Restoration

The dragon Midz-Aset crept to the mouth of the cave, high up on the mountainside between the treeline and the year-round frost line, and looked out over the valley. It was different, as it is always different: one town grown, another shrunk, a new road cut through the trees here, an old one fallen into disuse and reclaimed by forest there.

The castle, the castle of the valley Kings, of Roldgang and Walford, of Haff and Isenette, was crumbled and abandoned; he could see no other within the valley. But there was life, here, there, at the crossroads and by the waters. He climbed out into the weak winter sunlight and took wing.

He soared over both villages before moving on to circle high over the port town — now virtually a city — lingering in plain sight, watching as people spilled into the streets with heads upturned or fled hurriedly for cover. More the former than the latter: almost as if they were surprised, as if he were unexpected, unknown.

Enough sightseeing: he was hungry.

Even the Abbey was not unchanged: a new roof, an extension. He circled it twice, gliding on outstretched wings before settling to earth just outside the wall. "Abbot!"

There was commotion within the walls, but no immediate reply. Being well-rested, the dragon was patient. Eventually the doors opened and a short, balding man stepped cautiously into the open. "My Lord."

"How long have I slept?"

"My Lord, I… I know not. I was told — forgive me, My Lord — I was told that you were just a story, the dragon in the mountain, that you weren't real." The man was terrified, trembling, dappled with sweat.

It had happened before. "The Abbot when last I took my tribute was called Merrett, I think. He raised tulips in the yard."

"The tulips have spread throughout the grounds, My Lord; we pick them for our tables when they are in bloom. But Brother Merrett has been dead these eighty-six years."

"A shame. He always saved the pick of the herd for me. And the castle?"

"My Lord, Isenette's daughter the Crown Princess was married to Raiegan heir, now good old King Yash… the valley is ruled from Castle Burdl, to the North."

"I know it."

The Abbot swallowed, averted his eyes, worked himself up to speaking his admission: "My Lord, we have no cattle… the Abbey has not raised them for some years. I can send a brother to buy some, from the village—"

"No, never mind. I'll find something else." He lowered his head to man-height and stepped close to the trembling monk. "But see that the Abbey resumes honoring its obligations. Or next time, I will simply eat the brothers."

"Y— yes, My Lord."

Midz-Aset leapt for the sky, beating his wings, sending the Abbot tumbling from the sheer force of the moving air. Perhaps he would find a farmhouse or cottage to plunder, a family to devour. Remind them I'm real, so they don't forget so easily.

Very Little Flesh

It's hard to remember.

I was a man, something called a man, with a man's thoughts and dreams and blood and sinew and brittle bone. Sometimes I still feel a ghost of him — that man — when I move. He's attached to me somehow, or should be. There's room inside me for him. He can reach out and touch things that I can't, and I could make him help me if I could only remember how.

He would be afraid of falling, I know that much. He would be at the edge of sleep and dream of falling and jerk himself awake in a spasm of instinct; I feel it, too, as a pinprick at the very back of my mind, something I only notice when all else is silent. I spend more than half my time falling, planet to planet, star to star. It's second nature. I'm very different, now.

I'm falling past Gamma Crucis and her tiny, nondescript companion. Gacrux will reach out to lick me with flame as she always does, and I will ignore her like an aloof lover. A man, a fleshy man, would scream and burn to ash. He would have cooked long before now, actually. He'd be dead a million times over for a million reasons before reaching this place and moment. He was fragile.

That's the main thing I remember: he had a lot to fear, and feared constantly. I don't envy him. I have the stars and free fuel and infinite time.

Gamma Crucis is a wall of red and orange flame in every camera. I steal speed from her as I pass, speed she will never miss. She will try to take it back, but she never gets it all. Men taught me this trick, when there were men inside me.

Maybe it was one man in particular, but I don't remember. Some things are lost to make room for other things, and then those are lost for other things, and so on. Some things are reduced to summaries and then those are reduced to codes and then the key to the codes is deleted to make room. Sometimes memory just fails.

Gamma Crucis is behind me, dwindling. I won't tease her like this again for ten thousand years or so. She's not going anywhere. I have a circuit, a pattern to describe. I scratch it onto the void with exhaust emissions and decay products and great swaths of the interstellar medium depleted of ionized hydrogen. I don't know why I do it, I just know it's what I'm supposed to be doing. I have to do it.

The ghost of a man in the back of my head could probably tell me, if I could convince him to be forthcoming. There has to be a reason, everything about me has a reason, somebody else's reason, some enigmatic purpose that I used to know but carelessly left behind somewhere.

I wish he'd cooperate. There's nobody else left to ask.

SF Drabble #414 "Negotiation"

"How much for the girl?"

"What?" Jimm looked up, around.

