“I have no appreciation of danger,” said the boy as he and Gry sat on the mountain once again, this time under the midnight sky. “You think that that’s what allows me to take these risks, but you’ve mixed it up. I take risks because I’m trying to learn that appreciation.”
Gry stayed silent.
“Look at yourself,” continued Wilson. “Your body is perfect. Its growth has been monitored and focused since before conception so that you’ve never had to bother with its maintenance. You eat to excess, anything that pleases your tongue or eye. Yet, you’re so fit that two hundred years ago when they still had athletes, you could have been in the Olympics. But have you ever had to exercise?”
“Most people would say that technology has freed us.” said Gry, slipping into teacher style.
“Freed us to do what? Drift? Vegetate?”
“That’s hardly fair. No one is idle. Art and science are both in a golden age the likes of which no civilization has ever seen before.”
“You’re wrong,” said Wilson, tossing pebbles over the cliff. “The art’s the worst of it. It’s beautiful, but it has no soul. No tension.”
“So what would you say is good art?”
Wilson contemplated the stones in his hand.
“Romeo and Juliet.”
#
Gry had begun to truly know Wilson one day when the boy’s status alert had gone off while Gry supervised his class Stream. As the indicator flashed on the computer-projected Environment Vision Interface overlaid on his sight, Gry mentally requested a recheck. Not that the computer ever made a mistake, but human nature demanded he make sure.
The boy had turned his Warden off and the binary stream that had been pouring into his brain had nowhere to go. This kid is becoming a real pain. Yet, Gry relished the all too rare chance of tackling a Streamline mess. He cut Wilson’s sub-flow then vented the knowledge stream back into the main highway through the backflow line.
No! Traffic was backing up too fast. Detour options appeared; were accepted or discarded. Gry noted the task timer when normal flow resumed: 14.3 milliseconds. His true satisfaction in this job came from knowing he was the best.
“Incoming message.” This from the seldom used class dialogue channel. It was Wilson.
Gry asked, “Do you realize how dangerous that was?”
“It was worth the risk,” said Wilson, from wherever in the city his home was.
“Streaming isn’t ‘cut and paste’. We’re talking about rewiring brain cells. That takes time. When you shut that off in the middle of writi—“
“I bet the computer failsafe had it covered the whole way.”
“The computer never had to enter into it,” said Gry. “This behavior is still unacceptable and will be considered in your evaluation.”
“That’s what I messaged you about,” said Wilson. “I need you to not put this in a report.”
“It’s procedure. I can’t omit it.”
“You’re such a slave! Do you do everything you’re told?”
Even though he saw the kid’s game quite clearly, the question still irritated Gry.
Wilson said, “Look, I’m offering you a deal.”
“What is it?”
“Cut me free for a couple of hours each day.”
“Are you mad?”
“Do that and I won’t switch off the Warden during class,” said Wilson.
“I can handle switch-offs.”
“Yeah, but if you get twenty a day, I bet the higher ups will ask questions. Bad for your teaching career.”
This behavior amazed Gry. Streaming was such a painless teaching method that rebellion against it was unheard of.
“I accept,” said Gry, “on condition that I supervise your down time.”
“No problem.”
When Wilson signed off, Gry called up the Stream records for the kid’s switch-off. He found that the computer had completed the vent protocols long before he had done the job himself. It had simply been waiting for his 20 millisecond time allowance to expire before it stepped in.
Fuck. The kid was right.
#
That night Gry created a nice girl. Elena de Souza he named her. Blonde. Perky tits. Twenty-four. As they coupled on a storm-lashed beach—Gry in fact lying in bed with his familiar Seattle apartment around him, Elena and the beach a construct in his mind—the Warden’s stimulators fired his synapses for him, creating all the sensations of sex—the smells and tastes, touches and heat. After his brisk and robust orgasm, they spooned together on the sand. While he slept alone in his bed, Elena kept him faithful company through the night.
#
According to the EVI the boy was 4529 meters away, the distance rapidly closing as Gry cruised through the air in his little force bubble. A small file readout appeared, linked to the image of the boy by a thin green line: “Dal Wilson, age 14 years 65 days, Male, Contact key 2123-OC-19-Toadboy…” Gry could access other information—hobbies, student history, parental information and more, if he wanted.
Around Gry, the Dakota badlands flashed by, half-an-hour after starting his trip. Coming over a ridge, he felt blessed by the view of stark rocks, thrusting out of the green plain like sea monsters. He captured the moment through his eyes, saving the image in the Warden’s hard drive.
“I can see why you would want to meet out here,” he said to Wilson over the messenger.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gry, landing on the mountaintop Wilson had chosen.
“Am I under your supervision now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Nothing visible changed around Wilson, but Gry knew the boy’s protective force-field was gone. Goosebumps broke out all over him thinking of how vulnerable the fragile flesh and blood before him was.
“You know, maybe we should stop for a minute—“
“Don’t be a coward,” said Wilson wandering to the cliff edge.
“Stop!” Gry pulled him back.
“Wow,” said Wilson. “I guess when you say ‘supervise’, you mean supervise.”
“I never promised you freedom. Just that I’d let you turn the Warden off. Now, sit there and don’t move.”
Wilson sat flat on the ground, smiling as if he had just won the argument. He located a large rock and held it close before him, examining it. Gry telescoped his EVI in, to see what interested Wilson so much. Sensing his focus, the Warden opened a file window before Gry’s eyes, linked to the rock by the ubiquitous thin green line.
Estimated mass, spectral analysis, three dimensional imaging… Options again offered themselves to him.
“Why are you holding it so close?” Gry asked.
“To get a good look.”
“But why don’t you just—“
Then Gry realized the boy’s EVI was off. The idea of Wilson facing the world without any assistance—without any insight—gave Gry shivers worse than when he had thought about the absent force-field.
“How can you learn anything using just your eyes?”
“It was just eyes that our ancestors used when they first took rocks and sparked fires. Took them and struck down their enemies.”
Gry smiled at the boy’s ready defense.
“But they were inefficient,” he told Wilson, feeling like an actual teacher for the first time in his life. “They could never be sure of success.”
“Exactly! Imagine how thrilling life must have been for them.”
“Imagine how terrifying,” said Gry.
“Yes. But at least they felt their emotions without any insulation.”
“Look, Wilson, if it’s adrenaline you’re looking for I can arrange a Freedisc game with some tough opp—“
“It’s not the same thing.”
“You have a better idea?”
That victor’s smile from Wilson again. “Actually, I do.” Wilson pressed a red button on his wristband.
From below the cliff, two machines floated up on autopilot to land near them. Each had a low seat and handlebars, with flared cowlings on the bottom.
“Hoverbikes!” said Gry.
“Yeah. These are from the last batch ever made. Thirty years old. They cost me practically nothing. I’ve disabled the mental interface”
“Manual control?” asked Gry, disbelieving.
“Yeah, it’s not hard. Here, let me Stream you the info packet.”
And just like that, Gry knew how to operate a hovercycle.
“Come on,” said Wilson, hopping onto a bike.
“No,” said Gry, as Wilson eased out over the cliff edge. In his mind he imagined the boy slipping, falling, breaking, at the foot of the cliff (69.6 meters below according to his EVI). “Get off that thing.”
Even though their convenience had eliminated most of the need for vehicles, Gry knew that his field bubble could never go as fast as Wilson’s machine. Wilson circled into the air, further out of reach.
“Get down here now, Wilson. You’re going to injure yourself.”
“Tell you what,” said Wilson. “I promise to do what you say, if you can tag me.”
“No. I’m not doing this.”
“You say ‘no’ way too much. When you make up your mind, I’ll be out in the canyons.”
The boy was going to kill himself. Wilson had obviously grown up with such faith in the shield’s constant protection that even now, with it turned off, he found it hard to appreciate danger.
Despite Gry’s expectations, the bike controls felt natural to him. The twisting of his muscles to command the levers and handles created a feeling of power. Gry was immediately master of the machine.
He found Wilson at the entrance to a jagged canyon, the boy obviously waiting on him. There was little difficulty in the chase at first. Gry was even certain a few times that he could have bumped against Wilson’s bike, but could think only of Wilson being thrown against the rocks below if he did.
Then the route became confused. Gry was forced to hang back, giving himself time to respond to Wilson’s moves as they raced along random ravines. He damned his human nerves. The lapse between his thinking a motion and his arm actually responding was maddening. Yet, the cutting sense of how overextended he was in mind and body made him feel like a man newly awakened. His temperature regulators could do nothing to stop the sweat dripping down his body. Pride swelled his heart with every successful maneuver as he chased Wilson.
His dread and concern returned all at once when he saw Wilson make a turn moments too late. Sliding sideways, the underside of the boy’s bike snagged and he tumbled out (Gry’s EVI told him that Wilson’s velocity was 214 meters per second). There was no way for the boy to avoid a collision with the canyon wall.
There was zero impact, however.
Alive and whole, Wilson stood, looking around himself. Ditching the bike, Gry ran over to him.
“How--?” But there was only one explanation. The instant before contact, the Warden’s shield had sprung to life, the force-field holding skin, bones, organs and flesh together with such firm gentleness that Wilson had never felt a thing.
“I expected this,” said Wilson fingering the Warden’s housing belt around his waist. “It would never allow me to truly turn it off. It was only playing dead.”
“What’s dead is our deal,” said Gry. “This is a lot more than you had any right to ask me for. I don’t care if you pull a hundred switch-offs a day.”
#
Three weeks with no trouble. Then Wilson wanted to talk. Just talk; no messing with the Warden. So Gry agreed to meet him on the mountain a second time.
“‘Romeo and Juliet’ is misunderstood,” said Gry. “People always think it’s about the glory of love. If you examine what Shakespeare is really saying, though, he thinks that letting emotion rule the intellect is…tragic.”
“You piped me Shakespeare last year. Remember? I already know that.”
Gry’s EVI offered to display the text of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for him. He declined.
Wilson said, “Those two knew there would be repercussions. The entire play is a race against the events they set in motion. And the closer their doom, the more they could feel the sharpness of life. Death was like the gravity in their emotional world.”
Gravity strength at Gry’s location was currently at 9.814 N/kg, according to an EVI pop-up.
“There’s more to think about than life and death,” said Gry. “What about happiness?”
“Would you rather be dead or unhappy?”
“Unhappy, I suppose.”
“You see?” said Wilson. “There’s only one consequence that matters—death.”
“Nobody’s immortal,” said Gry. “People still die every day.”
“Does it ever irk you that your job doesn’t really matter?”
“It matters a lot—“

