Perhaps inevitably, I have given in and started fooling around with making AI images of my characters. These images are being shown for now over at my old LiveJournal blog,

https://olddochermes2.livejournal.com/

The Haley Lawson one just absolutely cracks me up. I can see a coven of warlocks or a pack of Skinwalkers grinning murderously as they stalk in on little Windcatcher. Just before she demolishes them.

Today I have frittered away the afternoon trying to come up with Ashley Whitaker, the Unicorn, and getting nowhere. I can visualize how she looks with clarity but getting that image on the screen is beyond me so far. My artististic skills are limited to cheerful doodles of some bizarre characters which I usually add to notes or cards. One friend of mine always got a note with an enthusiastic hummingbird zipping around because it suited her personality.

And now I'm on a binge, making images of Unicorn, Romal, the Brimstone Kid...then moving on to more and more obscure characters even I don't remember.

AND I must emphasize that I am not creating these images my self. I don't know how. I put the request out there and several enthusiastic people out there do the work!
well, by that I mean AIs.

What is frustrating is that the various AIs are so limited. They are incapable of drawing an Eyeless helmet and will insist on giving a character
a beard or draw them the wrong height by two feet. It's like Stan Lee getting art back for an issue where the Thing is wearing sneakers for no good reason and an inker has to correct every page.

"Worst Malpractice Ever"

9/21/2020

I.

The intercom on his nightstand buzzed. Snapping fully awake, Carlo turned over on the bed and responded, "Yes?"

The familiar subdued voice of Lauren Sable Reilly said, "I may have an assignment for you and Megan. Report to the office in five."

"On my way, captain."

Carlo Ventura felt more stiff and sore than he had ever been in his life. Just twenty years old, he had never exercised or played any sports. Necessity had made him walk everywhere, which had kept him in fairly good shape, but Kumundu martial art training under Teacher Chael was like breaking his body down and rebuilding it better.

The round analog clock on the wall facing him read ten after seven and the gloom outside the window facing 38th Street reassured him it was evening. He had fallen asleep fully dressed on top of the covers of his bed. Carlo grunted and grumbled, sitting up and wincing at how everything hurt. He was of average height but underweight to the point of looking a bit frail. The narrow face with its bony cheeks was topped by longish curly black hair and his dark eyes were sunken and tired.

On its own chest-high stand in one corner, the strange Eyeless Helmet seemed to regard him. Crafted in one piece of Ensalir, the Eldanar metal that resembled pale gold, it had no openings for the eyes, only outlines etched into the surface. The ancient helm was one of the most potent talismans in the Midnight War. Its bonding with him was what qualified Carlo to apply for KDF membership and to be a knight of Tel Shai.

For a few seconds, he enjoyed looking at his surroundings. This room had genuine wood walls, a double bed with a new mattress, a dresser with a mirror across its top, a desk with a laptop charging, a TV on a wheeled cart. In one corner, he had his own bathroom with a shower. This was more luxury than he had ever known. His childhood had been in a rundown shack with a hard-drinking father who kept him fed and clothed but not much more. At sixteen, he had left home to crash on different friends' couches or floors. One winter he had slept every night in a big SUV whose owner left unlocked, being sure to sneak out before daybreak.

He HAD to win full KDF membership. He couldn't bear losing this room, the hot meals, the company of new friends on the team who had so quickly accepted him. Going back to the streets, to a life without purpose or hope, would be intolerable. Whatever it took, whatever the Teachers of Tel Shai asked of him, he was determined to win their approval.

Stiff-legged, he shambled out into the hall and down the wide central staircase. His room was on the fourth floor. By the time he got down to the front hall on the ground level, his limbs had warmed up enough that he was moving normally. At the bottom step, he turned right to pass through the open door of the office.

On the right hand side as he entered was Sable sitting behind her desk. A handsome black-haired woman in her forties, she had been leader of the KDF and its team of Tel Shai knights for half her life. Her gift was enhanced sensory perception. Sable could follow a moth in an unlit room, read a newspaper from across a city street or detect the amount of stress chemicals in a person's trace perspiration. She gave him a friendly, understated smile as he entered.

There were two plain wooden chairs facing the desk and he lowered himself onto with a slight hesitation. Even without using her abilities Sable had observed how Carlo had lowered himself down, and she said, "Once the Tagra tea effect kicks in, your healing will be elevated. Our physical training becomes much easier to deal with after that."

"That's an encouraging thought, thanks."

Sitting in the other chair, turning her head to nod politely at him was Megan Salenger. Just because of scheduling and different assignments, he had spent the least amount of time with her out of all the team. He knew she had been a Human infant raised by a council of the unemotional advanced intellects called the Trom. She was known as the Trom Girl, and she operated at a genius level in a dozen demanding technical fields. From remarks the others dropped, Megan had tried to act entirely cold and logical for years but that shell had broken when she had tumbled headlong in love with her boyfriend Archie McAllister.

Megan was a slim young woman a few inches over five feet tall, with tousled black hair over an inquisitive face. Although forty years old, like most of the KDF members she looked considerably younger. Her enhanced healing and peak physical condition meant that most people would estimate she was in her late twenties. She was wearing sneakers, dark blue slacks and a white pullover shirt with a rolled collar. In her lap was one of their field helmets with a panel open, and she held a wire-thin tool in one hand. As Carlo settled down, she snapped the panel shut and pocketed the diagnostic tool.

