The Metaspace Chronicles vols 1-3

By Matthew Kennedy

The Metaspace Chronicles presents a tale of Earth reborn. Two centuries after Earth's civilization has crashed due to failing alien tech we never understood, the "wizard" of Rado fights to establish a school to teach alien "magic" to rebuild civilization with a hybrid of human and alien tech. Will unification of a shattered nation come from cooperation, or conquest? War is looming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Kennedy
• Release date: Apr 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310130311

Matthew Kennedy

I'm not a complete fool, and I've had an interesting life. Born to a Navy family. Presidential appointment to Annapolis. BS Physics from UCF. Physics graduate school at FSU where I met P.A.M. Dirac while he was still alive. Taught calculus-based physics at Wesley College. ASP programmer at Sylvan, Worldnetpress, Versient, Walter Reed AMC, and Agile Access Control. Co-inventor of the hypercube loudspeaker enclosure, US patent #4,231,446 granted 11/4/1980.Author of the Gamers and Gods trilogy and continuing to write The Metaspace Chronicles.

Book preview

Prologue

the rational and enlightened mind

To satisfy the rational and enlightened mind, I shall not claim that the aliens who visited Earth in 2083 deliberately wrecked our civilization. The Gifts they gave us seemed almost miraculous, and fixed so many problems, problems that were poisoning our world. All they asked in return was to catalog our world's DNA in case it held medical or other advantages they could use or trade at other worlds.

The problem was, the Gifts of the Tourists were perfect examples of Clarke's Law – any sufficiently developed technology is indistinguishable from magic. Though we thought of them as game-changing technology, the Gifts were magic as far as we were concerned.

The thing about magic is, you need magicians to maintain it. And that was the whole problem. We were too far behind, and they left us with no tech support. After they left their Gifts began to fail, wrecking the systems we had incorporated them into. Civilization fell, and nations splintered into kingdoms and city-states. Things got bad, and could only improve by one of two ways. We could struggle back up the technological mountain by recreating the earlier technology, and say goodbye to the failing magic.

Or some of us could learn to be wizards.

Chapter 1

Lester: fear in a handful of dust

You're late. Gerrold shoved the sack of oats at him. What were you wasting time with this time? Off ogling the smith's daughter again?

Lester flushed, and not from the heat of the late afternoon. I had to fetch Ma some more carrots for the stew. He didn't mention that the smithy was on the way back from Granny's vegetable patch. We should plant our own garden.

Gerrold turned his head and spat tobacco, managing to miss the watering trough. We're not having that argument again. Make yourself useful for a change. Take this back to the stable and fill the bin.

Lester accepted the sack from him. Why isn't Drew helping you?

Your brother's getting the rooms ready for guests. Almost time for the evening coach from Denver. The sacks are too heavy for your brother. You know that.

Half-brother, thought Lester, trudging around the front of the inn to the stable. But he didn't say it. Life was hard enough without stirring all that up again. It wasn't Ma's fault that his real father had been foolish enough to complain when the army marching through had appropriated his crops. He supposed he should be grateful that Gerrold had taken them in after the ugliness that followed.

He passed his mother on the way to the stable. The weariness on her face made him set down the sack and take over the task of pumping the water from their well. That, and the guilt that came from knowing he should have been home earlier. She had enough to do preparing dinner before the inevitable travelers arrived. I'm sorry, he said, pulling out the first bucket and sliding the next one under the spigot. I didn't realize it was so late.

She just smiled and shook her head. "She is pretty, isn't she? she said, watching him pump the second bucket full. But I heard from Cora that Burton's already asked her to the harvest dance, she said, when he didn't answer. You might have better luck with one of the Arnham sisters. Did you get those carrots?"

Left them by the front door, he replied, pushing the second bucket to one side and reaching for the third. He finished pumping in an awkward silence broken only by the squeaking of the old pump handle. Carolyn was pretty all right. But he had about as much of a chance with her as these buckets were likely to fill themselves. Smith said in the old days water used to come into houses all by itself, he said, making conversation.

She just smiled wanly. That would have been something to see, she said. Did the carrots cut themselves up for stew back then, too?

He shrugged. When the third bucket was full he picked up two of them while she managed the remaining one, and followed her into the inn.

Drew was in the kitchen when they got there, dropping off his broom and dustpan. You're late, the ten-year-old told him. Dad was looking for you an hour ago. He made no move to help Lester pour water into the inn's cauldron. Just stood there brushing back his stringy black hair from his forehead. You're in trouble.

Lester frowned but said nothing. It was lucky for Drew that Gerrold also had red hair, so different from their mother's own blonde tresses. One day, he'd have to tell Drew why they didn't look like brothers, but the story was sad enough without inflicting it on him in anger. Sad...but also necessary. One day Drew might have to know not to stand up to armed soldiers when he had an attractive wife in his house. If their mother's first husband had just let the soldiers take what they wanted from the fields and burn the rest, they would still have a farm, and Drew's hair would be lighter.

All water under the bridge, and no way to call it back. Lester had been only eight himself at the time. He closed his eyes, remembering how ashamed he'd been to obey his mother and hide in the cellar while the soldiers did what soldiers often do in such situations.

