The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  The dark images coalesced in his mind, and the seed of an idea took root.

  Collective strength. Amplified Will….

  “Sheason, fall back!” he called. “Pass the word!” He needed to get the attention of all those belonging to the Order.

  Within a few minutes, he managed to bring them together at the center of the great round. All gasped for breath, many bleeding from wounds, others collapsed to their knees. Frightened eyes shone back at him, waiting for him to speak, hoping for wisdom, perhaps salvation. The war raged all around them as the sun climbed high into the morning sky.

  Maral turned slowly in a circle and began to speak.

  “Individually we are not enough to defeat them,” he said. “We must join our efforts.”

  “Join?” one Sheason woman asked through labored breaths.

  He looked her in the eye. “Yesterday I watched as the velle drew upon the Will all at once. They slayed several thousand people in a matter of moments.” He stopped, considering that what he meant to ask might not work at all, that it might, in fact, have an ill effect. But they had to try something.

  “If each of us renders at the same time, and…if we stand together in our own circle, taking hold of one another’s hands”—he took two fellows by the hand to demonstrate—“we can produce an act of Will a thousand times greater than any one of us alone.”

  “How do you know this?” another Sheason asked.

  Maral tried to think of how to help them see, his own mind struggling to make sense of it. As he fought through the urgency and confusion, he fastened on the image of the velle, from the night before, who had clutched the child and Maral’s own son, and used their souls to power its rendering of the Will.

  “The velle have begun to take the lives of others in order to render. I believe we can use the principle of borrowing the spirit of another to expand our own capacity. If we all join together…”

  He saw wary stares in the eyes of his fellow Sheason.

  “When we do this, I believe we will create more than just the sum of our individual abilities; I believe each of us will multiply the sum of the two linked beside him. And in our own circle our strength will expand, allowing us to bring to bear an enormity of Will.”

  He looked past them to the shrinking outer ring of defense. The plain and the rising hill beyond the round still were black with Quiet moving toward them.

  If we do this, are we no different from the velle? Maral answered his own bitter question: The difference was that he asked his fellows to willingly surrender themselves to this action; when the velle sought life to power their use of the Will, they seized it by force.

  He then grew as still as he could in heart and mind. He looked around at those Sheason who followed him, who had trusted him.

  “Trust me now, as you have before,” he called with new confidence and vigor. “We will stand together and each focus on a single act, and send, from this circle, a wave of destruction aimed at the Quiet. And if I am right…it will roll like thunder, and drive them into the soil they have trodden and raped.”

  “And if we kill our own sword bearers? Kill ourselves?” a single, dissenting voice replied.

  Maral looked over at the man. Perhaps the time had come to tell them. He looked around at the men and women of the order, gathering them all in a long stare. Would they be undone by the truth? In the end, he decided they had a right to know.

  Gently, he shared the identities of the captives who stood bound some few hundred strides away. As he spoke, in some he saw disbelief, in others shock. Many, who were not already kneeling, collapsed to the earth, staring down, grief contorting their faces.

  He let them have a moment to fully understand and appreciate what was at stake, and what he proposed.

  Then, one by one, those who had fallen to the ground stood. Silent resolve seemed to fill each Sheason, as they began to link hands and form a circle. Maral watched as the inner round took shape. More than a hundred Sheason stood hand in hand, facing inward, eyeing one another as though in farewell. But none spoke. And then, as if by silent agreement, they all lowered their heads in an attitude of prayer. And waited.

  Silently, Maral gave instruction, sending it into the thoughts of these friends all joined. Clear your minds. Allow your spirit to flow without any specific desire or intention to the Sheason beside you. Let it become one with the rest of us. Begin now.

  Almost immediately, a great surge of energy flowed into him. With it came the secrets of those linked to him, the indiscretions, the regrets, the personal triumphs. But these faded quickly, as the pulse of raw power seemed to burn away the individual stories and leave an abundance of spirit and strength like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  The heart of a giant, he thought privately.

  He waited for the fullness of each renderer’s spirit to be offered. Linked as they were now, by hand and mind, he could sense even the most skeptical among them as they felt the collective power and relinquished every reserve of their own soul’s strength to the whole.

  In the moments that followed, with the sense of power and oneness he felt, there came simultaneously a sense of peace that surprised him.

  When the moment seemed right, he spoke again with his mind.

  Focus on the velle first. Think upon what you have seen them do, their unhallowed use of the Will. When you have fixed that in your heart, expand your thoughts to the rest of the Quiet, and envision their destruction.

  But more than any of this, think of your husbands and wives…and children. Of our friends and dear ones who were besieged and taken captive to become the instruments of your destruction. Consider their fear and pain and loss, and let the sorrow of it quicken your indignation.