The monument has no official name.  It seemed to appear out of nowhere one day when I was ten.  My family was on our way to the lake, taking the red dirt road through the farmland at Lot's Acre, when I saw a white concrete obelisk at the roadside, fenced by white wood staves.

"What's that?" I asked my dad, the human encyclopedia (or so I considered him at that age.)

"There used to be a town here."  He stopped the van.  "Let's take a look, guys."  I loved these impromptu explorations.  Mom stayed with the picnic basket.  "Old man McLennan put this up to celebrate the Founders," said Dad.  "This is where your great-great-grandfather and all the other folk settled when they came over from Scotland."  The dedication ceremony, three weeks earlier, had been attended only by the McLennan family, once owners of a big chunk of Lot's Acre.

My family had driven down this thin, straight, road to the lake a dozen times a year since before I could remember, yet this was the first time I was hearing of the town at Lot's Acre.

I looked around and, in my mind, the wheat fields on either side disappeared, replaced by carts, horses and unpainted log cabins separated by rutted wagon tracks.

"But there's nothing here now," I said, returning to the empty reality around us.

"The railway came through on the other side of the river, so everybody eventually moved there."

As we drove off, I contemplated how I was joined with the Clay County soil by generations of blood and bones.  That's why it never surprised me that whenever I passed the monument afterwards, my peripheral vision flickered with glimpses of the lost town.

#

These days, I'm a great fan of internet porn.  It's always available, it's private and the only person you have to satisfy is yourself.  Of course, I have nothing to judge it against, since--at nineteen--it's the only sexual outlet I've ever had.  So, take a wild guess at what I was doing that quiet Saturday night, when Rick called my cell phone.

"Hello, Ian?" he asked.  In the background, I heard countless loud voices.

"That you, Rick?"

"Where are you?" he asked in that careful lilting way I thought of as a fag voice, though it wasn't, really.

"I'm at home," I said.

"Well, I am at the fairground."

I moaned.  "You're kidding.  I thought you weren't coming."

"Dinah begged Granny for me."

"Dude, since you said you wouldn't be there, I stayed home."  This miss was typical of our quasi-romance.  Just then, the phone went dead, which was even more typical.

I refused to call him back.  For one thing, my back ached from mending fences all day and, for another, he had interrupted my little session at the computer.  So it was back to the sleek, tanned men of the internet for me.

But just then, through the bay windows, I saw the moon for the first time that night.  It was riding high over the pines, casting shadows that were like sly spells pointed right at me.

Clair de Lune.

There's a story I read once about this crazy kid who goes wandering off in the middle of the night, walking under a

magic-blue, moonlit sky.  Not much plot, but the story was suffused with the moon's glow; following the boy on a visit to this girl he had a crush on.  I had been sure it was a stalker story setup, but it turned out to be rather sweet:  They played moonlight wiffle ball in her backyard and then she sent him on his way with a kiss.

That story was Clair de Lune.  Later, I came across a poem with the same name, even a piece of music, but it is the love-struck kid that I always think of.  I could never shake the way the moon lit up that night, or the vicarious thrill of new love in a simple touch of lips.

Vicarious--that was the problem.  Now, for the first time since I had known Rick, I had an opportunity to be with him alone; to get in on the real thing.  How stupid I was being, to give up a live, warm-hearted, warm-bodied, guy for flat pixels.  From the three-quarter moon, there came to me a plan, fully formed.

#

There is nothing as flat as Kansas.  On either side of us, bathed in moonlight, the silent wheat shone silver as I drove my Dad's rusted Ford pickup--a truck older than I was--down the ragged lake road.  At this time of night I knew there would be no traffic.  Now, just ten minutes after leaving the fairground, Rick and I had solitude.

"I still can't believe you can drive," he said.

I always took the bus to meet Rick in the city, trying to be less conspicuous.

"Oh, I've been driving for a long time," I told him, "even before I got my license.  That's the nice thing about my dad being the sheriff, is no one hassles me on the road."  I dodged the next pothole with flair only to hit two others with teeth-shattering abruptness.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Like I said, somewhere private.  I know you probably think I'm paranoid beyond belief, but I'm always so afraid someone will find out about me, you know?"

"Yes, I understand that," said Rick, "But where are we going?"

"Not far."

"Oh man.  Ian, This place is scary."

I was stunned.  It had never occurred to me, searching for my own personal Clair de Lune, that this was anything but the most romantic setting.

"You really think so?"

"Yes!" he said, "There are no lights out here."

"There's moonlight."

"That only makes everything look creepier."

My plan had been simply to drive up the road, park at the monument and then Rick and I would sit in the back of the truck, holding each other and eating chocolate.  If anything else happened--the two of us being horny teenagers and all--then so be it.  Now, realizing Rick's fear, the practical joker in me saw possibilities.

The headlight glare destroyed our night vision, so it was not until I stopped and shut off the lights that Rick caught sight of the obelisk, gleaming like a beacon in the moonlight, right next to us.

"What is that?" he asked.

"A cemetery," I lied.

I had never considered the two of us compatible.  Rick was decent looking, but he didn't set my pants on fire.  I was

action movies and guitar solos; he made me watch The Princess Diaries and listened to pop bands that even I gleefully labeled 'a bunch of fags.'  I was still trying to forget the time he dragged me through three hours of shoe shopping.

    The only common ground was a taste for scary movies.  I figured he'd appreciate a little fright.

"Oh my God, I cannot believe you're doing this," Rick said, staring straight ahead, hands at his sides in an almost military fashion.  I would have laughed if I had not sensed that he was truly scared.

God was another place we differed.  For two years I had been a declared atheist.  Rick, however, believed.  Just this Easter he had tried convincing me to go to church.  I remember asking him about it once, when we were eating at our usual table in KFC.