Sable got their attention. "I've been looking over some reports from a few of our observers up in Westchester. I'll brief you both fully before you leave. Megan, tonight you were on monitor duty but Tim said he has no plans and can relieve you. Carlo, I had you scheduled for practice with the dart guns but that will have to be dropped for now."

Unconsciously, Megan and Carlo both leaned forward, prepared to hear almost anything. The Midnight War was always surprising.

"This case is going to be more gruesome than most," Sable said. "There have been three bodies found near Westlake Crossing in the past five weeks. From the police reports, it appears that a person or persons has a hobby of performing skilled but pointless surgery on conscious victims..."

( the rest of the story )

"Boss, That Dog Just Ate My Gun"

10/9/2021

I

Everyone gasped when Galvan broke his cane over the little dog's head. Not that the dog seemed to mind. He resembled a short haired terrier, tan and white, not more than a year old. The thick cane snapped cleanly as it came down hard across his skull.

"Oh my God!" yelled Timothy Limbo, diving off the couch to kneel in front of the puppy, who happily greeted him with tail wagging. "He's not hurt?"

Picking up the broken piece of the cane, Galvan laughed. He looked like the classic stereotype of a lumberjack, a huge burly man in work boots, tough pants and plaid flannel shirt. The curly brown hair and beard, the blindingly white teeth and the deep baritone voice completed the image. "Oh, Tim, you don't think I'd hurt my Bruno, do you?"

"No, no, of course not but..." At this point, the dog had evidently accepted Tim as his new best friend and was licking Tim's hands with enthusiasm.

Watching from the doorway, Ashley Whitaker laughed. "That's the toughest Jack Russell ever! I didn't know that even Melgar dogs were superhuman errr supercanine." The little platinum blonde dropped to her knees next to Tim and started cooing, "Who's a good boy, yes you are..."

Galvan pulled over a chair for himself. "He really likes you two. I'm glad. Melgar fox-hunter dogs are friendly and good-natured but I didn't expect him to warm up to strangers so quickly."

Tearing himself away from the pup, Timothy reached over to grin at his teammate. "Tell you a secret? It's the Tagra tea diet we're on. Tel Shai knights have a clean mint odor that animals love. Even predators tend to disregard us unless we provoke them. We're like, well, dognip if there is such thing."

"TIM-othy!" objected the Unicorn, who had both arms around the dog at this point and was carrying him around. "It's because dogs are excellent judges of character! Bruno can tell we are just wonderful people."

"But hold on, since when did you have an invulnerable dog?" asked Tim. "I think I'd remember you telling us about that."

"This is something new," Galvan told him. "You know how roughly each generation of Melgarin has a boy or girl born with the Legacy of Malberon? How we develop strength and resilience beyond what flesh and blood can bear without a gralic charge? Valera was the last such heir and she was born in 1940..."

"Wait, Valera is eighty years old?! I'd swear she was maybe thirty at the most?" protested the Unicorn.

"Our average lifespan is greater than yours," Galvan said. "So, my people expected a new heir to the Legacy in a decade or two. Then, a goatherd named Berenthir saw his new puppy knock down a split-rail gate to chase a squirrel. Somehow, Bruno has inherited the Legacy."

Ashley bent over and lowered Bruno to the floor. "Ummm, I'm cuddling an animal that can bite through granite...?"

"It's fine, it's fine," Galvan assured her, scratching the dog behind one ear. "Bruno's a good boy. Right, my friend? Melgar hounds are well-behaved."

Timothy Limbo had dropped down on the end of the brown leather couch. Bruno came over to sit next to him, resting his muzzle on Tim's knee and gazing up with adoring eyes. "So, Galvan, as much as your doggo has won our hearts, is there some reason you brought him here today?"

"I'm afraid so," the giant Melgar admitted. "Bruno is official a ward of the Androval court. Since I have my time occupied with my wife and our new son, King Holmir has decided that Sulak should take charge of the pup. But, as you might expect, Sulak is not to be found. He was last known to be in the Northwest Mountains fighting Trolls. My king has charged me with finding Sulak and dragging him back to Androval to take care of Bruno here."

Ashley had remained standing, resting one slim hip on the edge of Sable's desk. "Hey... wait a minute..."

"Obedient and good-natured Bruno may be, yet he is still a dog and prone to sudden enthusiasm," said Galvan. "Except for Sulak, Valera and myself, he is the strongest living creature in any realm. But I have one friend who is able to watch him safely."

The petite blonde waved an index finger from side to side in denial. "Oh no. I'm not dog sitting something that can knock a house down. Take him with you."

"With your sacred Horn, you can damp the gralic charge from his body. He will be a normal playful dog for an hour while the Unicorn spell lasts." Galvan rose to his feet, towering six inches over six feet tall and massing nearly three hundred pounds of hard muscle. Mild as his demeanor was, his sheer presence was intimidating. "I knew I could count on you, Ashley. And you as well, Tim. Bruno...Stay!"