Mary had more smarts than her late husband. The men from Texas had let her and Lester live when they were finished with her. Afterwards, while he was helping her bury his father, Lester had promised himself he'd find those men someday and kill them all. As if he had any chance of that. He shook his head, but he couldn't shake out the sight of their leader, a tall redhead with a cruel smile and a small scar over his left eyebrow. I'll remember you, at least.

Yes you are too Drew insisted, misinterpreting the head shake. Dad said –

Shut up! I already talked to him. He's not my Dad. Not yours, either. You don't know how lucky you are not knowing that yet. Then he remembered the oats and turned and left the kitchen.

Life could be worse, he told himself, lifting the sack and trudging back to the stable. The town council hadn't let her keep the farm, not with only herself and a child to work it, but at least Gerrold had taken them in. The widowed innkeeper had been only too happy to have the extra help, and appeared to genuinely care for their mother. Pain faded, but memories remained.

Gerrold was in the stable when he brought the oats in. What happened to you? his stepfather growled. No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear another excuse. If you were any lazier, you'd suffocate from not bothering to breathe. Now hurry up and get back out front. You're lucky the coach is late today.

He heard the horses by the time he was halfway to the front of the inn. Clem, the regular driver, was just pulling up as he got there. The older man waved at him affably from his seat.

How's it going, Les? Clem coughed as the dust from behind caught up with him, while his horses clattered to a stop in front of the watering trough.

As fun as ever. Any news from Denver?

Clem shrugged. The usual. More rumors of war with Texas again. You know how it is. Things never change. He swung down from his seat and opened the door of the coach. Inverness! Ten minutes to stretch yer legs, if yer going on to the next stop.

First out of the coach was Preacher Jones, mumbling thoughtfully as he strolled to the inn, Bible clutched under his arm in lieu of baggage. Behind him came Nellie Sanders, no doubt come from the capitol with a fresh army of rumors and scandalous whispers. Burton Tolbert reared his truculent snicker of a face behind her. His eyes said he had heard some of her stories on the way down from Denver. The dull glass marbles passed over Lester dismissively, erasing him from existence like a squirrel at sunset as Clem grunted Nellie's suitcase down from the roof of the vehicle.

The last person out of the coach was an unknown personage, an old man of middling height who carried a staff. He was aged like oak, older but harder, with no sign yet of infirmity. His alert eyes fixed on nothing, but seemed to see everything. The gray of his beard matched his cloak, nearly blending into it.

Lester's eyes widened at this last apparition, for strangers came seldom to Inverness. It was a stepping stone, a place no one lingered, save the returning locals. No doubt the old man would orbit the coach and reenter, his legs duly stretched. It came as some surprise, therefore, when the man strode straight for the inn as if he meant to stay the night. Lester's own eyes flicked a glance to Clem about the remaining baggage, but the other just shook his head. Two of the coach's occupants elected to remain within, which answered his unspoken question.

Seeing his assistance was not required, Lester followed the four into the inn, trying not to look at Burton, who sat at a table with Nellie. Preacher and the old man scattered to separate tables of the common room, Jones electing to be nearer the kitchen and the stranger in the far corner. The old man leaned his staff in the corner and sat facing the door. From time to time he glanced at it, as if he were expecting someone to join him.

Lester trudged into the kitchen. The sun was still up, and dinner two hours away. But surely they were thirsty from the road. He saw his mother cutting the carrots, her practiced hands quick, the knife flashing in the slanted rays from the window.

There's a stranger, from the coach, he said. Dressed in gray, with a tall staff for walking. Do you know him? I've never seen him before.

He almost missed her sharp intake of breath. She set down the knife and ducked her head around the corner for a peek. When she came back into the kitchen her face had closed like a book. I've seen him before, but not for a while. A long while. She seized a towel and kneaded it, as if her hands were sweaty from the heat of the day, before picking up the knife again. Go fetch ales from the coldbox, she said. He'll want a little salt in his, and don't ask him for money. The usual for the others.

He stared at her. Salt in his beer? He knew it was a hot day, but you salt the stew, not the drinks. Why doesn't he have to pay for his drink?

Or his dinner either, she said. No time for questions. Just get the drinks. Maybe if we're lucky he won't stay for dinner.

Shaking his head, he stumped down the stairs to the basement. What was all that about? The ancient glow-tubes still had some life in them. By the dim radiance they provided he threaded his way between stacks of boxes to where the old coldbox squatted in the corner.

As always, he wondered how the thing could be so warm on the outside, and forever cold on the inside. This one was failing like the glow-tubes. No longer could it freeze water into ice as he'd been told it had decades before. But still the fog rolled out over the edge when he lifted the top of it, and the bottles he lifted from it were almost cold as ice in his hands. He pulled out six of them and took them back up to the common room.

His mother had four wooden mugs on a tray waiting for him when he emerged from the basement. He pulled the cork from one of the bottles and took it out to Clem while she cut up a couple of chickens and some potatoes for the stew.

Clem had already climbed back into his seat when he got outside. Lester handed up the bottle. Who's the old man with the staff? he asked the aging driver.