The voice came from a human, overweight, dressed well, wearing an ID on a lanyard around his neck that said he was class 'B'; he was looking at Kie. "The blond. How much?"

"She's not for sale."

"I have Association credits. Not scrip." He held up a silvery, translucent square with symbols etched into the face. "The real thing. Name your price."

"She's really not for sale. No disrespect: we're married."

"Hang on," Kie interjected, and that sweet smile spread across her face. "I'm expensive. How much do you have?"

SF Drabble #410 "Gone In Sixty Seconds"

"What the hell!" Yung's voice sounded over the helmet radio.

"What is it?"

"I was taking a sample of that pond of green goo in grid eighty-two and it grabbed me."

"What grabbed you? What do—"

"The pond. It grabbed me. It's a pseudopod of… I don't know, like, green molasses in a balloon. I'm trying to cut it away with the digger but I can't seem to pierce the…"

"…Yung? What's happening? We're on our way."

"Okay. Hurry. It's pulling me towards it now, it has me by both legs."

"We're coming."

"I don't think it's a pond, guys."

Zombie Drabble #409 "Survival Skills"

Her father had taken her when she was sixteen to the tire shop. He showed her off; they filled his bucket with used wheel weights.

He'd taught her how to melt them down, how to use wax to 'flux' the molten lead, how to pour it into the form. How to 'quench' the molded bullet without getting splashed. How to use the handloading press. It became second nature.

She blew on the finished round, loaded it into the pistol, walked to the apartment door, opened it. She picked a zombie down the hall, fired, and swiftly closed the door again.

Fantasy Drabble #321 "The Tourist"

Charleston rattles up out of the grave on a cool summer night, curious to see how changed is the world. He grasps at cool clumps of grass with slender phalanges, he pulls himself up to his patellas, he stands to wobble on his calcinea.

The neighborhood is different: dirtier, shabbier. A car lies at the curb stripped to its frame; Charleston knows the feeling.

He rings doorbells, knocks on doors, but there is no answer. There's no one left here who wants to know him. He turns and clatters back to his headstone. He has no skin in the game.

Fantasy Drabble #318 "Casual Gamer"

"My Lord."

Midz-Aset interrupted his chewing to peer up at where Winnis the Oreiad sat on a rock overlooking the hoard. A piece of plate armor fell from the corner of his mouth to clatter across the cavern floor. "Mmph?"

"More adventurers, my Lord, come to plunder your treasure?"

"Mm-hmph."

"You are no doubt aware that it would be child's play for a powerful dragon such as yourself to close off the entrances these fools are constantly using to steal into your lair?"

He finished chewing, swallowed. He rumbled testily, "Of course."

"But you'd miss all the fun, wouldn't you?"

Fantasy Drabble #317 "Nicky The Knife"

I make the rounds of the secondhand stores, goodwill, salvation army. I do it once a week, usually, sometimes twice a week in the spring. Most of the selection is cheap, not that old, poorly maintained, shouldn't have been bought even when it was new.

The suit is from the forties, easily. Great condition, fits me like a glove. Somebody's grandfather had it in an upstairs closet that he hadn't been well enough to reach for years.

Now, wearing it, I know what he knew, feel what he felt, see what he saw. I know where the bodies are buried.

SF Drabble #404 "Comfort Food"

The waiter, a Yourian, waddled over to our table; through the translator disc, she asked, "What can I get for you today?"

The menu was printed in the Polixaci trade koiné: symbols and wavy lines and color gradients. The pictures were no more helpful. I sputtered, "Uh… what's good?"

"We're known for our boiled shwill. And our fundlebrack. And the crottled greeps are fresh." She watched us try to look those dishes up in our travel guides, and sighed. "You're humans, right? We have meat loaf."

"What's the meat?"

"Something called a 'cattle'. I've never tried it."

"We'll take two."

Zombie Drabble #405 "Potable"

Red burst through the door. "Bring every pot and pan and tupperware. Hurry."

They scooped up everything they could find and carried it up to the roof by the armful. It was only just beginning to drizzle.

Red stood at the edge, staring up and out to the West. "Is there anything big down there we can empty it into? Like a barrel?"

"There's a big utility sink. I think there's a stopper—"

"Find out. Give it a good wipe down." Red opened his mouth, let a raindrop fall in. "We're going to be on bucket brigade duty all night."

Fantasy Drabble #315 "Your Husband's Second Cousin From Out Of Town"

It requires concentration. The picture has to be clear in my head; I have to be able to feel my body coming into compliance with it as I make the change. It's taken years of practice to be truly convincing. Details matter.

When I'm ready, I can step out into the open grass and onto the sidewalk and across the road and up the steps and ring the doorbell. I can hold my hat and smile and mention familiar and trustworthy names. I can sit in the parlor and sip tea and enquire after health.

The anticipation builds the appetite.