With that the Melgar champion simply left the room and was out the front door before the Unicorn could muster an objection. For once, her glibness failed her. She crossed over to sit next to Timothy and asked, "Why didn't you say anything to stop him?"

"Hmm? I was feeding Bruno a pepperoni Slim Jim. He likes it. Say, did Galvan say if he was housebroken?"

( the rest of the story )

"Billy the Squid"

2/19/2025

I.

The small lean figure of Demrak Jin shot up out of the waterway like a missile fired from a submerged submarine. She easily cleared the SEA LARK by ten feet and landed neatly on the deck, crouching and seemingly ready to fight. Taken entirely by surprise, Calvin Calvert squawked and fell over onto his back with a painful thump.

Only three inches over five feet tall, Jin was a dramatic sight in her tight tunic and leggings of grey shark hide. Strapped diagonally across her narrow back was an ivory sheath that held a knife with a wide, three foot long blade carved of bone. The Gelydran woman straightened and untensed as she decided this man sprawled at her feet was no obvious danger.

"I have seen you before," she said without a trace of warmth. Demrak Jin had an odd but charismatic appearance. Her wide flat face with its sullen blue eyes was topped by short white hair that bristled stiffly. "You are the journalist who gets in the way."

Lying on the deck in front of her was a tall, lanky man in his late fifties. Calvin Calvert was wearing a lightweight white suit with a blue necktie pulled down and the top button of his shirt opened. He had greying red hair over a weather-beaten face and, in an attempt to appear nautical, was wearing a black-billed captain's cap instead of his usual battered fedora.

"What? You wound me, miss, I have been a great help to your fellow KDF members, my blog WHAT REALLY HAPPENED gets an average twenty-five thousand hits each day and I have enough subscribers to pay for coffee and donuts. I have been on the staff of numerous newspapers across this fair land of ours.. Awrkk!"

Calvert made that sound because Demrak Jin has grasped the front of his shirt and casually lifted him up off the deck entirely, so that his feet dangled free. She did this with one hand as easily as if picking up an empty T-shirt. As Calvert gasped in surprise, she walked over to the dock to which the SEA LARK was tied and tossed him over on to it.

"I did not give you permission to step on my boat," she explained.

Calvert scrambled clumsily back up to his feet. "I can see you've been going to the gym, young lady..."

"I am a Gelydra of Ulgor!" she announced. "Human I am not and never was."

"Say, that's a real poetic turn of phrase you have there," he gushed. "Have you ever considered doing a lengthy interview? Would you like surface people to understand more about Ulgor? Do you worship sharks?"

"What? No, we are KIN to sharks. A Gelydra is born at the same time a shark hatches and the same spirit lives in us both. But why am I telling you? I say, go about your business and trouble me no more."

"Your teammates can vouch for me..."

That seemed to irritate her even more. "I have read the cases filed by Jeremy Bane, Megan Salenger and Timothy Limbo. They agree that you cause trouble rather than resolve it and that you make their activities more difficult. I have not their patience. I will not put up with you."

"Ah, but I do have information useful to you, miss. You have come to Florida searching to find whoever has been looting yachts and killing the crews. I've already done some digging."

"Very well," she grated as if holding back an urge to commit grievous bodily harm. "Very well, I will hear you out for a second. What can you tell me?"

"I have found a name, the pirate behind these crimes. It sounds as if he's a Gelydra from sunken Ulgor, same as you. They call him Billy the Squid."

Demrak Jin glared for a second, then relented. "Come aboard, then, and talk. But do not think we are working together."

( the rest of the story )

DUST MITES ATTACK! II - Skinless Faces

9/12-9/13/2010

I.

After a month, the novelty of having his own office was just beginning to wear off on Sheng. With his back to the fantail window overlooking Canal Street, he sat at his desk and gazed happily at the frosted glass panel of his door. Reversed from his viewpoint, the black letters and Chinese ideograms read CHUAN LO TSING - FIST FOR HIRE. ARGENT PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS 12 MIDNIGHT TO 8 AM, with a phone number.

Despite his name and his appearance, Sheng Mo-Yuan was not actually Chinese. He was from the adjacent realm of Chujir, whose inhabitants were thought by arcane scholars to be the ancient ancestors of the Han peoples. Sheng was five feet five, stocky but athletic, with the straight coarse black hair and tawny skin tones that led everyone to immediately decided he was East Asian. The inner eyelid fold was not very pronounced and his nose had an eagle arch that was distinctive. Sheng was also a snappy dresser, tonight he had chosen his favorite dark brown suit with a tan shirt and black tie, all carefully tailored.

Chujir was farther away from Canal Street than miles could measure, sundered from this world by gralic barriers. And yet here he had somehow semi-adopted new family. Sitting at his own smaller desk further back by the door, Uncle Pao was storming through a mess of opened letters as if he had lost money in it.

Pao had installed himself as an unofficial aide, nagging as much as helping. He had no fighting abilities nor clerical skill, but Pao did possess a keen understanding of human nature and a sharp sense of when clients were lying. Watching the office, taking messages, cooking meals were other ways in which Uncle Pao made himself useful.