Someone you should steer clear of, if you know what's good for you, Clem told him, handing him a coin. But don't you worry, he won't stay long. Never does.

Lester frowned. But you've seen him before, haven't you? he pressed.

The driver nodded and picked up his reins. Once in a while, he admitted. Thanks for the ale. Time for me to get moving or I'll be late for the next stop.

Lester stepped back and watched him drive off before going in to get the tray of drinks for the guests. So many questions, and no one seemed willing to part with the answers. Like, why was the coach made of metal, instead of wood like the houses? Why had the driver's seat been originally enclosed, then the metal cut away from in front of it? Why were there traces of yellow paint still peeling from the sides of the old vehicle, and bits of colored glass on the back near the top and bottom of the rounded, boxlike shape?

He returned to his chores. In the distance, the back of the coach dwindled, until SCHOOL BUS could no longer be read.

Chapter 2

Aria: why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?

Here, where flowers grew, she found her sanctuary. Far from the sounds of soldiers drilling, far from the noise and scuffle of the clerks, the poses and pretensions of the supplicants, the murmurs of advisers, the lies and the evasions of the practiced diplomats, she found her peace. Here, where flowers grew, where the only buzzing came from bees in search of nectar.

Aria leaned out to press her nose against the ancient window, and gazed upon the dreaming city. Did others gaze? She didn't know. Only the blaze of glow-tubes in their bright but silent ranks and files ensured the growth of all that she held dear. The building was sealed, and rain ran off the self-cleaning glass in perfect sheets that left no streak or smear, spread out in two dimensions by the old titanium dioxide coating.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye.

She turned and frowned. One of the tubes was failing as she watched, the brightness dimming, faltering over a bed of daffodils. It happened, from time to time. But she wasn't frowning over the dimming glow-tube. The flowers would survive, even here, locked away from the sun, as she was. It was what the faltering implied that made her frown.

That…and the fact that she would have to go tell the Governor.

She sighed, rubbing the dirt of gardening from her pale hands, and turned to set her feet upon the inevitable journey. Soft slippers made hardly a sound as she strode past rows of flowers and herbs. In her mind, she imagined they turned to watch her go, wishing her well, but of course that was mere fancy. She was not ignorant, merely lonely.

Gliding past the long-dead elevators, she entered and descended the corner staircase, passing the floors of vegetables and beans, until she reached the levels of the upper offices.

Henry and Edward straightened as they saw her approach, their bored slouches readjusting to more proper postures. Mentally, she shook her head. Did they really think she cared about standing to attention? This far above street level? But for all they knew she might be in a bad mood. Well, she was getting there.

The Governor's in a meeting, said Henry.

So? She'll want to hear this.

He knew better than to argue, but he couldn't avoid a grimace as he opened the door for her. The Governor did not like interruptions. They all knew that. But they also knew that Aria was a special case.

The Governor of Rado did not look pleased with the progress of the meeting. Eyes like black diamonds glittered angrily above her hawkish nose as she regarded the Lone Star envoy. Is that the best you have to offer? she growled from behind the marble desk.

The man fidgeting in front of her swallowed. Your eminence, he protested, I am only a messenger. I am not empowered to negotiate new treaties. The Okla protrusion was fairly won in battles long ago. As you know, they agreed –

"But I did not agree. Does Peter really think he can take us this time? Has he learned nothing from the last war?"

The envoy gulped again. Watching him, Aria was nearly moved to pity. Nearly. He was clearly new to this. Was sending such a green diplomat to them some kind of message? Surely they had better trained diplomats. But then, maybe the ruler of Texas really did think he was ready enough for war to make only token gestures.

I am not privy to the thoughts of the Honcho, he said. But I have fulfilled my instructions. Do you have a reply for me to carry back to him?

I'll think on it, the Governor said. Now get out of my sight.

As he oozed from the chamber, her eyes swung around to Aria. Didn't they tell you I was busy? You know I don't like to be interrupted in meetings of State business.

He's run off again, Aria told her, without preamble.

Kristana sighed. I know. Six hours ago. She looked down at the map on her desk for a moment, then up again. "But how do you know?"

She exhaled. The same way I always know. One of the glow-tubes started to die. She frowned in puzzlement. Why does he do it? Isn't he happy here? Doesn't he know the work he does for you is important?

Her mother regarded her. More important than keeping your flowers happy. But yes, he knows. Even so, he'll still always leave from time to time. I thought you knew that.

Her face clouded. I know that he does. I just don't know why.

The Governor of Rado leaned back in her chair. It's the old dream again, she said. You know, of setting up a school to pass on his knowledge.

But you've told him you'd help with that, many times! Aria discovered her hands were clenching into fists, and forced herself to relax them. Why was the old man so difficult?

I know. Kristana took a sip from her goblet. When things settle down. But he gets impatient. He's not getting any younger. I think sometimes he wonders if I keep telling him that just to string him along. She gazed at nothing for a moment. He knows he's valuable to us … but maybe, occasionally, he regrets joining us. She bit her lip. Maybe he doesn't need us as much as we need him.