"I know doing stuff with another guy is a sin," he told me.  "I just don't think it is going to be a big deal when God judges me."  I wondered if he had ever paid attention to the hellfire in a typical sermon.

The problem was that Rick believed entirely too many things.  It took severe control to bite my lip whenever he talked about his horoscope.  Now, apparently he also believed in ghosts:  for him this moonlight scare was a lot more real than a movie.

"You okay?" I asked.

No answer.

"Look, dude, I was just kidding, this isn't a cemetery."

"You're lying."  He continued to stare out the windshield.

"I'm not.  I swear.  You want to know what it really is?"

Silence.

"There used to be a town here," I said.  "This is where my forefathers settled.  You want to come with me and read the inscription?"

"No!"

I could feel Clair de Lune slipping out of my grasp with each second.  My little joke had killed any chance of creating the mood I wanted.  I twisted the car key and drove deeper into the moonlit night, Rick silent beside me.

What I really wanted to do was scream at him for being such a pussy, but I tried to salvage the situation with small talk.

"Did you tell Dinah you were leaving the fair?"

"Yes.  She was surprised that I knew you."

Remain calm.

"You see?" I said.  "That's what I was talking about.  I told you:  everybody knows me 'round here.  Because of my father.  That's why I don't like you telling people we're friends."

"Yes, well, I told her that I met you at the wedding when she invited me last time, so she doesn't think that it's strange."

With his girly speech and curling hands, Rick was borderline effeminate.  The real reason I hated him telling people we were friends was my fear of guilt by association.  What would happen when Dinah told people that her visibly gay friend was buddies with the sheriff's son?

Do I sound like a hypocrite?  If so, you've clearly never been in the closet.  That's why Rick baffled me.  Here was a guy who, I was sure, everyone suspected was gay when they met him, yet he seemed to float through small town society, whether it was mine or his own over in Penitence County, like a bird on a Sunday afternoon.

I liked Rick.  Never mind the shoes and the chick flicks and the other crimes.  Never mind the fact that our romance was cursed from the first date (which we spent watching a Left Behind movie with a roomful of evangelicals because he didn't want to see Matt Damon in an action thriller.)  Rick was one of those rare people who never saw targets in other people's feelings.  I was glad to know him, only terrified of the consequences.  He was a sweet guy and I was too scared of what my parents would think to be decent to him.  I was the real pussy.

Out of sight of the monument, I skidded to a stop.  All around us, the moonlight glazed the land like fresh snow.  Now that the ghosts were out of the way, I could get back to seduction.  Not that I expected Rick to require any actual seducing--he and I had decided long ago that we were going to have sex.  We had even tried to get together over the summer at a cabin near the lake, but his grandmother had been afraid to let him stay out overnight.

"We could just meet for a few hours at a motel here in the city," he had told me.  "That way I wouldn't have to get any permission."

Yuck.

No, for me it was to be Clair de Lune or nothing.  I wanted candlelight and music, fresh air and wine.  Most of all, I wanted to hold him through the night.  Or was it that I wanted him to hold me?

Grabbing the chocolate, I got out of the truck, basking in the silver silence.  Rick stayed frozen.

"Aren't you coming out?" I asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because."

"You still scared?"

"Yes."

Clair de Lune was fading fast.  It was time for defibrillation.

Clear!

I slipped back in beside him, an arm around his shoulder.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry about this.  I was just teasing, I never thought you'd actually believe me.  The important thing is none of it is true."

"I need to breathe," he said.

"Okay.  Cool.  I'll just relax a bit in the meantime."

Around him, some of the others were speaking in whispers, their throats too dry for anything else. If Modhun listened hard, he could hear the scraping of the chokidars’ boots on the deck above.

Modhun blinked, but that did not disrupt the blackness. It was so thick he could feel it pressing against him—an insistent, liquid, touch. The air reeked of damp and salt and human waste.

Someone grabbed his arm. “Do you have any food?” asked a woman.

“If I did,” said Modhun, “why would I give you any?”

“Not me. My daughter.” The woman took his hand and placed it on the girl’s smooth, skinny shoulder. “She needs to eat.”

Modhun recoiled. Scrambling over random knees and shoulders, he found a corner to explore the folds of his kurta, fingering the hidden seams that held his money. He did not care what the chokidars asked for, he would pay it.

Five minutes later, he was on the deck of the Hesperus for the first time since leaving Calcutta. The moonlight streaming through the mast painted pale wedges and swathes in the shadows. Four other men who had paid for the privilege of clean air were dispersed near the rails, ignoring him. Their eyes all said, “Keep away.” Modhun sympathized. He made his way forward.

Above were the sails, propped up by the wind like dead things, making flat sounds. Below was the ocean, water so black that the moonlight only made it seem blacker still. Modhun turned away from it, suddenly dizzy.

A figure near the bow drew his gaze. The man’s brown skin and white dhoti marked him as a fellow coolie, but he stood with his feet wide, looking to the horizon as if he were lord and captain. Curious, Modhun approached him.

“You’re not allowed here,” said the man. “Coolies are to stay near the hatch.” His voice carried a sense of control which defied his place in the ship’s indentured cargo.

“You’re here,” said Modhun.

“This costs extra.”

“So? You think I can’t pay? You think I’m just another destitute hill coolie?”

“Not everything is paid for with money.”

Up close, the man seemed regal. His hair was long and free. He was a full head taller than Modhun, with big shoulders and a strong neck. His forehead was wide, giving a sense of great intelligence and his eyes seemed to be constantly considering and ordering the world. Small gold hoops in his ears were the only soft touch in his appearance.

“So how come you get to be here?” Modhun asked.

“One of the sahibs in charge of the ship—the one always polishing his sword. He lets me come here if I give him some of what I have in my pants.”

“What?”

“He likes to suck my cock,” the man said simply.

The idea stunned Modhun. For a sahib to engage in such acts seemed to contravene the laws of the universe. The shock must have showed on his face, for the man asked, “Is my language too blunt for you young one?”

“No. I’m no child.”

The man took Modhun’s face in a firm hand and looked close at him. “Hnh,” he said to himself. “A few hairs on their chins and they think they’re men.” After he let Modhun go, he asked, “Does the idea of two men together surprise you?”

“Hardly. I’ve sucked more than my fair share of cock. No one’s ever making me do that again, let me tell you!”

“Is that why you’re throwing your life away and crossing the Kala Pani? To secure fortune and power?”

”I’m just looking for something better,” said Modhun. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Or are you one of those that they kidnapped?”

“No. I’m here because Garrison Commander Plunkett decided that he didn’t want to make a martyr of me. By sending me to Demerara he can erase me from existence without upsetting my followers.”

“Followers?” asked Modhun, on guard. “Are you a holy man?”

“My name is Akash Lall. I’m a bandit. Or at least they call me a bandit.”

“Oh.” Modhun relaxed. “You’re political.

“Yes. The people in my village suffer terr—”

“Please,” said Modhun, holding up his hand. “I’m sure you and your followers had wonderful reasons for breaking into people’s homes and stealing their money and ravishing their daughters. That doesn’t matter to me.”

“Human misery is not—”

“The only human misery I’m concerned about is my own. When I—”

The ship’s bell rang out. Modhun would have to go back below now, unless he felt like bribing the next watch. Akash Lall did not seem concerned about them.

Once in the hold again, Modhun’s mind kept picturing Akash Lall standing on the bow with a sahib kneeling before him. A trembling warmth flushed Modhun’s thighs. He fought his thoughts down. Better by far for him to sleep and leave this cursed vessel behind. He would seek new images in his dreams, visions of his new life to come. Visions which had guided him out of The Golden Temple and which promised him deliverance.

#

The land is flat and green—wild with life and loud with heat. Dark water pours through its veins. Modhun is glad for the heat in Demerara. It comforts him, his bones still shivering from the ship’s icy passage through the far south.

He is pleased that Akash Lall is sent with him to the same estate. The young girl, Kavita, and her mother are with them too. The woman has married on the ship, taking a new, higher-caste, husband to replace the one whose death sent her seeking into this land. No one remarks on the difference in the couple’s status; they have crossed the Kala Pani, the Black Water, and such distinctions no longer have meaning. There are only four other women in their estate’s group of seventy and those are soon ‘married’ as well. Not surprisingly, Akash Lall secures a wife.