Pao had met Sheng Mo-Yuan by chance only a few months earlier, had become became caught up in an investigation and immediately insisted that they were related. Sheng did not reveal that, since he had come from Chujir, he could not have any living relatives in the world. Instead, Sheng quickly accepted Uncle Pao, allowed the old man to start helping out at the FIST FOR HIRE offices and treated Pao as a genuine uncle. Maybe it only meant that Sheng missed having a family, since his teammates at the KDF were so unlike him culturally. In many ways, Uncle Pao resembled members of Sheng's real clan back in Chujir, both in appearance and in mannerisms. And he had learned enough Cantonese with the KDF to be able to converse easily with Pao. They were two lonely men who welcomed each other's company.

In a sudden burst of agitation, the old man shoved all the loose papers into the wide center drawer of his desk and slammed it shut. Hitting his mid-70s had dried him into a thin scarecrow in a white T-shirt and open black vest. Between the opaque-thick eyeglasses and wild white hair sticking out in random tufts, he was a colorful figure that distracted clients. As he sat fuming at his desk, he turned outraged eyes at his supposed nephew.

"Have you heard from your friend in Seattle again?" Sheng asked tentatively. "Miss Grace Liu?"

"Nephew, she was being insufferable on some cruise ship in Mexico the last I heard. When an eighty-four year old woman is left against her wishes at a random city, you know she has misbehaved. Something to do with making rude announcements over the PA system about the menus. Something about missing pets on stew days..."

On his own desk, Sheng still kept a landline phone because it fit his sense of what Private Eye decor should include. He did not smoke, but he had a vague urge to see his office filled with smoke swirling under the lazily turning overhead fan. That, and daylight slanting in through Venetian blinds would be a nice atmospheric touch. Before he could speak, the sound of the street door closing two floors beneath them caught his attention.

"Ah! Perhaps a client who will actually pay you?" asked Uncle Pao, then added "For once." But he did creak up on to his feet and went over to open the office door before seating himself again.

Light footsteps trotted up the staircase and a tall slender figure swung into the open doorway. A young woman in her twenties, wearing tight grey leggings and a baggy maroon sweater, stuck her head into sight. A long straight wing of jet black hair swung with the movement of her head as she glanced from side to side. "Mr Sheng?"

Rising and gesturing to an empty chair in front of his desk, Sheng said, "Please, come right in. I'm Sheng Mo-Yuan. Sometimes called Argent. This is my partner Sheng Pao. What brings you to us?"

"I'm in trouble, real trouble. Look at how my hands are shaking! My knees feel like rubber bands."

To his credit, Uncle Pao was immediately holding the chair for her and placing a reassuring palm against her upper back. "You are in good hands, miss."

"My name is Clemente, Clemente Suarez, I live in Queens. It's strange coming here at two in the morning, sir."

Sheng agreed. "I found most of my clients need help late at night, so I started keeping these hours. It's not called the Midnight War without good reason."

The young woman searched Sheng's face with desperation. "I'm ready for a complete meltdown, I'm freaking out, fuh-reaking out. It's the faceless deaths! You know about them, right? Faces without skin!"

( the rest of the story )

"Still Flying, Still a Fool"

11/6-11/8/2024

I.

Twenty-eight thousand pounds of armored car lifted straight up into the air and were gone from sight within seconds. It was a clear morning in early October with plenty of bright sunlight. Only eleven people nearby the South Valley Credit Union got a good look at the event, and only one had the alertness to whip up his phone and take four seconds of blurry, poorly framed video. Online media played this footage obsessively for a week, a number of TV channels also ran it once or twice. The two uniformed guards had just entered the credit union and ironically did not witness their car being stolen. The strange event was quickly and thoroughly dismissed by the general public as an amusing hoax of unknown purpose. But the Swift Security Company, which had lost the considerably expensive vehicle as well as its cargo of three hundred million dollars, did not laugh.

Gliding smoothly along at two thousand feet, where it was not visible to the naked eye of an observer on the ground, the dark green armored car slowed and then descended to a rift deep in the scenic Poconos. Neatly as any helicopter, it settled down within a ring of a half dozen all-terrain vehicles. Ten men in sturdy work clothing stood back and watched the landing. On the ground were two heavy duty acetylene torch kits, crowbars and other tools. Standing away from the others was a single figure in a black business and tan topcoat.

Riding on the roof of the stolen armored vehicle was the notorious Flying Fool. A man of average height and build, he was wearing a snug one-piece jumpsuit of a light blue color which made him difficult to spot from the ground. A black flight helmet with tinted visor concealed his face. The Fool's garment had wrist to elbow gauntlets set with complex control panels, and the leather belt supported six pouches big enough to hold a dinner plate in each one.

Secured in a flat holster on that belt was a small .32 LCP. In all his many heists, the Flying Fool had not yet needed to use it. He had both a personal and a professional dislike of violence.

"Right on time as always," announced the man in the business suit. "Well done. Check your account."

Glancing at a screen on his left gauntlet, the Fool nodded. His amplified voice boomed down through a speaker in his helmet. "Correct amount deposited and locked. All right then! I believe our transaction is concluded then."

"My boss has another job in mind for you," called up the man in the dark suit. "He would like a speedy small yacht suitable for little trips between Florida and Cuba."

