Shapers of Worlds

by Edward Willett

  She’d turned off the gravel of the grid road just south of the farmhouse to ride along a rutted, seldom-used dirt path through barren fields, white with alkali, growing nothing but weeds. Grasshoppers leaped away from her bike in panicked profusion, sometimes bouncing off her chest and arms and face.

  In all that time, she’d never had the slightest doubt about what she was doing, never once even considered disobeying that subtle inner summons.

  She’d dropped her bike at the top of the path that led down into the pothole, and now, here she was, in the middle of the prairie, kilometres from town, standing in front of a mysterious black stone beside a strange black pool.

  Alone.

  Touch it, came that strange inner urge. Touch it.

  She remembered something else Mr. Gregorash had talked about, the “vision quests” common to indigenous cultures across North America, including the Plains Cree who had once hunted buffalo on the very land Jamie’s Scottish ancestors had settled after the building of the Canadian Pacific railway.

  “Although the details differ from culture to culture,” Mr. Gregorash had said, “in general, vision quests are a rite of passage through which young boys transition from childhood to adulthood. The boys purify themselves, in whatever fashion their tradition requires, then go to some isolated place in the wilderness to fast and meditate. They experience sacred, secret visions, believed to be a gift from their creator and ancestors, and discover their guiding spirit.”

  Jamie wasn’t a boy, she had no First Nations ancestry, and she hadn’t purified herself, other than taking a shower the night before. Yet . . . here she was, alone in the wilderness (well, kind of, she thought; high above, a jet contrail cut through the cloudless blue), and something was telling her to touch this weird black stone.

  Maybe it’s my guiding spirit, she thought. Are you there, God? It’s me, Jamie.

  But if God, or any other spirit or spirits, was there, he or she or it or they didn’t answer, and if her ancestors had anything to say, they kept it to themselves. Staunch Presbyterians all, they were probably glaring down at her from heaven, lips pressed tightly together in disapproval.

  The image made her mouth quirk with amusement. This is silly. You’re being silly. Just being out here is silly. Touch it and get it over with. Nothing will happen. And it’s going to be getting dark by the time you get home, and Dad . . .

  She felt a flash of resentment. Her father would be mad at her. He’d probably yell. It seemed like he was always yelling at her these days, like they were always arguing.

  It was that moment of anger, as much as the strange, inner urging, that drove her, at last, to not just touch the stone, but to slap her palms against it in irritation.

  And then her body faded from her consciousness as her mind opened.

  Where once I was one, now I am two.

  As I have been before.

  As I will be again.

  I grow up with Jamie in her small town, play with her friends and her dog, feel the warmth and love of her parents, her wonder and joy at the world around her, seen through her innocent eyes.

  Jamie grows up with me, admiring this system’s yellow star after its life-giving radiation, sleeting through my family’s vessel, woke my progenitors from their long dormancy and caused them to make me. She rides with me and my family as we plunge closer and closer to the star and the one blue, wet, living planet our sensors reveal. With me, she spends many cycles on the surface of our long, slender craft of meteoric stone and iron. Together, we are purified by vacuum and washed clean by the solar wind; then we share many more cycles deep inside it, in cold and silence and darkness and solitude, meditating, preparing for the quest to come.

  I am with Jamie when her mother calls her into the kitchen to tell her what she has just learned from the doctor. I am with her as her mother fights through chemotherapy, recovers for a time, and then withers away, collapsing in on herself until, one dreadful night, she is no more. I am with her as she and her father stand hand in hand at the graveside, and she feels her father’s silent sobs shake his body, and she knows that nothing will ever be the same again.

  She is with me for my launch, a birth of sorts, not as messy as a human birth, but the same sudden emergence from darkness into light, the same separation from safety, the same sudden thrust into the unknown. Aflame, Jamie and I plunge together from orbit. Smoking and steaming, we bury ourselves in the land. Together, we draw that land around us, mimicking the natural features, crafting a disguise, a camouflage, what a human hunter would call a blind.