She didn't like the way this conversation was going. So, are we going to war with Texas again? she asked, to change the subject.

I wouldn't doubt it for a second, her mother replied. There is a certain inevitability to it. He knows it, and I know it.

Now she didn't know if her mother was talking about Xander again, or the Honcho of Texas. But why? It never solves anything. Why do people have to keep dying?

Kristana shrugged. It's like earthquakes and volcanoes, I suppose. Pressure keeps building up, and has to be relieved from time to time. Armies have to be exercised like muscles or they grow weak, inviting invasion. There's always Deseret to the west, Mexico to the south, and plenty of others looking to expand. Some have more pasture land than us, but then again, we have more soldiers than them. You know.

Yes, she knew. Her tutors made sure of it, always grooming her for the succession, an event she hoped would never come. I wish we could just conquer them all and make just one country! she said. Then we could stop fighting them all the time.

Now you sound like your father, said the Governor.

The General? I wish I'd known him.

Kristana had been about to say something but appeared to catch herself just in time. "Ah, yes. The General. He certainly didn't mind fighting."

Aria's mind turned back to old Xander again. She couldn't help herself. What about Xander? Did you send someone out after him?

Her mother shrugged. As always. No doubt he'll be back soon, whether he finds what he's looking for, or not. They'll find him. They always do.

Chapter 3

Xander: I have measured out my life with coffee spoons

He sat in the corner, in the gathering gloom that was his life, waiting for the inevitable pursuers. By now they would be hot on his trail. He would not be waiting long to hear the weary refrain of the song.

But there were always possibilities. Even in these times of latter-day saints and devils. Sometimes he came back empty-handed. Sometimes not. He could not give up. Would not give up. The future was waiting, and it would not wait forever. It can't end like this. Millennia of striving, then savagery? No! It cannot end like this. The human race will rise again. The stars still waited, still beckoned. I won't let it end like this.

His waiting was rewarded with a cup. He watched the lad pour beer into it. Can you bring me a little salt?

He could see from the boy's expression that the request was not entirely unexpected. There was a shaker on the tray he was carrying. So someone recognized me. He wondered idly who it was. So many little towns, all the same, but with different people. I can't let it end like this.

He shook salt into his palm, then took one tiny pinch and dropped it in the little bubbles. He wondered how much time he had.

While he waited, he amused himself by watching the people in the inn, trying to divine the threads of life that connected them to each other. The preacher in the opposite corner he ignored as a known quantity. The girl sitting in the center table was obvious enough. She must have gone to Denver to seek work, perhaps as a seamstress, and found little to her liking in the decaying metropolis. The oaf with her was as plain as a book, although he doubted the fool had ever opened one. His clothes spoke of local privilege, perhaps the son of a prosperous farmer or merchant back from a carouse in Denver. The girl beside him knew him from around here, that much was clear, as was the fact that she didn't care for his company. But better the devil you knew, eh? Xander guessed that the jerk had a local flame and was hoping she might spot them and get jealous.

The front door opened and two more young men sauntered in. Farm boys, by the look of them. No rooms for them, then. He guessed there was no other convenient place for them to get soused after a hot day in the fields. It was a small town.

Was there someone here for him? He trusted his instincts. A faint echo had led him to step off the coach.

Remembering the coach and all it signified, he grimaced. A school bus, drawn by a team of horses! The days of the Texas oil barons were truly over. He doubted anyone here had ever even heard of internal combustion. I can't let it end like this.

Eventually the boy brought him a bowl of stew. As before, he made no mention of payment. It was just as well. He often forgot to bring money on these little excursions, having no need for it back at the Governor's skyscraper. Lucky someone here knew him.

There it was, that mental echo again. Someone here was a possibility.

He took the included spoon and ate sparingly, fishing out pieces of chicken and carrots. The meal was adequate, if limited. But they didn't have the resources of Aria's herb garden. He thought of the girl and wondered if she would ever resign herself to filling her mother's boots. But someone had to do it. One stray arrow had changed her life forever.

Once the big chunks were gone from the bowl, he amused himself with a couple of bits of a cracker from an inner pocket of his cloak. He dropped two bits onto the surface of the liquid and reached out with his mind to weave the pathspace. Soon they began orbiting in the bowl like little planets, in concentric circles. But that bored him, so he added another layer to the trick, and sent them drifting round in opposite directions, the inner one clockwise, the outer one counter to that.

He was so preoccupied with this that he did not see the staring eyes. It wasn't until he heard the little gasp that he realized his indiscretion.

How did you do that?

He looked up and saw the serving boy watching. His hair was fair, his eyes blue as a summer sky. An observant lad. Well, well. Rather easily, he projected at him, and was rewarded with a blink. Aha! He looked around the room quickly, but no one else had noticed.

That's pretty good ventriloquism, the boy said, looking interested. We had an entertainer come through once but I didn't get a chance to learn it.

Alert, then, but ignorant. That could be changed. Indeed it could. Things were looking up. This trip was not a waste of time, after all.

I wasn't throwing my voice, he told the boy, who looked to be almost a man. It was something else entirely.

He could see he had the boy's attention now, for sure.