The Flying Fool laughed. "I'll start shopping right away! Have fun cutting open your Christmas present, boys." With that, he tapped a button on his cuff and shot silently upward into the sky. Spinning as he rose, leveling off at three thousand feet, the Fool swung around to zip quickly back toward the border between Pennsylvania and New York. Inside the crash helmet, David Woodley was grinning. He loved his life.

( the rest of the story )

"Keep a Close Eye On Your Robot"

7/8/2016

I.

"It's a disgrace when you can't count on a ROBOT to be on time!" Gabby grumbled. Tapping one foot, backs of her hands against her hips, she pouted and exhaled sharply. At the entrance to Central Park at 59th Street, Gabby had been waiting for more than forty minutes. Only a few inches above five feet tall, slender in her baggy jeans and green polo shirt, her angry fuming was unconsciously cute rather than intimidating. The round gamin face under the curly brown hair, big brown eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses, just was not threatening.

At a wheeled cart nearby, Timothy Limbo was buying sodas and two hot pretzels with mustard. He managed not to smile because he knew that would annoy her further. They had been best friends since grade school. A bit under six feet tall, wearing his usual outfit of biker boots, worn-out jeans and a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, Tim was friendly looking enough that people even in Manhattan started casual conversations with him. His mop of butter-yellow hair was way too long at the moment, hanging in his eyes.

He handed her a pretzel and watched as she bit off a huge chunk, then had to break off a smaller part to chew. "Doesn't she have her own phone?" he asked.

"Of course. Not only that, she can receive and send calls herself without a phone. She's got built-in wi-fi." Chewing grimly, Gabby added, "But she's not answering."

Turning to look in all directions, Tim asked, "Is she wearing the Elspeth get-up? The black wig, the lipstick, all that?"

"Yeah, it's her day to be Elspeth. Sometimes she passes as me, sometimes she's my supposed 'cousin.' I'm getting worried, Tim. What if something happened to her?"

Tim scoffed. "She's got a titanium alloy chassis. She can tie my motorcycle's handlebars into a knot. What could happen to her?"

"I didn't want to say anything, but she's been getting whacky again. Not menacing. Megan said the targeting and aggression has been completely removed. She's safe as a teddy bear. But she's making those random snarky comments again."

Popping open a can of root beer, Tim considered before carefully saying, "We know her original programming. Getting that all expunged must have had some effect."

"Yeah. She's an Infiltrator. She was meant to impersonate me to assassinate you and your team. But come on, Tim, she's been my roommate for almost a year. She's harmless. She wasn't able to put out a mouse trap. I'm worried for her, not about her." Gabby began a more manageable chunk of the pretzel and peered up and down the street. "Hey, Tim, how about sending a few of your little ghosts to look for her?"

"Sure, why not?" Going over to sit down on the low stone wall that encircled the Park, Timothy held out both upturned palms. Almost invisible in the afternoon sunlight, two swirling tornados materialized above his hands. They swooped around him like excited hummingbirds and flashed off in different directions. "Let me follow what they see, we'll find your robot pal."

Working on a chunk of the soft pretzel, Gabby dropped down next to her best friend and got comfortable. "I was so glad when Megan brought her back to me. I was really resigned to not seeing her any more. And I'll be honest, my pal seemed to have exactly the same personality and everything, for a while but then she started acting all whacko and sarcastic again."

"Mmmm," Tim responded vaguely. His concentration was divided between what the two caspers were perceiving, an experience roughly comparable to looking back and forth from one video screen to another. "Nothing yet...."

She knew that far-away tone. Trying to get his attention when he was following his friendly ghosts would only be counter-productive. Gabby fretted, not so much about the Infiltrator getting in danger as in its true nature being exposed. She crumpled up the paper napkin and realized she hadn't even tasted the pretzel.

( the rest of the story )

"The Dust of Forgotten Temples"

11/22/2003

I.

At the head of the long table, Sable pressed her hands out flat and stared down at them. "It's true. I have been getting dozens of reports from our observers all over the British Isles and Northwestern Europe. Friday night, an unexplained wave of gruesome crimes broke out. People mutilating animals for no reason, cutting out the eyes out of cats and dogs. People harming themselves, slicing long gouges across their own faces, burning their hands in fires, tearing off their own ears. Many brutal murders. And there are reports of thousands of people too exhausted and traumatized to go to work or school because of nightmares which left them shivering and wet with cold sweat."

"Ack, " said Unicorn. "Any of this in the news media? I haven't noticed it."

"No. A few scattered reports in local newspapers and TV stations of the less troubling atrocities. I think it's clear the authorities are consciously suppressing coverage and hushing it all up. But Facebook and the other online sites are on fire. People were hesitant to connect the horrors at first but now the phrase 'the Long Dark Night' has broken out and is referred to everywhere." Sable raised her head and her dark eyes fixed on their visitor. "And this is what you have come to warn us about, isn't it?"

Seated at the other end of that table where four generations of Tel Shai heroes had assembled, Eidurach lifted his bony long-fingered hands and gestured wildly. "That night was but the beginning. It has been seven days and the darkest forces have gathered again. Tonight will be far worse and the next Friday night even more dreadful."