  And then, together, we reach out. We call, we summon, we urge. We bring the brief-lived dominant sapients of this strange world to us, our minds able to touch theirs only in the spring of their lives, as they move from childhood to adulthood.

  And when they come, we merge with them, as I have merged with Jamie, as I have merged with so many before.

  With Jamie, I wake from the frightening dream, wishing for Mom. With Jamie, I feel the call . . . my call . . . to ride into the prairie, to a place she has never seen, had no clue existed, but which now feels to her like the most important place in the world, the place she must go to, above all else.

  With Jamie, I leave my bike at the top of the hill, walk down into the depression where the dark pond waits, and touch the smooth black stone.

  Where once I was one, now I am two . . .

  I am not the creator, and I am no one’s ancestor, and I am not a spirit, and yet I give to Jamie, as she gives to me, visions sacred in the only way anything is truly sacred: sacred because we, who live and think and fight the universe’s uncaring entropy, who give to it the only meaning it has, imbue them with sacredness.

  Only seconds in real time after Jamie touched the interface, I sever the connection.

  Where once I was two, now I am one.

  Jamie stepped back from the stone. Her hands tingled, but that was all.

  Or was it?

  She frowned. Something swirled on the edges of her memories, strange, dream-like images of stars and moons and planets and fire, and even stranger images of boys and girls close to her own age, dressed a thousand different ways, standing where she stood now, touching the stone as she had, and, just like her . . .

  . . . just like her . . .

  . . . just . . . like . . . her . . .

  . . . what?

  The memories faded, ghosting out like the afterimage of a photoflash.

  Jamie looked at the stone again. She had no desire to touch it. It was, after all, just a stone.

  She looked down into the dark pool, so smooth, so black, like a night sky devoid of stars. For a moment, just a moment, she had the feeling the pool was looking back at her.

  She took an involuntary step away from it, feeling a little shiver of fear. Don’t be stupid, she chided herself. You’re not a little kid anymore. She forced herself to step closer again. Then, on a whim, she reached down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it into the water. It splashed the same as any other water in any other pond, the ripples spreading smoothly out in concentric circles to the banks. See? It’s just a pond. She remembered her earlier fears about starting high school. And high school is just school. I’ll be fine.

  She glanced up at the sky. I’d better get back. There’s still a lot of light left. If I’m lucky, I might make it before Dad notices how late I am. I don’t want him to worry. She felt a sudden surge of love and concern for her father. It’s just the two of us now. I have to look after him.

  She hurried up the slope to her bike, mounted, and rode off through clouds of grasshoppers and alkali dust without a backward look, following the dirt road toward the ruined farm in the distance, the grid road beyond, and home.

  I watch Jamie for as long as my sensors permit, her bare legs flashing as she pumps the pedals of what I now know she calls a bicycle, and silently wish her well.

  She will remember nothing of me, or of this place. Her memories of her childhood will never contain even the faintest trace
of my memories of mine, or the memories of all the other young humans who have come to me through the centuries, though we shared them so deeply while we were one.

  Nor will she remember the memories that are not mine, the memories of my race, the memories my progenitors folded into my surface as I was being made: the glimmer of starshine on methane seas, the glow of rings slashing through the dark sky above the towering storm clouds of a gas giant, twin suns locked in an intricate gravitational dance, light gasping its last in a seething maelstrom of radiation as it plunges into a black hole, all the wonders of the universe my race has explored since before Earth cooled enough for liquid water to fall and begin the long, slow filling of the oceans, the first step toward life, and intelligence, and girls like Jamie.

  And yet, though she will never remember me, through me she has made a connection with her world and her universe that will give her a sense of peace and purpose. It is a connection that will guide and ground and steady her through the tumultuous years to come, through the entirety of her too-brief walk upon this planet, as it has so many young humans before her, the countless boys and girls who have found me in the millennia I have rested here.