The beer was cold, he mused. Almost frosty. Too cold for a mere spring house. That means your inn still has a functioning coldbox, doesn't it? And you're the one who fills and empties it, aren't you? He cast his eyes about and saw the empty fireplace. "Is there an everflame, too? There is, isn't there? I knew I didn't smell any wood smoke."

The boy shrugged. So? The smith has one too. What's that got to do with throwing your voice?

Of course he didn't know. How could he? Listen, he said. We might not have much time. Very soon some men are going to come looking for me. Before that happens, I need to tell you some things, things you probably don't know about coldboxes and everflames.

The lad frowned at that. What's there to know? They work or they don't.

What you don't know, said Xander, "is that they also work on you. And they've been working on you for years, I'll wager, else you wouldn't have heard me, just now. He pushed the bowl away from him and interlaced his fingers on the tabletop. Ignored, the bits of cracker continued round and round in the cooling surface of the stew. How long have you been working here?"

A shadow seemed to pass over the boy's face, his features tightening as if an unpleasant subject had come up. I don't see as how that's any of your business, he said. "And you never answered my question. How did you stir the bowl without touching it?"

He was about to answer that when something he had been waiting for finally arrived: the sound of hoofbeats. Drat! This discussion would have to wait. He drained the cup quickly and turned. Could you get me another beer? Explaining is thirsty work.

The boy shrugged and picked up the tray. As he turned to head back to the kitchen, Xander grabbed his staff where it leaned against the corner, then reached out again, this time with his mind, and wrapped pathspace around him quickly and thoroughly, enfolding himself in a private pocket of darkness as the light flowed around him.

The boy was interested, but not yet hooked. There was no way he was going to let the men take him back before he'd gotten what he'd come looking for.

Chapter 4

Lester: Time for you, and time for me

He was halfway to the kitchen when the front door opened and the men came in. There were four of them, and he would have known they were soldiers even without the dark blue uniforms. For a second he stiffened, thinking they were an advance scouting party from Texas, but then he saw the red C enclosing a circle of yellow on the outside of their upper arms, and knew them for Rado men.

One of them glanced at him. Have you seen an old man with a staff, dressed in gray?

He turned to the corner, but the stranger was no longer there, it seemed. He was in here just a minute ago. But I don't see him now. He set the tray down on the kitchen counter. Who is he?

The man didn't answer him, but turned back to the others instead. Jefferson, Morgan, you check the rooms. We'll try the street.

The two he indicated bounded up the stairs like dogs after a rabbit. Lester watched them curiously, then went back to the common room to collect dishes. He had nursed the faint hope for the past hour that Burton would be on some trip further south, but there was scant hope of that. Burton was escorting Nellie out the front door, no doubt to prolong the pleasure of her company walking her back to her mother's, when the soldiers came back down the stairs.

They spared a moment to glance into the common room again, then followed Burton and Nellie outside.

Here, said Preacher, waving for his attention. Can I get a refill?

Lester nodded, collected his empty bowl and headed back into the kitchen. Descending the stairs to the basement again, he was reminded about what the old man had said about the coldbox working. Working on him. He had never thought about it in that way before. All a coldbox did was, well, keep things cold. And he only reached into it for a second or two to put things in or take them out again. But according to the old man, it was affecting his hearing.

As he swung the lid up again to pull out another bottle for Preacher, he realized that he had never wondered about exactly how the box kept things cold. It just did, was all. But how did it work? Ordinarily, cold things always warmed up, and hot things cooled down, once you fetched them from a coldbox or the stove.

He inspected it. It was just a wooden box, after all, the wood now dried to a strength like iron the way most wood did after a while. Thick wood, anyway. The coldbox was as thick as the four fingers of his hand, though the lid was a trifle thinner.

The outside of it was neither hot nor cold. The metal hinges on the lid, of course, were cool to the touch, but that was the way metal was, unless it was warmed by a fire or the smith's forge. He thrust his hand back down into the interior, disturbing the layer of fog that always appeared when it was open. The air inside was as chilly as a breeze in January, and the inside surface of the wood was also cold, which of course made sense, because it was in contact with all that cold air. But what made the air cold?

Frowning, he closed the lid and took the bottle back up the stairs.

His mother was ladling out their dinner when he passed through the kitchen. He watched her stroke the tip of a finger around the edge of the everflame, turning down the heat until the flame hovering in the air above the old bronze disk was only a tiny red dot, barely visible under the stubby tripod legs of the iron cauldron.

Satisfied, she replaced the cauldron's lid and handed him his bowl. We'll finish the rest for breakfast, she said.

He nodded agreement and took Preacher's refill out to him and brought his coin back before settling himself down at the table in the corner where the old man had been. His mind couldn't stop thinking about what the stranger had said about the coldbox working on him. Was the everflame working on Mary, too? And now that he thought about it, how did the everflame work? He'd always taken it and the coldbox for granted, he realized.

You're a quiet one, said the old man from the other side of the table.

Lester nearly jumped out of his skin. There he was, as if he never left. How did the guy move so silently? Where did you go? There were soldiers here looking for you.