  Then in his thoughts he heard: Maral. What of Talan? It was Laollen.

  This last secret he let go. Yes, he is with them.

  He allowed the revelation to be known to all, and felt a surging response of thought and emotion and strength as the reality of loss was made personal.

  Then take all of me, she said.

  A silent chorus of their fellow Sheason said the same.

  He spared a last moment to recall the face of a man he had let die so that others could be healed and returned to war; a face that had braved death for that very purpose. The moment passed, but left him filled with indignation. When all was firm in his mind, he raised his face to the sky and screamed out a soul-rending cry that sent forth a flare of light with the radiance of a thousand suns. He felt his body begin to fall, and caught a glimpse of all the Sheason joined to him likewise collapsing, their hands still locked together.

  ~

  A mighty scream rose up behind Baellor, and a great light blossomed. An enormous boom, deeper by far than any peal of thunder he’d ever heard, rode the wave of light, an inexorable force that moved outward fast. Baellor watched as the blinding flash left his army untouched and passed quickly to the Quiet army. The velle fell first, followed closely by the other Quiet breeds, their bodies sloughing away like sand in a high storm or falling like scarecrows.

  It all happened in the space of moments.

  He turned then, searching for his friend and counselor, and spotted him lying on the barren soil at the center of the round, his hands clasped to Sheason on both sides. It was the same with all the rest of his friend’s fellows, fallen in a circle of their own.

  He rushed to Maral’s side. His friend was dead. They were all dead. Baellor realized instantly the epiphany his friend had had, the last act of Will to which he’d committed himself.

  He put a hand on Maral’s forehead. “Thank you.”

  The scarred lands around them remained silent for a long time, soldiers having sat where they stood, resting, offering gratitude in their own way.

  Baellor surveyed the long, wide plain, strewn with countless bodies, the blood having flowed out upon the parched earth. These dead lands struck him as being like a great, open grave.

  Then, distantly, hours later, into the stillne
ss and silence came the sound of heavy marching feet. He rose and soon saw from the north more Quiet coming on toward them—rear troops, but without velle. Renewed anger and determination filled his heart.

  “Up, lads!” he cried. “For the blood of those fallen here, we will make an end of this.”

  ~

  Three days after Maral had raised his last rendering cry, the army of the convocation put down its last Quietgiven. Those from the Bourne that remained fled back into the north and west. It was only then, with the time to walk the vast fields of this war, that King Sechen Baellor realized the magnitude of the losses, despite the few thousands that had survived. The stench of death had begun to rise. And at the center of the carnage lay a hundred or more Sheason, whose end became, for him, the last, best benediction to the battle of the round.

  “Good-bye, my friend,” Baellor whispered, his words lost in a dry wind that swept over the scarred lands.

  Copyright © 2011 by Peter Orullian

  Art copyright © 2011 by Kekai Kotaki

  Peter Orullian’s Vault of Heaven stories and books

  The Unremembered

  (Tor Books)

  Sacrifice of the First Sheason

  (Tor.com short story)

  The Great Defense of Layosah

  (Tor.com short story)

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Paxton is your baby boy, born just after you got out of the army, your peacetime child. He turned six last month but already he’s got a sweetheart who lives next door. He makes her crowns out of dandelions and shares his FruitBlaster cups with her. She brings him marbles that hum and lets him position her antennae into funny shapes. He has a lisp that the speech therapist has given up on, and she has clicking mandibles, but in their invented language of coos and giggles they are both poets. They sit out in the yard and very seriously lay grass on each other’s arms, and the sunlight cocoons them.

  You and Denise watch them through the kitchen window. Denise is an old army buddy and she gets it. All of it.

  You say something like, No surprise he’s got a sweetheart already. Just look at his daddy.

  Denise laughs rough and loud. Regular little Casanova, isn’t he? Regular little intergalactic Casanova. Damn. And I can’t even get a date.

  You want to date an ET?

  She shudders. Lord, girl, don’t joke. Then she bites her lip. Nothing against Pax, of course. It’s super cute.

  You nod. They’re just babies, I figure. Sweetheart’s a good thing to have. And he’s a good kid.

  She agrees with you and pours the dregs of the margarita pitcher into your glass.

  * * *

  You take Paxton and Sweetheart to the water park and lie in a chaise while they jump off the foam pirate ship. Only ten minutes before Pax runs up sobbing.

  She won’t come up! I yelled and I yelled, but she won’t!

  You fly to the edge of the pool terrified the little alien has drowned on your watch, but then you realize she has gills.

  Paxton crouches next to you, wiping his nose. Come up, stu-pid, he shouts at the water. Stupid stupid stu-pid.