  She will not remember me, but I will remember her, as I remember all the others. I will still remember her centuries from now when, at last, my vision quest comes to a close, when my progenitors swing by this planet again and pull me into their warm and welcoming embrace, to join with them, to share my visions, to add to my race’s memories, to strengthen and enrich all of us with what I have learned from those who live and die upon this blue-green speck.

  I came here as a child. I will return to my family as an adult. The young ones I have met here on this great flat plain flicker for only an instant, a brief spark of light in the darkness, but that bright flash will be remembered for as long as my race sails the universe in our slender ships of stone and iron, the warmth and yearning and love I have found within their young souls refreshing our ancient ones forever.

  The solstice sun has set upon the plains of Saskatchewan.

  Spring has ended.

  Let summer begin.

  Call to Arms

  By Tanya Huff

  “Mirian! There’s an Imperial Courier waiting for you in the market square!”

  Mirian held out a hand to keep Dusty from toppling over, so fast was his change from fur to skin. “On a horse?” Not everyone in Harar—Orin’s largest settlement—was Pack, but this was the old country, and the population skewed to fur. Convincing a horse not bred in Orin to enter Harar was next to impossible.

  “No, on foot.” His lips were drawn so far off his teeth, Mirian barely understood him. “She wants you. Why does the Empire want you?”

  “I expect it’s not the entire Empire.” When Dusty continued snarling, she sighed. “So, tell her where I am.”

  “Can’t. Otto wants you to come to her. Suspicious, power-tripping, mangy . . .”

  “Dusty.” Mirian was Alpha of her own small pack, but they lived in Harar at the Pack Leader’s sufferance. Otto, new enough to the position of Pack Leader the scars on his shoulder were pink, was still testing his authority. Still checking to make sure Mirian would continue to follow the rules. To be fair, she didn’t blame him. Rolling up onto her feet, she brushed dirt off her hands. “Tell him I’m on my way, but I need to clean up a bit first.”

  “Because you won’t come running when the Empire snaps its fingers!”

  “Because I’ve been gardening. And I haven’t lost all the manners my mother worked so hard to instill. Go.”

  His ears were back in protest when he changed, but he turned and headed back toward the centre of the settlement.

  Mirian watched him run. Other than the gleaming silver fur that marked the torture he’d endured as a child, he was, like everything else in her world, multiple shades of grey. He’d grown into a teenager in the nine years since she’d taken him and the rest of her pack out of the Empire. In skin, he was taller than the others his age, arms and legs and torso given length by the castration he’d suffered under Leopold's knife. His face still held boyish curves and probably always would. In fur, he was large without bulk, and faster than everyone he’d ever raced against. In time, Mirian could see him becoming the Pack Leader’s top runner—once he worked his way through his current teenage rebellion.

  “Provided I don’t strangle him before he manages it,” she muttered. She shifted the dirt on her skin back to the ground, and stepped up onto the wind.

  Tucked out of sight in the alley by the cheese shop, Dusty glared at the courier who stood by the well talking to Otto. The Empire of memory smelled of blood and death. The courier smelled of sweat and long days on the road without a chance to change or bathe in anything but cold water. She was tall and athletic, probably ex-military. As Dusty understood it, a lot of couriers were, and that would explain the rifle leaning against her pack. She didn’t look dangerous, but Dusty was well aware looks meant nothing. He didn’t look dangerous. But he was.

  “Hey!”

  Jerked out of his thoughts, Dusty started as Alver waved a hand in front of his nose.

  “I called you like six times.” The young mage crossed his arms, half a dozen white flecks drifting across the dark brown of his eyes. “What’s up? Does she smell so fascinating you think you can ignore me?”

  Dusty shouldered him hard enough to nearly knock him over and changed. “That’s an Imperial Courier!”

  “Well, that explains the uniform.” Alver threw a kilt at his head. “Here. Unless you planned on waving your bare ass at her.”