The other just smiled. I never left. He glanced at Lester's bowl. You've barely touched your stew. Better finish it before it goes cold on you.

He grimaced at that, but the old man was right. He picked up his spoon again.

Leave him alone and leg it while you can, Xander, advised Preacher from across the room. You know they'll be back for you.

The old man's bushy eyebrows lowered. Mind your own business, Carl. I know what I'm about. Go drink yourself to sleep like always.

Preacher scowled at that but picked up his Bible and stood to leave. As he trudged toward the door, no doubt on his way back to the little chapel down the road, he paused to give Lester a piece of advice. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas, he said. I'd stay away from old Xander if I were you. Otherwise, you'll be itchin and scratchin the rest of your life.

Lester watched him go as he finished his bowl of stew. When the front door closed behind Preacher, he turned back to the old man. You two know each other?

We've crossed paths. There's some wisdom in the Book he carries, but he hasn't absorbed much of it. Xander met his gaze. But he's right about one thing. They will be back for me.

Why do they want you? Lester asked him, curious. What did you do?

You've been thinking about what I said earlier about the coldbox, haven't you? said Xander, ignoring the question.

Lester decided the man was used to doing what suited him, and answering questions, apparently, didn't always fall into that category. A little, he admitted. What do you know about them, coldboxes and everflames?

Oh, I know a lot more than that, said Xander, leaning his chair back against the wall. About the Tourists and what they did to us with their Gifts from beyond the sky. About a lot of things that aren't in the preacher's Book. Or in other books.

We've got a few books, Lester said. Sometimes travelers barter them for a few days of room and board. My Ma lets me keep them in my room.

You can read, can you? Precious things, books.

Better than Gerrold can. There's not much else to do in winter, when the snows are deep and almost nobody travels. She taught me. Gerrold thought it was a waste of time.

Xander glanced toward the front door. He appeared to be listening to it rather than Lester. What kind of books?

"Stories, mostly. Why are those soldiers looking for you?"

Xander grinned. Because I ran away. She wants me back, because I'm useful.

And then he vanished! This time Lester saw it happen. The old man grabbed his staff and then he just … faded away. How did he do that?

Right after that the front door banged open again and the leader of the soldiers strode in and scanned the room. Gerrold was behind them.

Lester! Gerrold barked. Governor's men are looking for an old man in gray with a staff. Have you seen him?

I saw him a while ago, Lester answered, truthfully. A very short while. Why are they looking for him? What's he done?

Never you mind, boy. Gerrold reached for the bowl Mary had set on the counter for him. Make yourself useful. Go refill the watering trough. Their horses must've been thirsty.

Lester managed not to smile as he grabbed a bucket and brushed past the men. There were four horses hitched to the front porch. They eyed him curiously, and one of them seemed to snicker as he ambled to the pump by the side of the inn. He ignored that and began filling the bucket. While he pumped, he thought about what the old man, Xander, had told him. Everything the bearded geezer said seemed to invite more questions. Gifts from beyond the sky? What could that possible mean? And what, pray tell, were these 'tourists' he had mentioned?

Chapter 5

Xander: the sound of water only

Xander listened to the boy pump water into the bucket. Part of him regretted what he was about to do. If he did nothing, this son of an innkeeper could have a normal life. That man (what was his name?) might be hard on him, but as the eldest son the boy was sure to inherit the inn someday when his father finally succumbed to age or sickness. By then he'd know all he needed to run the place, and with the inn to support him, he'd be a decent catch for some local seamstress or farmer's daughter.

But that was not going to happen. The needs of the many, he reminded himself. The boy had enough natural talent that the Gifts were beginning to encourage his own gifts. And that doomed him to greatness. Such material could not be wasted, not with the world in the state that it was at present.

A thousand years ago, he might have become just another innkeeper with a knack for knowing when his guests wanted a drink refill, or a healer who was better than average at knowing who needed extra care to stay healthy. Without the Gifts of the Tourists his natural talents would most likely have never flowered into anything strong or significant.

The coming of the Tourists from the stars had altered things forever. That they had brought about the downfall of a technological civilization was undeniable. Had they known what they were doing? He might never be sure of that. Personally, he would like to believe that it was all a tragedy of carelessness. Though the extent of the destruction was heartbreaking, he refused to assume it was the result of deliberate malice. For his own peace of mind, he preferred to assume that the Tourists simply had never dreamed that their actions would have such consequences.

Were we the first planet to be so stricken? There was no way to know. If, as he believed, they never returned to previous ports of call, then perhaps they had never witnessed what could happen to a lower-technology world that had prematurely tasted their magical shortcuts.

No, not magic, he corrected himself. But it might as well have been. And who could resist it, who could refuse something-for-nothing? Almost nobody.

The boy had come back to refill his bucket. The squeaking of the pump and the sound of the water splashing at the bottom of the empty container broke his reverie and reminded him that he was here for a reason. Might as well get it over with. So many other things to do.

He reached his mind out of the darkness surrounding him and unwrapped the pathspace. The readmitted sunlight, fading as it was at the end of another long summer day, was blinding. It always was when he dropped the invisibility weave. He squeezed his eyes to slits to let the pupils adjust to the dimming brightness of the evening. Maybe I should have waited till after sunset. Always in such a hurry, you old fool.