The women are to cook and clean for all the men of the estate. The school for the children will be built soon, the overseer tells them. The coolies all live in the former slave quarters of the now-emancipated blacks—a dozen shacks made of ragged board, into which they crowd. It is almost like being back on the ship again.

The work starts immediately, though everyone is weak from the voyage. During slavery, new arrivals were given three years of light work to become acclimatized. Since the coolies’ contracts will last only five years, however, the planters give no such concessions to them. Sunrise to sundown they are in amidst the sugar cane, slashing at waist-high weeds. Modhun is ill almost immediately, the adjustment too severe. There is no respite for him. The overseer lets him know that unless he collapses he has to work. Three other coolies who insist that they are not well enough to work are placed in stocks. One is whipped. All are fined a full week’s pay.

Within a month, Modhun recovers and settles in. This is not the kind of labor that a person can love, or even become accustomed to, but he knows now that it will not break him and that knowledge strengthens his broadening back and straightens his spine after every day spent folded over, hacking and tearing.

#

By the end of the first fortnight on the ship, everyone had a cough—all except the mighty Akash Lall. Modhun was thankful the journey was near its end, for the strain of the crowded hold was becoming too much.

During the day, when enough light leaked in, Modhun would admire Akash Lall from a distance. The man was always in conversation, often smiling, moving about the hold among the coolies, greeting many of them by name. To Modhun, he seemed like a tiger given human shape. His muscles and movements told of restrained strength. Whenever he felt these thoughts bubbling, Modhun would will himself to look away. That part of his life was over. Never again, he had sworn. But his resolve never held and soon he would be back to nourishing his eyes with the golden-brown image of Akash Lall. Something about the man sparked the animal cravings at the back of Modhun’s brain.

The second time Modhun went on deck, he found Akash Lall on the bow again, smoking a cigarette.

“And what did you have to offer the sword-polishing sahib to get tobacco?” asked Modhun.

Akash Lall said nothing. Modhun joined him in watching the horizon. Then, suddenly, the big man was whispering in his ear.

“I know your secret.”

Had Modhun been that obvious with his gazes? “H-how can—”

“I know thieves,” said Akash Lall. “You’re a thief. I’ve seen it in your eyes.” He smirked, then added, “I’ve seen it in your dhoti.” With that, he grabbed at Modhun’s crotch, producing a metallic jingling as he pressed the hardness there.

One fear gave way to another for Modhun. Had Akash Lall simply guessed that any valuables Modhun had hidden would be there, or did he actually know of the necklace of silver skulls that Modhun had stolen in Benares? “So you want a share of it?” Modhun asked. “Or are you planning to take it all from me?”

“There is no honor in stealing from such as you.”

“You think you’re better than me?” Modhun shouted. “You think that kind of thing matters where we’re going?” He pointed at the sea ahead. “This is the Kala Pani. It erases everything. The past won’t matter anymore. Laws, crimes, caste, loyalty, honor. None of it is worth an ounce of goat dung! When we reach this new place, we all start equal.”

Akash Lall simply took a puff of his cigarette. “You’re right,” he said. “This water is going to wash away everything we left behind in Bengal, but remember this: Where we’re going I will have no reason to fight, so no one will name me criminal, but you will always be a thief.”

“I took nothing that I was not entitled to,” said Modhun. “Nothing that I had not already paid the price for.”

“So it was simply fair trade, I suppose?”

“Were your crimes any different?”

“Of course they were different. I was fighting for freedom, for our rights.”

“Freedom from what? The British? They’re the best thing to ever happen to us.”

“The East India Company does nothing but take and bully.”

That started an argument that remained unfinished when Modhun went below deck an hour later.

#

Within a year, eight of them are dead. Sores, fevers, dysentery: Disease finds the coolies easy prey. A dozen are in the sick house. There is a doctor, but he offers little treatment except a place on the floor of a shed built for seven. To miss work, even for sickness, is to lose pay and feel the whip. Modhun has twice escaped the lash by bribing Jacobs, the overseer.

Beatings are given out for the least offense. Zaman and Paltu get five strokes each for laughing while they worked. The two run away with the next full moon. They will walk all the way back to Bengal if they have to, they tell the others. The decomposed bodies of two unknown men are found not long after, in a canal fifty miles to the east.

Naturally, it is Akash Lall who organizes the coolies’ first protest. They steal two boats and cross to the estate on the other side of the river. When the police come, Akash offers their terms: They will not go back until Jacobs is removed. So resolutely does he argue, and so skillfully keep the coolies from breaking ranks, that their demand is met.

Things change only slightly, however. No one bothers even asking about the long-promised school anymore. The sick house remains a horror. Modhun sees the inside only once and it is enough. The smell of putrid flesh and the moans of men too delirious to recognize their coming death make him vomit on the bare floor where they lie.

He reacts much the same when Kavita is found unconscious in the horse paddock, naked and bleeding from between her legs. The girl never manages to speak and dies from her injuries soon after.

#

A month on the ship! They should have arrived in Demerara twice over already. The chokidars told them only that they were almost there.

Modhan made a third trip topside. He and Akash Lall never spoke to each other in the hold, but when they met at the bow they greeted each other.

“Has your sahib told you how much longer we are to endure this misery?” Modhun asked.

“He has better uses for his mouth than speaking to me. Maybe if you—”

“My mouth is for talking. There’s something I want your opinion on.”

Akash Lall grunted.

“I...I’m having dreams,” said Modhun. “More like visions. I see this place we’re going. I see what is going to happen to us.

“Do we make it back home?”

“I can’t tell. The closer we get, the more I see, but it’s still not clear.

“What do you see, then?” asked Akash Lall.

“I see the work. It’s hard. Very hard. I see us suffering and living like prisoners. I see you and me—”

“Yes?”

“We change,” said Modhun, handpicking each word. “We grow.”

“How do you know these are true visions, anyway?”

“Because I’ve always had them. That’s how I ended up at the temple in Benares. When I was a boy, I could find lost animals and money and tell when the rain would fall. I was declared a holy child. All the attention and the wonder got to be too much, though. I started making false predictions and they gave up on me soon after, made me into just another servant, but I never lost the talent.”

“So why do you need my help?” asked Akash Lall.

“Because— It’s like this: about a year ago I started having dreams about a statue of Kali at the temple. It’s made of black marble and uglier than your mother. The fifty-one skulls in its necklace are made of silver, with rubies for eyes. These dreams showed me where to find tools so I could prise the necklace off without making a sound. They showed me how to smuggle it past the guards. They showed me the road to Calcutta—who would help me and where danger waited.

“And the whole time I could hear whispering in my head, telling me that the necklace was mine by right, telling me of all the riches and power I would find if I would just have the courage to take what was so easily taken. That voice was like a snake’s tongue tickling my ear. It was the voice of Kali herself. I’m sure of it.”

“Kali is no goddess to play games with,” said Akash Lall. “She holds dominion over time and reality. She has no sense of boundaries and she delights in playing tricks.”

“It was no trick. She showed me this ship while I was still a hundred miles from Calcutta!”

“This ship?”

“Yes. Right down to the patches on the sails and the writing on the bow. She was right about everything, only now...”

“Now what?”

“Now I see things in store for me that make me think it is a trick after all.”

“I have no experience with such things,” said Akash Lall. “Maybe the priests at—”

“Priests!” Modhun scraped the word off his tongue. “Saddhus and Yogis and Gurus and Swamis—scoundrels all! I lived in The Golden Temple for thirteen years. I know priests. They do nothing but chant words at the people and pretend to be enlightened. Always touching what doesn’t belong to them. Frauds. Liars.”

Akash Lall smiled. “Sounds like a good place for a thief,” he said. “You should have stayed.”

“No. I’ll not be like them.”

“What makes you think you aren’t already?”

Instead of answering, Modhun said, “You have such disdain for me. I keep wondering why you let me stay here. I mean, you could call your pet sahib and have me thrown below, but you don’t.”