Eidurach's long straight white hair and beard shone in the subdued overhead lighting of the conference room. His gaunt face with its prominent cheekbones and pointed nose was unsettling to see, he reminded everyone of starvation victims. The loose, bell-sleeved white tunic under a heavy cloak of bull hide added to his dramatic image. "Deep in the earth, Forgotten Ones stir angrily and begin to send their murderous hatred up toward us."

"And how do you know of all this?" demanded Josef Jubilec bluntly. The Blind Archer was not one for tact.

"I am the last of the True Druids," said Eidurach. "Our wisdom must never be written down, only passed on in song and recitations. As a boy, my grandfather taught me much so that I would never forget the lore. Ages ago when we were many, our chants and ceremonies served to keep the Forgotten Ones drowsy and harmless but now I alone am left. The new warlocks, the Black Druids, have replaced us. Their sacrifices with golden sickles and Wicker Men have rousted the Forgotten Ones."

Seated to Sable's left, Sheng Mo-Yuan lifted one hand in protest. His normally mild voice had a sharper tone to it. The young Chujiran man was the most scholarly and intellectually curious of the new team. "Hang on a second. I've done some reading on this. The Druids weren't a blasphemous cult or anything. That was propaganda from the Romans and the early Christians to get rid of them. The Druids were like, teachers and lawyers and healers and historians. They've been unfairly stereotyped."

"You speak of my kind, the True Druids. We were the wise men and women of the oak groves. But by the time the legions of Rome marched over Britain, we had been mostly supplanted by the Black Druids." Eidurach's deepset blue eyes had dark shadows under them as they burned feverishly. "Of all the schools of knowledge left on this fallen world, I fear only the Order of Tel Shai might still be able to act against this coming cataclysm."

"It does sound like exactly what Tel Shai was founded to handle," Sable replied. She did not say so, but her gift of enhanced perception had been studying their visitor. Sable could hear and count his heartbeats from twelve feet away. She could smell the adrenalin traces in his sweat, she could hear the subvocal tremors no amount of guile could disguise, she could watch how his pupils contracted and widened as he spoke. Her team knew her powers and understood she was using them as the most accurate lie detection process possible. All her readings were behind her next statement, "For the moment, we believe you, Eidurach. Tell us more."

"It has been longer than I realized since I had counseled with Tel Shai knights. Where is the Dire Wolf? In this crisis, we need the power of Khang, the wisdom of the Eyeless Helmet, the resolve of Sulak. I had hoped to meet with the Silver Skull and the Cat's-Claw. I came seeking the greatest heroes of this era but I see only young unlined faces watching me with dismay."

"We ARE the knights of Tel Shai," Sable told him. "Khang has been destroyed. Nebel doesn't wear Sagehelm any more, Sulak stays in his realm of Androval. The Silver Skull was killed and no replacement has turned up, but at least Levon here bears Cat's Claw. What you see here is the new generation, like it or not."

"Hey, I think we deserve a little respect," interrupted Unicorn. The petite blonde was also dressed all in white and her platinum hair was as bright as their visitor's, but her face had delicate features that were in complete contrast to the Druid's withered countenance. "We're not babies. We have been fighting the Midnight War for three long years. This team been accepted at Tel Shai and we are full knights. Give us a little credit."

A tense silence followed her outburst. Then, grudgingly, Eidurach nodded in her direction. "Overlook any slight my words may have given. In this terrible moment, I must speak plainly."

"Okay, sorry if I over-reacted." Along with her teammates, Ashley turned to gaze at their captain. "So, Sable, this looks like another world-threatening cosmic crisis about to explode. Exactly what we signed up for."

"Yes," Sable responded. "Megan, warm up the CORBY and do the pre-flight check. Sheng, see if you can contact Jeremy, he was in Okali the last we heard from him. We're assembling in the hangar at ten sharp, full field suits and combat gear. The Midnight War has broken out again."


( the rest of the story )

"SIRION I: Lost Lightning"

7/2024


I.

Early in the morning in Wappingers Falls, New York. Nothing was open in the Sunset Mall, even the formerly twenty-four hour Price Chopper had cut its hours back. A separate white brick building sat at the end of the strip, the People's Credit Union. At one-thirty AM, a brief flash of deep red light burst near the back of that building and a thin young boy walked around toward the drive-through window.

Maybe twelve years old, no more than five feet six and with the straight sticklike arms and legs of pre-puberty, the boy was wearing tight blue tunic and pants, with odd red leather boots and gloves. In one hand, he dangled a mundane plastic shopping bag. Shaggy black hair had not been cut in quite a while.

Stepping up to the ATM and dropping the bag, the boy grinned insolently up at the camera. Then, as easily as peeling off slices of warm pizza, he tore the ATM open with his hands. He threw metal parts aside, digging deeper until he was reaching into the receptable where the cash was stored. With no particular urgency, the boy threw handfuls of bills into the shopping bag. No audible alarm sounded, no lights flashed, but certainly the local police were getting an urgent signal at that moment.

The boy was laughing gleefully. He paused as he saw headlights approaching from the other end of the mall. He spun and, with the slightest of crouches, leaped twenty feet in the shadows. A minute later, a tan Nissan Sentra swung around toward the drive-through lane and stopped as the driver saw the wreckage scattered along the ground.

II.