And there was the boy, gaping at his reappearance. Do you know how to ride a horse? he asked the lad.

No. Why?

Pity. It would have made this a little easier. Come on, let's go.

The boy followed him back to the watering trough, since he was headed there anyway. But of course he had to ask, as he poured the water. Where are you going?

They heard a distant shout of There he is! Xander turned and saw the men hurrying toward them. They had their crossbows now, and they looked anxious. Well, they had their orders.

Actually, we're both going, he told the boy. What's your name?

The lad looked at him as if he were crazy. Lester. What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere!

I'm afraid you are, Lester. He turned to the men who were surrounding them now. Relax, gentlemen. We're not going to do anything stupid. He glanced back at Lester. You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?

I think I already did, Lester muttered. You planned this, didn't you? You expected them to catch you. Whatever it is you've done, you've involved me in it, and it isn't fair!

Xander nodded at that. Entirely correct, he said. Not fair at all. But necessary. The sooner you understand that, the better we'll get on. He turned to the men. The boy can't ride, he told them. We'll have to borrow a cart or something, or else wait for the morning coach. He supposed it must seem peculiar to the boy, a prisoner directing his own retrieval.

The captain pursed his lips. Are you sure you've finished with running for the time being, old man? As I recall, you've gone further than this is the past.

Oh, quite. I never argue with crossbows at close range, Captain. Especially so, now that I've found him. We'll give you no trouble, my word on it. Will we, Lester?

The boy's face alternated between alarm and hostility. Found me? You never set eyes on me until today. How could you have been looking for me? Let me go! I've done nothing to deserve getting arrested by the Governor's men.

The captain glanced at Xander, one eyebrow raised. Haven't told him, have you?

Well, you know me, said Xander affably. I like my little surprises. I expect he'll settle down once he understands the truth of the situation. Might take some explaining, but there's time, especially since a cart will slow us down for the trip back.

The captain shook his head, smiling. Poor bastard. But Xander detected a trace of envy in the officer's voice. The boy has no idea of what awaits him. But if he had, would he have come gladly … or run for the hills?

Chapter 6

Lester: not even silence in the mountains

Hard even for me to imagine the wonders they had in those days.

The old man just could not shut up. And after listening for a while, Lester discovered he did not want him to. Xander's words were like a drink that makes you thirsty – almost every sentence opened more questions than it closed.

Lester shifted in the back of the cart, his legs dangling over the back of it. I could just hop down and start running, he thought. But so far his curiosity prevented it. That, and the fact it was not quite dark enough yet. The stars were just beginning to twinkle in the sky above them. What do you mean by 'those days'?

The days before my time. Before the coming of the Tourists.

He sensed whole paragraphs buried in that one word. He might as well learn as much as he could before he made his escape. Why do you call them the Tourists?

It's an old word for people who travel to places they haven't been just to see what's there. They travel from star to star, you see, although of course they pick the ones with planets like Earth – planets likely to have life. I expect they heard our radio transmissions.

More mysteries. He felt a hunger in his head to know them all. What do you mean, from star to star? You can't live on a star. They're just twinkly points of light.

The stars are suns like ours, just very far away. The Earth's a ball going round the Sun, and many of the stars, those distant suns, have planets of their own. Some are like Earth. And some of them have people on them. The Tourists visit them, traveling from place to place like the coach goes from town to town.

He thought about that. Do we ever visit them, too?

We were planning to, once. But then the Tourists came, and changed everything.

Back to the Tourists again. Sooner or later Xander always got back to them. Why was he so obsessed with the Tourists? Why did their coming change everything?

Because of their Gifts. They made 'em, as easily as you or I could pump a bucket full of water. They made 'em and left 'em behind like toys given to children. Xander shifted his weight on the hard bed of the cart. "Well, not exactly gave. It was a trade, their Gifts for our genomes."

Our what?

Have you never wondered what makes you different from a dog or a tree? In every little bit of your body are sets of instructions, like little cookbooks, that tell the stuff in your body how to make muscles, bones, skin, and such. It's called DNA. I'll tell you more about that later, he added, as Lester opened his mouth to ask about it. And the DNA is different in every kind of living thing. Different in some ways even in every being. It's why people all have eyes and noses – and also why their eyes are different colors, their noses different shapes. It makes us all the same, and it makes every one of us unique.

The Tourists, he went on to explain, were curious about DNA, and collected it like books. Every planet they visited had different DNA and they always took samples, unraveled it and stored the patterns in case it turned out to be valuable someday.

How could it be valuable?

"Does your town have an herbalist? Someone good with healing plants? Well some plants are good for headache, some for indigestion, and so on. And some are poison. It's all because of the stuff the plants make inside them. And what they make is all determined by the little cookbooks in them, their DNA.

So you never know how useful a plant might be. Or a bug or a fish. And neither do the Tourists, so they collect all the different DNA they can find, from every planet they stop at. Who knows? Someday our marigolds might turn out to cure some sickness of theirs. To them, every planet is a library, and there might be treasure in our cookbooks. So they collect it, take copies. And they paid for our DNA with the Gifts, as many as we wanted. And we grabbed for those gifts like foolish children.