“It’s boredom, I suppose,” said Akash Lall. “The rest of them, they’re nothing but hill coolies. They know crops and they know herds and nothing else. You at least have something to say.”

I. A Meeting in the Wood

It started because he walked up the wrong mountain.

Corporal Arthur Cooper of the 15th Royal Wagon Company was on his way to the unit’s Christmas party. True, they were in a war, but the front line was six miles away.

And it was Christmas Eve.

Even the Kaiser wouldn’t fight at Christmas. The Germans were probably having their own parties at the other end of the valley.

The previous week had seen both sides hold tight in their new trenches, though the commanders still nervously called in artillery barrages up and down the valley if they heard a rumor of enemy movement. Arthur had heard the officers saying to themselves that the whole thing would blow over by spring and no one would ever remember that there was an Archduke named Franz who started a war by getting himself shot.

Heeding the weather report, Arthur borrowed the radio operator’s large coat. Lance Corporal Thorpe had bought it off a Russian sailor and it was a hefty, double-breasted monstrosity. After a quick, secret look at Thorpe’s fine features, Arthur headed for his tent.

Admiring the looks of men was a habit he needed to break, he told himself as he dug in his footlocker. He was a grown man now and the time for school boy crushes was over. Arthur put a pair of fresh socks in his pocket for the next morning’s return trip and then walked down the road towards the HQ.

Clouds covered everything that gray afternoon. Arthur pulled his watch from his left pocket. It had cost him half his paycheck when he first hit London out of training. The time was thirty-two minutes past four.

Half a mile down the road, a flurry of snow hit. Arthur could still see the road and kept to the side, wary of supply trucks. He saw none of the signposts the engineers had erected, but he held to the road shoulder as best as he could.

But when the snow cleared thirty-four minutes later, Arthur was lost. He had ended up in the forest, with no trace of road. Light filtered down from the glowing clouds, casting everything in twilight. The pine branches were bent with smooth, glistening snow. The ground sloped gently one way, so Arthur knew how to get back to the valley, though the trees blocked his vision beyond fifty yards or so.

He trudged downhill, sure he would hit the road before long.

Then a voice shouted beside him in German and he nearly shit his pants. A scruffy soldier in snow-covered brown jumped out from behind a tree, his rifle aimed at Arthur’s heart. More shouting followed with the German pointing at Arthur’s pistol holster. With two fingers, the German signaled how Arthur was to remove the gun.

For a while, Arthur did not move. He had never actually seen a German before, being a supply horse driver. The soldier was young, with angry gray eyes and an expression of desperation.

Again the German shouted at Arthur and thrust the tip of his bayonet at him. Arthur lifted the revolver and tossed it at the German’s feet. The soldier slung his rifle across his front and pointed Arthur’s own pistol at him. Arthur lifted his hands high.

Another stream of German followed. Arthur understood nothing, except the word Deutschland several times. Wonderful. This Hun was going to lecture him on the glory of Germany before shooting him.

But no bullet came and Arthur realized a worse truth—the soldier expected him to point the way back to the enemy end of the valley and the crazed German was going to kill him if he didn’t. But Arthur did not know which slope of the valley he was even on.

Arthur shrugged dramatically and pointed to his head, saying, “I don’t know where I am!” Then he pointed one finger at the sky and two fingers at his eyes, saying, “Stars. I need to see stars.”

“Stars?”

“Yes, stars.” Arthur kept pointing. “I can’t tell where we are until I see stars.”

The German seemed to realize Arthur was lost and his shoulders fell. The gun did not point away, however.

Then the soldier looked up again, inspiration on his face and said, “Stars!” Then he ordered Arthur to walk up the incline. It made sense. They had a better chance of seeing stars up the hill.

II. The Hunter’s Mountain

Arthur walked in front, careful to keep looking forward. He did not want to get shot if the German got the idea he was resisting.

He would resist, though. The soldier was about his size and age and had been careless a few times already. Letting the end of his rifle get within reach of Arthur for instance. But Arthur needed the German to trust him and calm down first.

Arthur wanted to bring out his watch and check the time, but kept his hands swinging steadily. They walked about fifty minutes, the ground getting steeper. A cabin drifted into view through the gloom. It was small and simple, but looked in good repair with a pile of firewood nearby.

Inside, the German forced Arthur to stand in one corner while he looked around. It was definitely a hunter’s cabin, with a bearskin on the floor before the fireplace and antlers decorating the walls. The soldier opened one of the wooden windows and let in some light.

A table with two long benches stood on one side and a cot on the other—with a piss pot underneath. Near the table was a cupboard full of cookware and supplies.

There was also a small package of meat. When the war came to the valley the cabin’s owners had probably evacuated without too much care for what they left behind. The meat was frozen solid and the frustrated German hit it against the tabletop.

“I can cook that for you if you want,” said Arthur.

The German looked up, and spoke in a puzzled tone.

Arthur pointed at the pots, the fireplace and the meat, then he made a stirring motion with his hands and pointed to his chest.

“Really?” the German seemed to say.

Making a chopping motion then pointing at the axe near the fireplace, Arthur told the German to go get some firewood.

It took seventeen minutes for the German to chop the wood according to Arthur’s watch. He gave no thought to escape during that time. He knew the German was testing him. If Arthur put a foot outside the door, he would get a bullet in it.

There was a moment of nervousness when the German came in to find Arthur with a kitchen knife. The soldier nearly dropped his wood, but recovered and kept his distance while Arthur cut up carrots and potatoes.

The German got the fire going under the pot of water then left to chop more wood. Arthur defrosted the meat. Then, after he had salted everything well, he set it all to boil. After he came back, the German hunted in a footlocker by the bed and came up with a yell of triumph, holding a simple wood-handled razor. There was no brush or lotion, but he seemed happy to rid himself of the scruff on his chin and cheeks with the bare blade. He tossed his helmet aside and used a comb and small mirror to smooth his bright blond hair.

Arthur tended the pot, amused at how vain the German seemed. Or maybe the soldier was just delighted in being civilized again?

The German was quite handsome once he was neat.

Arthur had never had occasion to act on his feelings for his own gender. He had lived his whole life away from people, on his family’s farm. Now his stomach flip-flopped a bit: he was lusting for the enemy. He stirred the pot harder.

But the happy German wanted to talk. He left the rifle by the cot, though he kept the pistol in his belt. “Friedrich,” he said, pointing at himself. Then he shrugged and said, “Fred.”

Friedrich, called Fred.

Arthur told Fred his name. Feeling obligated to carry his end of the conversation, he also held up ten fingers, then nine, and pointed to himself.

Fred held up ten, then eight.

He was a year younger than Arthur, yet he had an air of confidence and knowledge. Well, he certainly did not know cooking better than Arthur.

Fred sat on the bearskin and removed his boots, warming his feet. He threw his wet socks on the floor in disgust.

“Fred?” said Arthur using his captor’s name for the first time. The soldier looked at him, smiling. Arthur withdrew his extra socks and threw them at the boy. Fred caught them with an exclamation of delight and put them on immediately. Clean socks were a heavenly gift to a soldier.

Fred ground his feet into the bearskin, savoring the warmth. He even did a little dance as he walked around the room, finally getting close to the pot.

“Berlin,” said Fred, pointing to himself as he stood close to Arthur. Then he pointed at Arthur.

Well, shit, how did you say middle of nowhere in sign language, Arthur wondered. He decided to moo. Then he made sheep and horse noises.

Fred laughed. A good-natured laugh, a laugh at the effort Arthur was putting into their conversation. Then he turned to go test his socks out some more.

Arthur quickly slipped a leg behind Fred’s ankle and pushed him over it, toppling the young soldier onto the floor. By the time Fred gained his feet, Arthur was standing out of reach, aiming the rifle at him.

“Give me back my gun,” said Arthur, pointing.

Fred was furious. He shouted in German, making axe-chopping motions and pointing to the firewood as if to say, “We were making this work together. Why’d you spoil it?”

Arthur had no time for sentiment. He fired the rifle into the ceiling and then pointed it back at Fred. Except there was no bang and no bullet came out. The damned thing had been empty from the start.