Before the meeting began, Sable had set up four laptops on the long oak table. A dozen of them were kept on hand in case the entire team assembled at any one time, and one of the duty watch officer's duties was checking that they were all charged. At the head of the table, she took her chair and opened her own computer. Lauren Sable Reilly had been captain of the KDF for twenty-four years, more than half her life. While she wasn't tired of the responsibility yet, she had been gradually taking less of an active role in missions. The younger and more enthusiastic members were more than ready to rush out on what they saw as adventures.

In her mid-forties, Sable's face had matured in a handsome oval with unstressed authority in the dark eyes. The thick black hair, brushed straight back off a high forehead, added to the air of seriousness she always showed. She dressed more formally than her teammates in general did. In a pearl grey pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse and a thin silver chain under her collar, she would have been accepted as professional in any office setting.

Not so the first two members to arrive in the doorway. Jocelyn Garimara was in casual black slacks and a bright yellow jersey that went well with her dark skin. Close behind her was Timothy Limbo in his inevitable uniform of biker boots, worn-out jeans and white T-shirt under a new black leather jacket. His teammates teased him until he wore a different outfit once in a while.

As they settled into their chairs, the third on-duty member entered and sat down. Frank Mills was a tall man in a business suit, wearing a look of calm thoughtfulness on an unremarkable face. The Trom joined his teammates in opening his laptop and logging into Skype.

"Our team is really scattered right now," Sable began. "Let's see. Galvan is in Androval for a few days, he has to take care of his estate. Sheng and Josef are busy on their own missions, I don't want to recall them unless circumstances get serious. Okay, our other three are coming onscreen. What's your situations, guys?"

Everyone's monitors had split-screened to show three faces in separate boxes. Answering first was a small white-haired woman with a pugnacious resting face. "Hello, everyone," said Demrak Jin. "I am home with Pol. He's sleeping right now. If you need me, I can call Mrs Prescott to babysit."

"Thanks, Jin. Carlo, how are you doing?"

The gaunt face of Carlo Ventura smiled slightly. "I'm back home upstate, visiting with friends I haven't seen in a while. It's my off-day but of course I am on call. If necessary, I will return to headquarters at once."

Sable said, "Thanks for standing by. And that leaves Unicorn."

The piquant little face of a platinum blonde wearing oversized mirrored sunglasses blinked into view on the screen. "Hey there! Something big has definitely been eating goats here on Mykronos. I see a pattern. As a side benefit, the Greek sun is turning me a luscious golden brown."

"Okay. I'll make sure your next assignment is in Juneau, Alaska, Ashley. Now, let's all watch this footage. It's from two security cameras at a credit union up in Wappingers Falls."

Everyone studied the surreal events, then watched them again at half-speed. Finally, Timothy exhaled sharply. "I have no idea who or what that kid is."

"The image is not detailed enough for me to be certain," Frank Mills said, "But I believe he is a young Melgar. The facial bone structure is characteristic, and his clothing resembles an Androval arena uniform."

"Yeah, bright red boots and gloves for young guys aren't exactly in style," Jocelyn added. "But, you know, even though Melgarin are stronger than Human, they're not THAT strong. He ripped that ATM apart awful easily. And he jumped away like a grasshopper."

Sable gestured at Timothy Limbo with a command gesture. "Tim, use an Eldanar travel crystal and go to Androval. Find Galvan and ask him to come back here. I think our tentative conclusion merits that. If he's too tied up with his boundary dispute, see if Sulak or Valera are around. We need a powerhouse."

"We need some kind of phone or radio to talk to the adjacent realms," Tim complained.

"It'd be convenient for sure," Sable agreed.

"I'm on my way." Timothy stood up and headed out of the room.

"Frank and Jocelyn, that leaves you two to go to the scene. The Duchess County police sent us the video with the usual disclaimer about not involving civilians. So they're not going to be much help."

Jocelyn scoffed and folded her arms. "Never are. They give us just enough to make us curious. They know we're going to investigate. Bloody wankers. They're just using us."

"You've got a point," Sable said. "But honestly, we're Tel Shai knights. We'd fight the Midnight War even if we were fugitives and the police were actively chasing us."

"Hey, guys? I think I see something," said Ashley's voice. "Everybody play the video again. Okay. Freeze it now! There, by the corner of the bank. Is that a man standing there?"

After a few seconds, they all agreed. They had been concentrating on the boy ripping apart the ATM and had missed a vague figure in the shadows.

"All I can make out is he's pretty tall, maybe six three, and there's a lighter color patch on the front," Ashley said. "Captain, how about your microscopic eyes? I know you can identify pollen by sight."

"Not much use with this," Sable admitted. "The data isn't there for me to see. I do think there's the same shade of lighter material on his head. Possibly white hair and a beard."

Frank Mills shook his head. "I can only enhance the image slightly. It's a poor quality camera with inadequate light."

"But it does help," Sable went on. "We can keep in mind the boy is working with an adult. A tall man with white hair and beard. That's useful."

"I do such good work, even from thousands of miles away," Ashley said with a straight face.

"Yes, Unicorn, you're wonderful," Jocelyn grumbled. "Someday you'll meet someone who loves you as much as you do."

"Hey!"

