. The bounty hunters, the ones who do the job because they respect the law and hate those who don't, they keep their distance. There's an air of superiority about them when they see us. They close up ranks and force us to side with each other if we want a chance. They undercut us on our hunts and shortchange us on a wage that's already an eighth of theirs.

But it's an easy price to pay, an easy way to live, because there's no fear with them. They can't hurt us, not without losing the privileges and wages they feel they deserve. It's the wanteds, the ones we chase down and bring in, that we have to fear. They remember our names for when they get out again. They hunt us just as we hunted them and pay retribution for being put where we are too scared to go.

Endder remembers my name. He told me that he'd remember it, that he'd remember my face and my scent. He said he'd remember the fear in my eyes. He said he'd remember the things about me that cosmetics and surgery and genetic alteration wouldn't erase. He'd remember the things that would make me stand out in a crowd—the things that would make me an easy target.

I can feel him watching me already.

Moving at nearly 3,000 miles per hour, the only noise was the incessant buzzing in my head, a noise so sporadic that neither I nor any other human being could have ever completely ignored it. In the absurdity of a train silently moving at such an incredible speed only millimeters away from the wall of the tunnel, the noise became overpowering.

I looked down at the pocket on the seat ahead of me. First to spring to my eyes was the ubiquitous depressurization guide, in the event of catastrophic failure. I suppose there was some chance, however far-fetched, that a man could survive five hundred feet of seawater crashing down on him as a train going 3,000 miles per hour in a frictionless environment came to a very abrupt stop.

A single beep from the screen to my left broke the silence, and my eyes quickly snapped back to attention. The screen flashed urgently:”London: 20 minutes.” Sighing, I shook my head. Only halfway into the trip. What could one possibly do during twenty idle minutes? Such annoying news at least had the benefit of letting me forget the buzzing, if only for a moment. Anxiously adjusting in my seat, I suddenly found myself with an insatiable desire to fidget.
Eyes darting quickly left and right, I surveyed my surroundings like a caged animal before finally laying my head back to rest. This worked only for a moment, as I soon found myself tapping my fingers to the beat of a song I had heard in the terminal just before I left. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Why was I even going to London? My memory was vague, perhaps as a result of my anxiety, or maybe that buzzing. Was I perhaps going to meet someone? Yes, that was it. I could see the person in my head…but wait, I had never met this person before, I was sure of it.

The Prime Minister, that’s who it was! How did I have a meeting with the Prime Minister, though? Suddenly the reason that I was on this train to see that man hit me.

A feeling of calm flowed through my body, seemingly involuntarily. It was met by a rush of adrenaline, but the adrenaline offer no real opposition, and I found myself drifting off to sleep.

A single beep emanated from the screen to my left, waking me with a jolt. The unrelenting buzzing again rose in my head, having missed not even a beat during my sleep. My face formed the puzzled look as if I had remembered and then forgotten something. After thinking intently for a short while, I suddenly remembered that the screen had beeped, and I turned my head to face the new message.

“London: 20 minutes.”

Deep in the Main Hangar the shadows danced around the lone figure of the Director of Regeneration as he sat contemplating, a grave look upon his face. The rebellion had begun on the mainland and there was no stopping it, their reasons were just and they were angry. There were less than a hundred men left inside now, not counting the thousand strong Army produced by the company itself. Their barracks were on the South of the island and little was seen of them inside the actual Unit, much to the relief of the employees. They had nicknamed them the Army of the Dead. This thought raised the Directors spirits a little. They were an awesome force produced purely for combat and no more; unbeatable, unyielding and resolutely loyal. Even the Government knew nothing of them.

He rose awkwardly on his bad ankle and limped out of the office towards the main Production Sector. The flickering lights turned his hunched, white coated form intermittently red as he trudged along the iron mesh of the dark tunnel. Production was still at full capacity despite the ominous future. The Government had cut off all links with them now, wiped their hands clean without a word of reason. Not that any was needed of course. The initial experiments had gone so well; the first batches had received no suspicion from the public at all, it was perfect. Reminiscing, the Director stood silently to have his retina scanned, a whoosh of air and a wall of noise slammed into the mans being as the great doors of the Production Sector opened.

He paused a second, never failing to be awed by the spectacle; a phenomenon of ingenuity, technology and genetics infused to recreate the most precious thing of all. Gathering his thoughts he walked on through the hive of activity. Past the incalculable lengths of wiring, past the great Vivacity chambers bubbling away, past the Conditioning Units two storeys high. He nodded a solemn recognition at the scientists he passed; many of these people had been reproduced within these four vast walls.
“Anything to report?” he asked sharply of a pale-faced man.
“Nothing new Director, although the Naturals store is close to exhaustion. At this rate we shall be forced to use amputees sooner than expected. When are the new subjects arriving sir?”
“Soon” the Director replied irritably as he turned to walk away.

But as he did he was stopped in his tracks by a strange noise, one that he didn’t recognise and yet which even overwhelmed the great tumult of the plant.
The alarm.
The other staff were already rushing for the exits. One of them bumped into the Director, he twisted and his ankle gave way under him. Sprawled on the floor with people diving over his limp body he felt his walkie-talkie vibrate at his hip and as he raised it to his ear he heard through the crackling resonance the words he had been dreading.

“The rebels are here!”

“All right now, lad, it’s time ya went ta bed.”

“Oh, Grandpa, do I have ta?”

“Yes, yes. You’ll be tucked in the same time your ma was at your age. I’ll go grab your new storybook.”

“But Grandpa, I don’t want one of dose stories from ya.”

“Oh? I thought ya liked those new versions of fairy tales.”

“Aye, I do. But I like your stories better. All the ones that have magic and knights and dragons.”

“I might have guessed. And I do have a tale yet to tell ya that fits. Of a group of travelers brought together by fate underneath the roof of an extraordinary inn. The magical being that used willing hosts to survive outside its home realm. The ranger constantly seeking new places and adventures. The former slave who escaped his foul captors looking for a fresh start. The cleric and worker of clays, bringing his sculptures to another land. The thief turned vampire against his will, always fighting that creature’s normal hungers. The 10 foot tall giant standing against all that was evil with his intelligent sword. And the dragon; oh yes, definitely a dragon – after all, the name of this tale is ‘The Dragon Quest’.”

“And all these heroes, they get together to kill the dragon, right?”

“No, lad. They band together as one in an effort to save it.”

“Really? From what?”

“Now, just let me tell the story in my own time. We’re not yet at the start. But let us begin.”

The door opens swiftly, allowing the bright light of the day into the pub called The Dragon’s Inn. A figure steps into view, catching the eyes of many inside. Those that do look see a human of just over 6 feet tall, his thick red hair a bit ragged. He wears a shirt and pants a deep forest green, with a weapon sheathed on either side. A thin layer of dust from traveling the road covers his clothing.

He carefully makes his way to the bar, adjusting to the light, the activity, the wide mix of creatures he sees within, and mostly to the unusual architecture of the place. It must be illusion, but there seemed far more dark corners in the building than structurally possible. He reaches his destination, orders a meal, and looks for a place to rest.

To his luck, two people depart just then, leaving one man alone at a table. On impulse, the ranger heads there, and exchanges eye contact with the seated man, who is clothed entirely in black, and carries the presence of someone who’s seen much.

Finally, the wariorr breaks the silence. “I hope you don’t mind my boldness, but I saw this chair open and figured you might want the company. I’ve ordered a meal – is there anything I can get for you?”

The other inhabitant gives a wide smile, allowing the light to show a brief glint of his fangs. “A meal, you say?” he responds.