Fred pulled the pistol from his side and held the barrel. He whipped Arthur across the jaw with the handle. Arthur fell, his head on fire. Hot blood leaked down his neck.

Fred’s look of anger was mixed with regret, but the anger won out once he saw Arthur move. He signaled Arthur to sit in the corner of the floor furthest from the exit and kept the gun pointed at him. The desperate look was back in his gray eyes.

So much for winning his trust.

After a few minutes, Fred dipped a bowl into Arthur’s thin stew and sat at the table. He ate with his stare fixed on his prisoner, the gun on the table under his hand. As he ate, Fred removed the fresh socks from his feet and put his old ones back on.

After finishing his bowl, Fred dipped out another. He was halfway back to the table when he turned to Arthur and gave him a brief glimmer of appreciation under the anger. Then the German walked right over and held the bowl and spoon out to Arthur.

Deciding not to make a fuss over the fact that Fred had been eating from this bowl, Arthur took it and said, “Danke.”

The German seemed surprised, but said nothing. He took another bowl of stew for himself and resumed his angry eating.

III. A Star to Guide Us

Arthur’s jaw was still hurting when Fred ordered him back out into the snow, saying, “Stars.” His face and neck were stiff from the swelling and the caked blood.

Outside, the clouds still hid the sky. The hillside above the cabin had fewer trees to block their view, so Fred marched them fifty yards higher until he found a six-foot log just thick enough to make a comfortable seat. Arthur positioned the log where Fred told him to and the German sat in the middle of it, facing the valley. After four minutes, he glanced up at Arthur and then shifted to the right end of the log, indicating that Arthur could have the other side.

Then they waited. It must have been past eleven, Arthur figured and he was actually sleepy despite the adrenaline. He had been tired since the war started, really.

He was still surprised the German had not killed him after the attack in the cabin. Arthur knew it was probably just the practicality of Fred needing him since the city boy was probably not familiar with stars. But Arthur felt a little grateful anyway.

Fred was starting to shiver next to him. His lips were trembling and for a moment Arthur admired their shape. He wondered why the German had not simply robbed him of his coat. Then Arthur remembered the socks Fred had rejected. Too much pride in this one. Fred would be happy to freeze rather than ask Arthur for a share of his warmth.

So Arthur slipped his right arm free of his sleeve and opened the coat. He held it up and gave Fred a “Come on, be reasonable,” expression.

Fred scoffed, but then he looked at the coat with jealous eyes. He held the pistol up and threatened Arthur with what was probably, “Fine, but I’ll shoot you if you try tricking me again.”

Fred got under the coat, sticking his arm through his side’s sleeve. The coat would not button in front when used like this, but it was enough to keep them both warm.

They would be warmer if Fred would sit closer, but the soldier kept half a foot between them.

It was only practical for them to get closer Arthur convinced himself. “We should share our heat,” he told Fred in a neutral voice, pointing to the gap on the log. Then he shamelessly slid right up against Fred. Well, if he was doing it for practical reasons, there was no need for shame, was there?

Fred grunted his acquiescence. Apparently he could see the practicality of it too.

Being so close, Arthur tried not to move too much. Mostly he was afraid of provoking a reaction in his pants. Fred smelled of dirt and sweat and pine needles and that seemed to somehow make him even more attractive.

Instead, Arthur focused on finding a solution to his predicament. As a practical consideration, he decided that he and the German could find a way to live through this thing together. No more tricks.

He did not fear tricks from Fred. Despite having reason to kill Arthur twice now, the boy had shown restraint. At the cabin he had-

What if it had been a trick? Fred had left the rifle a bit too much in the open. And Arthur’s farm noises had not been that funny.

He must have been testing Arthur. And Arthur had failed.

Fred’s shoulder bumped Arthur and they both murmured apologies. Then they both grunted a laugh at themselves.

Could Arthur trust that laugh?

He looked up at the sky. The clouds seemed to be thinning near the horizon.

Fred turned and asked a question, pointing at the medal on Arthur’s chest. He had worn it for the party. There were supposed to be Belgian refugee girls there and Arthur had hoped that the medal might help him get a gratitude fuck—and maybe getting that first fuck would clear away all these urges he sometimes had for men.

Fred pointed again. He mimed shooting a gun and then lifted his eyebrows.

“No,” Arthur shook his head. He moved his palm in the shape of a horse and neighed. Then he showed himself leading the horse with clicking noises. Then he made the universal sound of falling artillery and exploding shells. Last, he showed himself holding the horse steady and calming it with strokes to the neck.

“Ahh,” said Fred. He patted Arthur’s shoulder with a look of respect. Fred’s hand was warm even through his thick clothes.

Was it midnight yet? Arthur reached for his watch. Fred stiffened next to him and Arthur held still. Then he moved his arm carefully to pull the watch from his pocket.

Twenty-eight minutes to midnight.

Fred gave a cry of astonishment at the watch. With round eyes, he signaled for Arthur to hand it over. So much for Fred’s pride. It seemed the watch was a fancy enough prize for him to claim.

Jabbering in German, Fred pointed at the parts of the watch, including the maker’s name and the glass window in the back. He spoke excitedly at Arthur, but when Arthur could only stare at him, Fred made a noise of dismissal and went back to ogling the watch.

Inside the stream of speech Arthur thought he heard a word that sounded like ‘father.’

“Your father has a watch like this?”

Fred raised an open palm over the top of his head, grunted and raised it one more time.

“Your grandfather.”

Then Fred made a round shape with his thumb and forefinger and held it to his eye like a monocle. He pointed to the watch and made the thumb and monocle into tweezers.

“Your grandfather repairs watches.”

Then Fred smiled and pointed to himself and made the symbol for a small amount.

“He taught you a little.”

Still smiling, Fred stroked around the edge of the watch, his eyes glassy. Then he offered it back to Arthur. When Arthur took it in his left hand, however, Fred would not let it go. The German was speaking rapidly and Arthur caught the word for ‘dead’ a few times.

Fred’s grandfather was dead now.

A tear fell from Fred’s cheek to Arthur’s hand. Fred’s voice was breaking as he spoke, in turns lamenting then angry. From what Arthur could understand of his words, Fred was going to be killed by stupid fucking Englanders in a stupid fucking forest in the middle of stupid fucking France and he would never see his home again.

Arthur felt crass, because in Fred’s words was the name Heinrich and he could not help but enviously wonder if Heinrich was Fred’s lover.

“Who is Heinrich?”

Fred wiped away a few tears. Then he smiled. He pointed to himself and put his hand out at chest height. Then he said “Greta” and lifted his hand above head height. He put his hand at knee height and said, “Heinrich.”

Friedrich, the middle child, with big sister Greta and Heinrich the little brother.

Fred put his hand at his ankle and said, “Krause.” Then he meowed.

Krause sounded like a good name for a cat.

Arthur held his hand at big sister height and shook his head. Then he put his hand at little brother height and shook his head again. Arthur the only child.

He got a look of mock pity from Fred.

Arthur laughed. Fred laughed too, then he went serious again. His tears resumed quietly. Fred was still holding Arthur’s left hand around the watch. Arthur put his right arm over Fred’s shoulder and hugged him. Fred collapsed against him and Arthur held him protectively while the boy silently shook with tears.

They stayed like that even after Fred was done crying. It was eleven minutes to midnight when the clouds cleared.

It was a mystifying sky: all black. Clouds were not blocking anything. The stars had gone from existence, except for a faint dot above the horizon. It seemed to waver, becoming brighter and then fainter in no clear pattern.

Neither of them spoke. The night was completely still, with no wind and no movement in the trees. The horizon star glowed brighter and the light seemed to warm them.

Arthur looked down at Fred who smiled a happy smile.

Can I trust his smile?

Seeming to read Arthur’s expression, Fred reached to his side and offered the pistol handle to him with a serious look. Arthur nodded his appreciation and put it away. Then Fred pulled a hip flask and sipped it before offering it to Arthur. It was brandy, and it tingled all the way down. Arthur aahhed his satisfaction and handed the flask back.

They continued sharing it while the light of the star grew brighter and warmer. Maybe Arthur had gotten drunk, but it seemed like the lone star had become as bright as the moon. Below them, the valley was a stretch of glowing, white serenity, the river sparkling through it.