"ANYway..." Sable continued. "I want Frank and Jocelyn to drive up to the scene this afternoon and start investigating. You are two of our most powerful members but be cautious if you confront the suspect. I know it sounds odd, warning a Trom and the Red Spectre host about a preteen boy, but we've seen what he can do. I don't want you to end up like that ATM."

( the rest of the story )

"An Actual, Genuine Shoot-Out"

10/3/1878

I.

Johnny Packard's horse fixed a look of bitter reproach on him. The young cowboy had finished with the stiff-bristled curry brush and felt the animal should at least be slightly thankful for the care. But no. The great black stallion glared at him and then stamped a front hoof hard enough to express his displeasure.

"Don't be that way, Terror," Johnny said as he closed the neck-high door of that stall. In his early twenties, with his thick red hair and clean-shaven face Johnny looked a bit younger still, so the 'Kid' part of his nickname made sense. He was breaking in new boots he had bought the day before, and the black Levi's and red flannel work shirt were not well used yet either. Working on the fences and doing yardwork at Old Man Schoeber's farm had put him in the position of owning more than one full set of clothes for the first time since he had been cursed.

The one item which never changed of course was the unthinkably ancient coin of red metal tucked into the beaded band of his black Stetson. That was the source of his curse. Every nightfall, he felt that talisman calling to him, whispering, urging him to place it against his forehead and free the real Brimstone Kid.

After almost a year in Just-Plain-Awful, a town placid as a still life painting, Johnny Packard was getting used to having his gun belt with the matched Peacemakers holstered on each hip stored at the sheriff's office. That was the ordinance, no firearms within town limits. He hadn't needed to clear leather in months, and he hadn't even kept up target practice shooting empty tin cans off railings for a while either. Working hard doing chores and carpentry for the townsfolk earned him a comfortable room above old Bedelia Thorpe's general store and he ate three solid meals every day without fail. The town even got a bundle of newspapers from as far as Tucson every week or so, and Johnny devoured them. It was the longest stretch he hadn't been on the run, he wasn't struggling to survive a blizzard out on the plains or scrabbling for water in sunbaked desert dirt. He wasn't facing down a half-dozen murderous outlaws or riding up to parlay with hostile Comanche. Johnny should have been contented as a fat old cat curled up by a fireplace.

And yet...

The Brimstone Kid went back to press his forehead against the stallion's muzzle. "I know how you feel, hoss. The curse is on you as much as it's on me. You want to gallop hellbent under the moon, you want to greet the sunrise all sore and bloody and tore up. God help me, I want it too. This ain't proper livin' for the likes of us."

Terror snorted more gently and nuzzled up against the cowboy. In the neighboring stall, a painted pony made a grunting noise that lacked the undertones of the sounds the black stallion made.

"We'll head out when it's dark," Johnny said. "We'll seize the night and make the stars tremble, I promise you that."

Moving outside, the Kid nodded to the wiry black youth who acted as stablehand. "Talk to you later, Tobias."

"That's the finest cayuse I ever did see, Mistuh Johnny," said the boy. "You could win the Hadleyburg races hands down with Terror."

That made Johnny laugh. "Terror don't hold by rules, Tobias. He'd be kickin' and bitin' any hosses that got ahead of him. He's muy loco."

The youth was hauling a coil of rope nearly as big as he was. "I'd surely like to see him gallop all-out as fast as he can pound the dirt, Mistuh Johnny. It must be a sight."

"I'll give you a ride sometime when your daddy's in a good mood. Tarnation, look at that sky. Them clouds are gonna bust wide open any time now."

After an oppressively humid stagnant day, heavy thunderclouds had been moving in from the West and now the daylight was an eerie grey without shadows. A stiff breeze was starting to whip dust up in little eddies. The two of them watched the clouds visibly approach. And rolling into town drawn by four horses came the noon stage, late as usual.

Johnny and Tobias watched out of curiosity as the black and gold coach pulled up to a halt in front of the SILVER DOLLAR saloon and cafe, right in the middle of town. The driver and his shotgun assistant started hauling down luggage strapped to the top, including a canvas sack of mail from all points east up to the Arizona Territory border. Four passengers disembarked. The stout lady in a neat blue dress and bonnet was Mrs Klein, the mayor's wife, back from visiting kinfolk in Bear Claw. The thin man with a frock coat and beaver hat was the gambler, Sly Stewart, back to try his luck again. But the final two who disembarked were strangers and that naturally drew everyone's attention.

A thick-middled man in his fifties, well dressed with a long tan coat, floral vest and derby hat, had bright yellow sideburns that reached to his chin and a matching handlebar mustache. He grinned as if completely satisfied with the world and everything in it.

Right behind him was the most sinister figure to hit Just-Plain-Awful in living memory. Very tall, more than six inches above six feet and broad as a blacksmith, he was wearing all black except for a brightly patterned poncho of heavy wool which hung down to his waist. Under a flat-brimmed hat was a hard, angry face that glared in all directions as if eager to fight. He was chewing on a thin black cheroot.

And yet... watching closely, Johnny Packard's finely honed sense of danger did not feel alarmed. He could spot gunslingers, desperadoes and banditos as soon as he saw them. He felt nothing when he spotted this ominous stranger. And that made him extremely interested.

( the rest of the story )