The seed of Project Sandbox, I can only imagine, was a simple observation: rich men control the lives of less-rich men. They do it in their factories and firms through the armature of the wage. But factories and firms are only the most conventional forms of this dominion. Money can buy more than car parts and happy clientele. Entertainment, education, and countless other items wear a price tag.
Nathan—I should say Lionel—probably woke one day to find boredom had leaked in through his dollar-bought defences. Perhaps he grew tired of ordering employees about, lavishing rewards on the good ones, firing others. What’s the point of being a little-g god when you’re bound by the same rules that bind your servants?—minimum wage this, severance pay that, social mores the-other. And besides, he knew anyone with half a brain could work their way to his net worth. That’s the seduction of the American dream.
So he looked outside the box. And found me, a 40-something academic with a barely-veiled repugnance for life; a historian of the great men, not so much standing on the shoulders of giants as pimpling them.
He took me into his employ, pretending to be an agent of the CIA, to be his own little plaything, and through me, through the missions he created for me, played at being spy vicariously.
My pay arrived every week, and Lionel’s father, Walt, was my only contact. (Lionel must have thought himself so clever to find company for his father into the bargain. Poor Walt. To have lost his whole family beneath him.) I honed my spy-craft, threw myself into the increasingly complex tasks assigned to me, heaped up a mountain of material evidence for cases beyond recalling. And all for nothing but the amusement of an idly rich man with a bout of ennui.
The irony is not lost on me.
In time I guess he grew bored of me, but by then he’d realized the worth of his sandbox and toy spy. His children were growing up and I offered a unique opportunity to educate them in the skills of management. First Timothy, then Laurel were apprenticed in conceiving realistic missions, communicating them, and analysing their outcomes, all the while husbanding me and my own foibles carefully and sustainably.
As each child matured, their father gave them greater challenges. The missions became more complex, varied, and like the creations of a blossoming writer, the effects achieved became more subtle, or comedic, or tragic. I found myself spying on colleagues in the very halls of academia I’d forsworn; and assembling materials on spider biology—me, the arachnophobe!; and, yet more cruel, surveilling targets in the building where my ex-wife works, slinking about equally horrified and yearning.
Laurel, a writer at heart, had scarcely begun her apprenticeship when she hit upon the idea of anonymously blogging her exploits. Her most recent concoction, Operation Erhard, was her magnum opus, and perhaps her graduation project. Set by Lionel no doubt, its goal was a novelty: to make Cuckoo appear in the media. What a thrill it must have been! To fire off a document to old Walt and days later see my mug in the news, like flicking the switch on a dynamited building and watching it crumble. To also capture Tom Cruise, her favourite actor and a dollop of pure pop culture, was the artist in her. His presence had dismissed any doubt of a paper running with the story.
And I’ll give it to Laurel, it was pure genius to drop me in the Château just days after a mad samurai was killed on its steps. He had blooded the guards, leaving them alert for the faintest whiff of a strange scent—which I was bound to give, poor little lamb me, looking for a man who didn’t exist.
Gosh, I do mix my metaphors when I’m tired.
Still, I can be philosophic about my time as a CIA Non-Official agent, a ghost operative. It taught me many skills.
The lawyers want to give me the needle. But I tell you a higher court has examined my actions and pronounced justice done. You should have seen Nathan Blaylock’s face in its last moments of animation.
Do you have a watch? They don’t let me have one in here. I have an appointment with a lady from CNN next and wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.
But before you go: have you heard the story about the man who took a pretty shell home and put it in his tank?
About The Author
Brett Adams grew up knowing two worlds—country Western Australia, and Middle Earth. One was vast, bright, and dry. The other had elves. Somewhere between one world and the other writing became a joy with this challenge: to create stories that invite scratching below the surface. Stories with skin, organs, bones. Stories that might walk. Later he circumnavigated the continent by caravan. He now enjoys being able to step sideways, and the blurred boundary at the edge of dreams. He lives with his wife and children in Perth, Western Australia.
For more information, visit http://dweomingwell.blogspot.com.au/.
The First Acolyte of the Upshan Berental
Bryce Anderson
Editor’s Note: Fantasy often gets criticized for having a predilection toward male heroes surrounded by weak women, but the indie world has no problem giving us strong and courageous females. Even if they can’t always see their own strength.
“Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.”—The final words of revered founder Dorica Longmire, as inscribed above the entrance to the Temple of the Upshan Berental
The same dream had come for her every night this week: Reesa stood tongue-tied as the sphere of the Upshan Berental grew larger and brighter. Flames poured out of it, closing in around her and incinerating her instantly. Bodiless, she floated there, listening to High Priest Ragnar. “Poor girl, she should have practiced her enunciation.” Then he would hobble down the marble steps to fetch the dustpan, muttering, “Well, if she couldn’t get a few simple words right, what use was she?”
Now the thirteen year-old girl stood upon those same steps, feeling the gaze of hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her back. Four girls had already taken their vows and come back down the stairs unincinerated. In fact, in the nearly nine hundred years since the Founding, zero initiates had caught fire. She’d asked. Stop imagining things that never could happen, she chided herself. You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.