  Don’t say stupid, Pax. Hush. She’s okay.

  You buy them hotdogs and try not to be disgusted when Sweetheart pincers hers into bits and tucks them into pouches on her sides. Pax trumps her by mashing his entire dog into his cheeks and opening his mouth to display it.

  They whisper to each other the whole bus ride home. You realize you don’t even know if Sweetheart is a girl.

  * * *

  At night with his voice full of sleep Pax asks you what love is, and you blather some nothing about caring for someone very very much. He gets serious in the darkness.

  Okay, so then, I think I love Sweetheart.

  You don’t know why, but you whisper to him, Congratulations.

  * * *

  Things start to change. On the radio, on TV. Human Pride turns into a big deal with advertisers. Coke does a whole, One People One Planet campaign. The news pundits start asking why so much tax money still goes to the army. It’s been years since there was a conflict, hasn’t it? And don’t we all know where the real threat is? Their voices purr with suggestion, and their eyes flicker toward the sky.

  You don’t think Paxton would get what Strategic Containment and Deportation means, but you hide the newspaper headlines from him anyway.

  Jesus, says Denise, it’s happening. Just like that. We spent all that time kicking in doors and we could have just said, Look over there, look at the ones with the tentacles! She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. And I know the ones next door seem okay, but I mean, really. You know?

  You do know.

  One night police come banging on Sweetheart’s door. Some of the neighbors go out in the street to watch, but you take Paxton into your bedroom and turn the TV up loud. He falls asleep with his head on your stomach. In the morning you say, What the heck, huh. Let’s take a day off school.

  It works until seven that evening, when he gets two Italian ices out of the freezer and says, I’m going over to Sweetheart’s.

  Why don’t you stay in with me tonight? You try to say it real nonchalant, but he catches on. His chin starts to shake.

  I’m going over to Sweetheart’s.

  Aliens are in some trouble right now, okay? It’s not safe for you.

  Is Sweetheart safe?

  Something about his look makes you feel guilty, and feeling guilty gets you a little pissed off. Look. Sweetheart went away for a little while. You can make some new friends, how about. You want to go over to Shira Allen’s? Shira Allen just got a trampoline.

  Pax makes a wordless noise and flies to the front door, but it’s locked and with an Italian ice in each hand he’s stuck. He flings himself against the window and leaves snot prints on the glass.

  You spout something like, You’ll understand when you’re older. Bullshit, and you both know it. He stiffens and turns, tear-bright eyes spearing through you. I don’t understand now, he screams. His voice so full of rage it’s like music. I don’t understand now.

  He flings an Italian ice at you, and melting strawberry sucrose bursts across your chest.

  Love explodes in you, how smart he is, how he was once a part of you but is no longer. You step up so close that the red syrup on your shirtfront smears on him as well.

  Get in your room this minute, you hiss. You never talk to me that way again.

  He slams his door but doesn’t get it quite right and opens it and slams it again. He’s going to hate you for a couple of days; that’s okay. Hate is nothing, hell, you’ve known love. It stampedes through your veins. You could tell him about it. You could tell him you had sweethearts, you had cocoons of sunlight too. You could tell him about his father. You could tell him about the long nights in Delta Company, the dreams and the grit that never came out from under your eyelids. But you won’t.

  In the silent hallway you stare at his closed door. I’m sorry, Pax, you think. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. But you’re not. You’ve seen humans killing humans, and if something can stop that it’s worth it. It’s worth tantrums. Worth a first crush. Worth all the aliens in the universe.

  You’d do it even if meant Pax never trusted you again, but he will. He will dry his eyes and open the door. He will grow. He will take Shira Allen to school dances and eat waffle fries with his friends and make JV football. He will hear talk on the radio of uniting against the alien menace and change it to Top 40 without thinking. He
will love the feeling of sun on his limbs.

  Once in a while, he’ll remember Sweetheart and freeze on the sidewalk, but after a moment he’ll shake his head and keep walking. He will know without knowing, the one thing greater than love. He will live in a world at peace.

  Copyright © 2010 by Abbey Mei Otis

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  There was a man, Magnus’s son,

  Ragni his name. In Reykjavik

  Stands his office, six stories,

  Far from the harbor in the fat past.

  Birds nest there, now abandoned.

  The sea washes along Vesturgata,

  As they called it.

  In those days

  Ragni’s son, a rich man,

  Also a scholar, skilled in law,

  Thomas his name, took his wife

  From famished Boston, far away.

  Brave were her people, black-skinned,

  Strong with spear, with shield courageous,

  Long ago.

  Lately now

  The world has stopped. It waits and turns.

  Fire leaps along the hill.

  Before these troubles, Thomas took her,