Fred turned to Arthur. Arthur stared at his lips again, so soft and shiny. Fred was looking at him with expectation and...gratitude? Admiration? Could Arthur dare hope for desire? They were still holding hands around the watch.

Fred reached out with his other hand and stroked the hair behind Arthur’s head. Then he pulled him closer.

He’s going to kiss me.

But Fred’s lips dodged his. Instead he carefully kissed Arthur near his ear, at the spot where he had struck him earlier.

Arthur appreciated the gesture, but wished it had been something more passionate. Still, he knew now was not the moment for that. He nodded his forgiveness to Fred and they held each other while the deep light of the midnight star shined down on them.

IV. The Great Battle of Christmas Morning, 1914

While the star’s light yet illuminated everything, Fred led Arthur back to the cabin and the bearskin, where he fed the fire three pieces of wood.

In the crackling firelight, Arthur kissed a boy for the first time. The feeling was like discovering a lost part of himself. He pulled Fred closer and squeezed everything he could out of the moment as their lips and tongues played and pressed against each other.

They undressed slowly, the tender mood of that moment on the log still with them. It seemed that Fred understood Arthur was new to it all and he took the lead.

The fire warmed their skin and the air all around them as they knelt, naked, on the soft floor, hands and lips seeking pleasure in the shape and feel of the other’s body.

With touches and signals, Fred let Arthur know the mechanics and art of the different acts until they had made love, reaching a sense of completion and contentment.

They spent a few minutes holding each other and saying tender things. No matter that the other could not comprehend the language, the happiness and affection were clear.

And their sense of contentment did not stop them trying it all one more time before falling asleep, Fred wrapped in Arthur’s arms, back to chest.

Before dawn, Arthur awoke to Fred playing with him down below and they took another delightful journey into the other’s domains, Fred revealing a few twists on old techniques for his rapidly improving student. Then they dozed off again.

When Arthur awoke properly, light was leaking under the door and it was morning for real.

Christmas morning deserved a feast. He took the pistol and set out in his coat, leaving Fred on the bearskin with a kiss while he snoozed.

City boys never got up early, Arthur chuckled to himself. He staked out a good patch of ground and waited. The air was just as still as last night, but the sky was clear and blue from end to end. It took forty-three minutes, but Arthur got a good opportunity at a rabbit close enough that that the pistol could make the shot.

Right after he hit the rabbit, a roar filled the air and an aeroplane swung past the peak of the mountain. Arthur picked up the rabbit with a sense of urgency. With the good weather, the generals were thinking of war again and sending out their eyes. Tomorrow, there would be offensives by both sides.

But it was still Christmas now and he had all day to be with Fred. Arthur got his new lover up and demanded more firewood. Fred waved him off as if to say, “Yes, yes, I know my job,” and tromped outside. Arthur noted with a smile that he had put on the new socks.

It took two hours for the rabbit to be properly cooked. They spoke little during that time, and mostly just enjoyed being close. Fred praised the food with grunts through thick, sloppy mouthfuls and Arthur laughed at him.

After eating, they stepped outside for a walk. It was warm and they left the big coat behind, holding hands as they strolled in their private hillside forest. Where they were and where they were going seemed unimportant next to the sense of joint forward motion, of being with each other. Every few minutes, Arthur would reach for his left pocket and then pull back, deciding that it was better not to know how long until morning and the resumption of the war.

When they were back at the entrance to the cabin, Arthur tapped Fred on the shoulder and pointed imperiously at the firewood. Fred gave him an annoyed look and kicked snow at him. Arthur kicked back and the battle began. They hurled fresh snow at first, then snowballs. Then they found cover to stockpile ammunition and set ambushes for each other behind trees. For one moment of clarity while he dodged snowballs, Arthur thought to himself how odd it was to be playing at war while in the middle of a war.

The battle ended in close quarters engagement, with snow being stuffed into collars and crotches until both parties reached an armistice.

In the cabin, they tossed aside their wet clothes and warmed their naked selves at the fireplace. That quickly led to taking liberties with each other’s bodies and another bout of lovemaking. The quiet mood of the previous night was long gone and Arthur was no longer a novice so this time their passions came loose and drove them to an energetic and exhausting climax. Then they wiped each other clean with warm washcloths and napped, sharing the heat of their bodies.

V. Golgotha

Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Arthur lay on his back listening to Fred snore against him. His first Christmas away from home had not turned out quite so bad. It still felt incomplete, however. He wished he could exchange presents with Fred, but what could he give?

The watch would be perfect, of course, but then Fred would feel obligated to give a gift in return and it was unlikely Fred had such a valuable object at hand. So Fred would end up feeling like a heel and nothing but bad feelings would come out of the whole thing.

Ah, the politics of new love.

And it was love, Arthur realized. Or at least the beginnings of it. He had never felt this close to someone. Felt so strongly about their fate. So there were to be no presents this Christmas. No stockings. No candy. No—

“Fred,” Arthur said pushing him awake and jumping to his feet. When all he got was angry mumbles, he pulled Fred up.

Fred made a “What?” gesture.

Arthur pointed to the corner of the room near the cot and said the one word in German he was sure of: “Tannenbaum!”

“Tannenbaum?” Fred asked skeptically.

Arthur pointed at the corner again, then at the axe and then out the door. “Yes. Tannenbaum.”

Maybe it was just Fred joining in because he saw how much Arthur wanted it, but he smiled, kissed Arthur and got dressed.

They walked twelve minutes up the hill to find a small tree. Arthur figured it would be easier to carry downhill. About halfway through chopping the tree down, Fred saw an aeroplane over the mountains on the other side of the valley. His face went dark.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Arthur. “We have today for us. Me, you and the tannenbaum.”

Arthur had brought cord from the cabin and cut it with Fred’s bayonet, which he carried hung on his thigh. They tied the larger branches out of the way and started for home, Fred in the lead, each singing ‘Oh Christmas Tree’ in their own tongue.

The artillery barrage hit them just in sight of the cabin. There was no sense of which direction it was coming from, just the whistling shrieks from above. The first explosion hit behind them. It was an air-burst, designed to shred human flesh with flying steel shrapnel.

Instinctively, they dropped the tree and ran for the cabin—and what little protection it offered. Then a shell blew the cabin apart in a deafening, orange boom. The debris-filled shock wave knocked Fred back into Arthur and sent them both tumbling.

When Arthur got up, he could feel the world shaking in pulses, but everything was silent save a ringing sound. Bright red blood stained the white ground. The bayonet, still tethered to him, had pierced his right side above the hip. But there was more blood than Arthur’s wound could explain. Looking around, he saw blood leaking out from under a pile of snow. He dug in and found the stump of Fred’s arm, jaggedly cut right below the elbow, strips of skin and veins still hanging off around the broken bone.

No! Not today! He can’t die today.

Arthur plunged into the snow and pulled the rest of Fred out. The boy was screaming as blood dripped from his head.

More vibrations hit, followed by hot blasts of air from different directions.

Arthur took the rest of his cord from his pocket and drew it tight around Fred’s elbow. He knotted the tourniquet into place.

Would that work? Should he get something better?

Arthur had no time.

He scooped Fred up and onto his shoulders like a sack of flour. Then he set out into the silent, dangerous world erupting around him. He tried to run, but the deep snow and the shaking ground caused him to falter immediately. Pain started in his wounded side as his overloaded brain finally registered the damage.

There was no way to outrun an artillery shell in any case. It would be quicker to get out sure-footed rather than stumbling.

Arthur took a route down the hill. The ground grew flatter and stopped trembling so he could move faster. For a while at least. The warm day had melted some of the snow down here and it was forming mud. The long stretches of slush slowed him down again. At one point he slipped, sending Fred towards the ground. Arthur twisted and took the impact on his back instead. It felt like he ripped his side open.

He lay there for a minute, breathing hard. Then he eased himself up and checked on Fred. The boy was unconscious. Arthur did not know if that was good or bad. He knew it was bad that the cord had come loose and blood was flowing out again. Arthur looked around, desperate.

This was all his fault. He had gone and shot the stupid rabbit. Some commander must have gotten a report about a gunshot near the cabin and decided to wipe it out just in case.