High Priest Ragnar motioned for her to approach. She climbed, feeling naked and exposed in her simple white robes. She knelt before the priest, who splashed water on her forehead. As she opened her mouth to speak, she froze. How did the chant begin? “I…” she sputtered.
“Vin virimas…” the priest whispered, an indulgent smile on his face.
She gasped with relief as the words began to pour out of her. “Vin virimas wolda, chomaskli,” she called out, speaking with phonetic precision the long string of words whose meaning had been lost to antiquity. The priest responded with a few words of his own. She would respond at the proper moments by raising her hands above her head and shouting, “Tah kali! Upshan!” During her instructions, she’d asked three different priests what the phrase meant. Only handsome young Brother Uther had had the humility to admit that nobody knew.
The ritual continued with two more unintelligible exchanges and a notoriously difficult bit involving three candles. The knot in her stomach released as the high priest nodded in approval, then sent her back to stand in the line.
Finally, in the climax of the ceremony, the high priest turned to a marble pedestal behind him, pulling a cloth away and revealing the sacred Upshan Berental. The translucent, glowing ball hovered about a handspan above the altar. But in the minds of the gathered worshippers, the ball was no mere parlor trick. It was an object of reverence and devotion. It was a conduit linking their minds to the minds of the gods. It was glowing green today.
According to the teachings, the Upshan Berental protected the temple and the whole village. From what, Reesa wasn’t sure. Maybe from the Bad Place, the place the Founders had been fleeing when they came to this tiny, fertile valley surrounded by impassable mountains. No one knew how they’d come here or why the Founders had fled. In the nine hundred years since, nobody had entered or departed the valley.
The ball made for an odd, inscrutable protector. It
glowed, it hovered, it frequently changed color, and from time to time stray cats would wander in and take great fascination in it. She’d once overheard a priest call it “The Sacred Thingy,” which had seemed blasphemous but also accurate.
Nervously, the five inductees stepped forward and placed their hands upon the sphere. Giving it all her focus, Reesa struggled to feel the monumental significance of this moment. It wasn’t easy. She’d half expected the touch to bring some flash of revelation, some deeper understanding of the universe and her place in it, or maybe the flames would come to punish her for some past transgression. But no, it was just a warm, glowing rock. Once the smell of incense washed out of her hair, Reesa’s life would be unchanged save for one new obligation. As an acolyte, she would be required to stand watch over the ball for eight hours twice a week. Though the Upshan Berental—Conduit to the Mind of Heaven—was admittedly very pretty, the older children had warned her that long hours of boredom and drudgery lay ahead.
The ceremony switched back to their native tongue and Reesa spoke the solemn vows, promising to guard the ball with her very life, wax and polish it whenever necessary, and keep herself undefiled by men. No problem there, she thought. Conversations with boys inevitably left her pondering why the gods had created such hopelessly stupid creatures.
The high priest spoke a few words, praising the girls for their willingness to make the required covenants, which made Reesa flush with pride. He followed his praise with a rather long-winded speech, starting out as a parable about virgins and lamp oil, but soon drifting off into a story about a beautiful woman he’d met before joining the order. Before the old man could say anything too incriminating, one of his assistants whispered something in his ear, and he wrapped it up.
Their rite of passage over, the girls made their way back down the stairs and began filing toward the entrance. Soon the last few months of fasting and study, separated from their parents, would be a fading memory. Reesa gave a backward glance to the Upshan Berental. Silly, overgrown marble, she thought.
I heard that, said a voice in her head. Her face went pale; she spun around to face the shining sphere. She stared at it, then heard the congregation muttering in confusion. Finally, in embarrassment, she turned and started walking quickly. Just my imagination, she thought.
Just your imagination, the voice agreed. Reesa broke into a sprint, nearly toppling the girl in front of her.
***
For three days, Reesa dreaded her upcoming communion with the Upshan Berental, when she would spend eight hours alone guarding the sphere. But what could she do? Ask one of the priests to guard her as she guarded it? Tell people she’d been hearing voices? Fake an illness? Her fear of the Upshan Berental was exceeded only by her fear of embarrassment. She resolved to pretend nothing had happened, and hoped nothing would.
The hour of reckoning was at hand. She entered the temple as the sun set, finding her friend Arkit standing watch at the pedestal. Arkit, though only a year older than Reesa, stood a full head taller and was as self-confident as any adult in the village. And she was beautiful. They would laugh together about the way boys salivated over Arkit, about the foolish ways they tried to impress her. Secretly, Reesa wished she could inspire even a tenth as much foolishness.
Arkit waved her over. As they embraced, her friend said, “Hey, Ree. I have to run. I’m supposed to meet Jedoan down by the lake. I know, you think he’s too old for me,” she chattered as she headed for the entrance, “and of course he doesn’t have a single thought in his head. But I can overlook that, since he’s so pretty. Try not to get caught sleeping!”
Arkit was sprinting toward the door. “Wait!” Reesa yelled.
The older girl hurried back. “What’s wrong?”
“What if it…” Reesa swallowed hard, staring at the ball. “What if it does something?”