  “The Empire slaughtered most of my family, then hacked off my father’s leg, locked him into a silver collar, and threw me in a cell with him as he bled to death.” He yanked the kilt straps through the double buckles and waved a hand below his waist. “And this.”

  Sean Reiter thought the emperor had him castrated so he could be raised as a pet. “Or because he was a sadistic, insane, murdering son of a syphilitic hog,” Sean had amended dryly. “Could be either. Probably both.”

  Alver frowned. “Well, yeah, but she didn’t do it.”

  “She’s Empire!”

  “So?” Alver bounced his shoulder off Dusty’s. “And stop growling at me. If she tries anything Imperial, I’m sure the Pack Leader will let you rip her throat out.”

  “Mirian won’t.” Mirian didn’t understand.

  “If she gives you so much as a dirty look, Mirian will turn her inside-out. You know that.” Alver shrugged. “She’s your mom, or as good as. And she’s your Alpha.”

  “I’m nearly sixteen . . .”

  “So am I, and my mom still licks my ears. What can you do? I mean, someday I’ll have to . . .”

  Dusty raised a hand to cut him off, face turned into the breeze. “Mirian’s coming.”

  He expected Mirian to ride the wind into the market square, bring a gust strong enough to throw the Imperial—and maybe Otto—back on their heels, but she walked in like a normal person, Tomas in skin, fully dressed, at her side.

  From what Dusty could see of her expression, the Imperial Courier had also been expecting a more mage-like entrance. Not a medium-sized twenty-seven-year-old in a faded green dress. Her hair was up, and she’d even put on shoes, although most of Harar didn’t bother in the summer.

  “It’s like she’s playing dress-up,” Alver murmured. “Pretending she’s not a throwback to the kind of ancient mage who could destroy the world. Lulling them into a false sense of security. Also,” he added after a moment, “that dress is at least five years out of style.”

  “No one cares about the dress,” Dusty growled.

  Alver sighed. “Obviously.”

  The courier recovered quickly. She stepped past Otto and tipped her head to Mirian. A sort of bow, Dusty realized, not submission. “Your Wisdom. If we could speak privately?”

  “No.” Otto inserted himself between the two women. “Anything the Empire has to say will be said publicly.”

  Tomas�
�s lips lifted off his teeth.

  Leaning against the corner of the cheese shop, Alver shook his head. “Tomas needs to be careful with those almost-challenges or Mirian’s going to lose her Beta.”

  “Tomas can take him.” Tomas had been part of the Scout Pack in the Aydori army.

  Alver snorted. “That’s what I said.”

  Dusty elbowed him to shut him up.

  Over by the well, Mirian had given Otto a long, assessing look. Otto met it until Mirian’s lips twitched and she looked away. “Here is fine,” she said, gesturing for the courier to begin.

  “As you wish, Your Wisdom.”

  “Clever.” Alver nodded, as though his opinion meant something. “She’s acknowledging the decision was Mirian’s, not Otto’s.”

  “Alver, shut up. I need to hear this.”

  As though someone had heard him—and given the Mage-Pack scattered through the gathering crowd, Dusty wasn’t ruling it out—a breeze came up and the courier’s voice filled the market square.

  “I BRING WORD FROM LORD GOVERNOR . . .” Eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses, she stared around the square.

  “Apologies,” called a voice from the crowd. “That was a little loud. I’ll dial it back.”

  Tomas laughed and leaned in toward Mirian. Dusty couldn’t hear what he said, but Mirian laughed with him.

  “Probably reminding her of that time she nearly deafened the lot of us.”

  “We were seven,” Dusty snapped.

  “But I remember. Look . . .” Alver waved at the courier, who was visibly pulling herself together. “She didn’t expect basic mage-craft. You know what that tells us? Mages are still thin on the ground in the Empire.”

  “Comes from murdering them.”