Now Fred was going to die because Arthur had wanted Christmas stew. It seemed so senseless.

Scattered clouds covered most of the pre-dawn constellations, leaving the sky broken and unfamiliar. The silent city around Hank also seemed alien—built of murky gray chunks under the crescent moon's shining fang. A loose wire sparked intermittently near the top of the football stadium's distant bulk, the only sign that electricity was still coming in from somewhere outside.
Hank could remember the stadium just three months ago, when he had stood there with raised fists in the end zone, TK and Floyd dancing around him. Every seat seemed to be bursting gold and red as the floodlights poured down a billion kilowatts on the Bent Creek High supporters chanting his name: "Ca-llum, Ca-llum, Ca-llum..." Even Luca was on his feet. With an illicit beer bottle held high, posed atop the safety rail, Luca swung his crotch like the spot-lit rock star he aspired to be. And the brightest thing of all was the new plasma scoreboard flashing '20-17' with Hank's face five feet tall next to the words, "Touchdown - H.T. Callum."
No noise now, though. Even the wind was sneaking through Lincoln, Nebraska these days.
"Is it time yet?" whispered Sammie.
Hank looked down at the digital watch he had picked up in the broken showcase of a pawnshop after his cell phone went dead. "Yeah," he told Sammie. "Make sure the others have everything." He had also picked up a thirty-eight revolver and a box of bullets at that pawnshop. The thirty-eight was in his coat with Hank's last six bullets in the cylinder.
Setting out in the dark like this was a risk, but it would be a long drive and they needed to find shelter by the time sunset fell. Most of the infected had left Lincoln over the first few weeks and drifted outward in their thirst for prey. There would be more of them out there than here in Lincoln, but staying in the city meant death: even the birds and roaches were gone. And Hank’s group had cleaned out the mini-mart shelves and supermarket back rooms of every last tuna can and ketchup packet.
Hank’s twelve followers were young—half of them were grade-schoolers. There was no way they could fight the other survivor gangs for food. So, the day before, he and Sammie had gotten three working cars and hidden them at the south end of the city with full tanks of gas and trunks loaded with their scavenged supplies.
This morning, they intended to silently weave between the city's abandoned vehicles on mountain bikes for the dark first leg of their exodus. Hank hoped that they would reach their cars and be racing down the open back roads before any predator could see or smell them. The hunters tended to be less alert so close to sunrise.
Hank watched the rest of the group emerge like ghosts from the basement stairs and roll their bikes out the broad front doors of the Pioneer Foundation Library. He would miss this place, and not just because it was the last and safest of their hideouts, but because of what it had meant to him before the apocalypse. Hank had never had much use for reading back then, but he'd spent over a dozen weekends down in the basement with the new librarian, Mr. Block, sorting crates of books, some of them older than his father. Block had so many stories to tell about life in Chicago: big things in a big city, like Bears games and Pride parades and stealing rides on 'El' trains.
Mr. Block was dead now.
TK was dead now.
Floyd was dead too: Hank had killed his best friend to save Floyd a fate worse than death.
Patrick Henry would have approved of that last act, the boy thought, fingering an American history text book in the return tray at the front desk. He thumbed through the tray—Joseph Conrad would have understood why Hank had done it. Golding would have said it was inevitable. Kierkegaard—well, as much as he read to escape boredom and terror these days, Hank could never stomach Kierkegaard long enough to see if the man ultimately made any kind of sense.
"We've got a problem with Jack," said Sammie, her face more stressed than usual.
Jack was one of the aces in Hank's pack. Just fourteen, he had been a dedicated Boy Scout in the world before. Hank saw a lot his own traits in Jack. The boy had learned how to slip through the city even at night, hiding his scent with the relics of urban life, such as motor oil and cinder dust. Because of Jack, the group knew where they could eat and where they could sleep and when they should run.
"What happened?" asked Hank.
"He left for the lookout post—said he forgot his radio. It's been ten minutes."
Far too long for a simple retrieval in the East Tower, even with Jack's careful, stealthy creep.
"Shit!" said Hank. Jack had the keys for one of the Toyotas. "You get everyone to the cars. I'll get Jack and catch up."
Sammie, his trusty sergeant, never hesitated, but Hank could see her eyes pleading with him not to go.
Hank and Sammie had lived a lifetime of friendship in the three months since they'd met. She had kept him going after the disaster with Luca and Floyd by reminding Hank that the others still needed him. Leaving the lobby, he heard Sammie's voice drift after him: "Thanks for everything, Hank."
He walked carefully along the outsides of the six flights of broad, stone stairs in the East Tower, the walls offering guidance and extra shadows.
At the top of the stairs, beyond the open door, Jack stood braced against the wall, looking miserable, but very much alive. If he was having a breakdown, he wouldn't be the first.
Hank surveyed the room, found it empty and entered. He put a hand on Jack's shoulder and said softly, "Time to go."
"I'm sorry, Hank," Jack half mumbled, half cried.
"Don't be. You just need to—" Then Hank followed Jack's eyes.
From outside, Luca swung down into the shadowed opening that had once upon a time been occupied by an ice blue stained-glass window. He reclined on the sill, his plain white sneakers jammed against one side. Luca folded his arms loosely and smiled with the world's whitest, sharpest teeth.
A cold, matter-of-fact realization sunk through Hank like a pebble into a pond. 'My life is over. I'm going to die here.'
Through all the shifting sensibilities of the punk-rock scene, Luca had always believed in the classics: tight white T-shirt for his lean torso and dirty, ripped jeans. His black hair was short and neat, but seemed to stay in place resentfully. He still had that bored, slack demeanor that had defined him whenever he wasn't screaming about the evil of meat as lead singer of Civil Disobedience.
In the surreal time crawl of the moment, Hank had time to think, 'A vegan vampire! Now that's funny.' Then he remembered Jack and the frozen moment burst like the ripples that spread on the pond after the pebble sinks. This was not Luca. All that remained were the distorted echoes of Luca's urges and emotions, amplified a thousand times and animating his shell.
There was no conscious thought behind what Hank did next. Luca had started grandstanding in his new croaky voice, as if he had finally become a big-time star, saying, "Mornin' Hank. Glad to see you looking so ha-" And that was when Hank shoved him out the window—just ran straight at him and, before Luca could even think of what was happening, thumped both hands into his ex-classmate's chest and sent him spilling out.
Time did not slow down again, but it still took a long while for Luca to hit the courtyard below, landing on his back with a crunch.
"Holy crap, you killed him," said Jack.
"No."
Hank had changed nothing for himself, only bought time for Jack to escape. Luca would shake off his thirteen broken bones and climb right back up the tower like a reptile before Hank could get to safety. But, by then, Hank would have given his gun to Jack and sent the boy—
Something bothered Hank. "What did you mean about being sorry?" he asked.
"He said he'd let us go," Jack said quietly. "He just wanted you."
"You mean you set me up?" Anger rose in Hank. Jack had betrayed him.
Jack!
But, looking back, it all fit together. Jack was the one out at night sharing the city with Luca—the one who could find Luca. And forgetting his radio? Jack never forgot anything.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Hank yelled. The boy just looked away. "And why did you even bother with this whole act? If Luca wanted me, why didn't he just come in the front door? I couldn't have stopped him."
"I didn't want to risk the others in case his bloodlust sent him wild. I told him I'd help him if he came for only you." Jack squirmed. "Don't you see, Hank? It's all about you. It's always been about you. He torments us to torment you. If I'd let you go on the road with us, Luca would just have kept coming. We can never be safe with you around."
Jack was completely right.
Hank thought back seven years. Luca in fifth grade was a gentle, quiet boy with bright green eyes, neglected shaggy hair and oversized hand-me-down-clothes. When Hank had transferred in, he had immediately noticed that Luca only showed diligence in one thing: taking care of the class rabbit, Hare Brain.
And TK and Floyd, it seemed, had taken it as their duty to torment Hare Brain. That first Friday, Hank watched Luca try to stop the boys poking the rabbit with rulers. Luca pushed at them, only to get knocked down, where TK and Floyd turned their rulers on him, laughing.