“Oh, Ree. The Upshan Berental doesn’t do anything! It just floats there.” She gave it a demonstrative shove. The sphere was nudged slightly off its center, then slowly floated back into place. “I once saw it change color. Red to blue.”
“Can it…can it get angry? Do you think?”
“You’ve just got jitters. The ball won’t do anything, and if anybody comes in, there’s a dozen priests quartered upstairs.” She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I hear that some of them are warrior monks. They know secret fighting arts and could punch a brick in half.”
She squeezed Reesa’s hand, and then she was gone. The heavy temple doors thundered closed, leaving Reesa alone with the suddenly menacing orb. The girl stood in the appointed spot, apprehensive eyes fixed on it. Its unblinking gaze met hers, and the hours began to pass. Eventually her resolve waned and the discomfort in her back and shoulders waxed. She sat down, hoping none of the priests would catch her.
The priests had warned her to be vigilant and always remain standing, meditating on the glow of the orb, divining hidden wisdom from its slow flicker. But Arkit swore she’d never gotten in trouble for sitting down, or even sleeping. More than a couple of the boys claimed that they could skip out for hours at a time unnoticed. Reckless, stupid boys.
Ree. Sa.
The voice entered her mind, frigid and sharp. Reesa yelped, jumping to her feet and spinning to face the orb. “Who’s there?”
Ree. Sa.
It had heard her thoughts before. She was sure of it. Just stop it! She flung the thought back viciously. Whoever you are, leave me alone!
The orb grew brighter, its pale cream color melting away as a furious crimson arose. Ree. Sa. Come. To. Me.
Controlling her breathing, she stepped closer to the pedestal. Every muscle in her body was primed and desperate to flee, but she’d been given a command, a test of her faith. Fighting down her rising panic, she reached out toward its warm, glowing surface with a single finger.
Right as she touched it, the light extinguished and the orb dropped, crashing to the pedestal. As it clattered down the steps, making a bang bang bang noise that only the dead could sleep through, Reesa screamed at the top of her lungs.
The acoustics of the temple were really quite remarkable.
***
The rumor spread like a brushfire as the town awoke: how Reesa had burst in on half a dozen unconscious priests in their nightrobes, sobbing as she screamed, “I broke it! I broke it!” How they’d all rushed down the stairs to find the Upshan Berental burning quietly in its proper place. How the poor, crazy girl had hurled venomous accusations at the ball, using such language as had not defiled the temple in centuries.
Not centuries, some listeners reminded them, for three weeks ago Brother Ralsam had dropped that marble idol of Kunush the Preserver on his own foot.
For her ungodly behavior, she was banned from Watch for a full month, confined to the temple’s kitchens when she wasn’t at studies. Washing dishes was dull, humid drudgery, but it made Reesa happy. Plates never whispered to her brain.
The month passed too quickly, and her embarrassment soon faded. When it came time to return, she was given the coveted morning shift, when the body was fresh and people sometimes came by to break the monotony. This would be easier, she figured.
But it wasn’t. By the end of her first hour, her nerves were worn raw from the constant tension. Any second now, the voice would come to her again. It would be inside her head, saying… saying… saying…
Just say something! She shouted the thought into the gaping silence where the voice should have been.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. The voice was a young boy’s, serious and apologetic. Reesa tried to keep her face neutral as she looked around. A few elderly worshippers milled around the periphery of the room, offering up prayers, or maybe just gossiping to pass the time. They certainly weren’t paying the girl any notice.
Who are you?
My name was Kyron. But that was a long time ago.
Are you a god?
No. I was…a boy. An acolyte like you.
Curiosity almost overcame t
he girl’s resentment. But not quite. So, I probably won’t burn in the Blackfire if I tell you to leave me alone?
Probably not. I doubt I have any say in the fate of your eternal soul.
Good. She turned her back on the pedestal, staring determinedly towards the vaulted ceiling.
I really am sorry, the voice spoke. Reesa didn’t reply. They waited out the remainder of the shift in silence.
Finally, Arkit arrived to replace her. “Did you have fun?”
“More than you can imagine.”
Arkit wrinkled her nose, like she found the sarcasm unbecoming. “Rile asked if you’d be at the festival this evening,” Arkit nearly squeaked the good news. “I think he fancies you.” The sphere flared red again, but only Reesa noticed.
“It’ll be good to be away from here,” Reesa said. “This overgrown marble is starting to get on my nerves.” She turned and bounded down the stairs to the awaiting entrance. Someone let out a shriek; Reesa spun around.
The Upshan Berental was following her.
***
Four priests stood in a circle around Reesa and her unwanted companion, studying the pair like a new kind of insect. The aged High Priest Ragnar was the first to give his professional evaluation. “She’s bewitched it! The girl is an evil sorceress!”
“That may not be the case, your excellency,” said Brother Uther. “It may be that the gods have chosen this girl for some special purpose.” He gave Reesa a wary, apologetic smile, and the girl felt her pulse quicken.
“Most irregular, most irregular,” the high priest muttered. Then he rapped the orb with his cane, shouting, “Speak up!”
Brother Uther cast him a worried look, then turned to the girl. “I’m not sure how to ask this,” he said, “but have the gods tried to…contact you?”
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