Why? He sensed Xander was working up to something. The Tourists had changed everything with their Gifts. Changed in what way?

Because people are lazy, the old man growled. He looked up at the sky, frowning.

I don't understand. Why was it lazy to trade for the Gifts?

Xander sighed. "Pumping water is hard work, isn't it? Suppose you could fill a bucket bigger than a house, and put it up on a hill? Then the water would want to come back down, and it would push its way through pipes if you let it. We used to do that. Every house had pipes buried in the ground to let water come right into the kitchen. No one had to pump water to fill buckets or take baths. The water towers were filled by electric pumps, pumps that people had to build. It took money and work to set them up.

"Then along came the Tourists, and they knew how to make something called a swizzle that pumped water all by itself. It looked just like an ordinary pipe, but if you stuck one end in water, the water would get sucked into the pipe and shoot out the other end. Even if the other end was uphill of the water! Perfect for bringing water to houses and farmer's fields. All of a sudden, we didn't need to make pumps anymore."

Sounds good to me, said Lester, who had no great love of pumping water from the well all the time. It would save a lot of time and money and work. Wouldn't it?

"Yep. It also drove the pump-makers out of business. And that was just the beginning of the end. It's hard to imagine life without a coldbox, isn't it? Over a thousand years ago they were called 'iceboxes' because people kept food cold by putting it inside insulated boxes with big blocks of ice."

But didn't the ice melt?

"Sure did. But there were men who delivered ice right to your door, from horse-drawn trucks. When the ice block melted you put another one in. That worked for a long time, and then men invented electric refrigeration, a way of using pumps to cool down the icebox without ice. You had to have wires to bring the electricity to every house, and people had to pay for the electricity that ran in the wires, but they could go on trips and not worry about the food warming up, because their refrigerators kept running all the time, staying cold. The ice delivery men were out of business, of course.

"But then along came the Tourists, and they could take a box, any box, and put their magic on it. Then it would stay cold without ice or electricity. Thanks to the coldboxes, we didn't need to make refrigerators anymore. So more companies went out of business."

"Is the everflame one of the Gifts from the Tourists, too?"

It sure is. Xander shook his head. It really made a lot of people happy. No more pumping oil out of the ground or cutting trees down for firewood, no more burning oil, no more electric heaters for houses to have hot water. Just get the Tourists to work their magic on a piece of metal and you could have heat anytime for free. Saved tremendous amounts of time and work and money. Guess what happened because of it?

Now he was beginning to see a pattern. The people who cut firewood and pumped oil out of the ground went out of business?

There's a price for everything, son. Never forget that, like Mankind did. If all a man knows how to do is cut firewood or mine coal for people to burn, guess what happens when people don't need firewood or coal? If he doesn't get another job, his kids starve. Or the government has to pay to feed them for him.

Lester swallowed. What you're saying is, the Tourists hurt us by helping us. He thought about that for a moment. He had never realized that you could do that – could actually hurt someone by helping them. It sounded crazy, but when you thought of whole countries instead of single people, it made more sense. He thought of families starving because their fathers were too old to learn a new trade, and shivered in the cooling evening air. No one wants an old apprentice. If they lost the inn, Gerrold would be laughed out of town if he went to the smith and asked to be accepted as a blacksmith apprentice.

Hurt us tremendously, Xander agreed. Civilization fell, almost back to the Middle Ages level. We lost all of the high technology that it took hundreds of years to develop. Now we're back to peasants and crossbows. All the old low tech still works. Farming with horses, blacksmithing metal tools, weaving cloth with hand looms, and poultices instead of pills.

But why? Why didn't we just adapt? Why did things go so wrong?

The old man didn't answer immediately. An uncomfortable silence grew for long moments before he spoke.

Two reasons, he said finally. The first was, we let the infrastructure rot away.

The what?

"We used to have a thing called a tractor that we used instead of horses to pull plows. You can still find them here and there, rusting away. But tractors were made in factories, and the factories all ran on electricity. In the factories, people and machines made all sort of things. Cars that didn't need horses because they burned oil to make the wheels turn. Refrigerators to keep food cold. Radios so people could talk to each other across long distances.

"But once we didn't need to burn oil any more, once we didn't need fridges to keep food cold, people got the idea that we could make our planet 'greener' by changing over to more and more of the things based on the Gifts. They thought somehow that the Tourists would hang around forever, making coldboxes and everflames and all the other magic things we were coming to rely on. We could get rid of the machines and processes that took so much work to build and tended to create pollution for the air and water. When you burn oil or wood or coal, you see, it makes smoke – and that smoke is poisonous, and has to go somewhere or you end up breathing it in."

But wasn't that a good idea? Making the world cleaner?

Of course it was! No one likes to eat and drink poison. But I'm coming to the second reason that really did us in. The Tourists made the Gifts for us, but they never taught us how to make them ourselves, or how to keep them working. They gave us the products of a whole new technology, but not the technicians and infrastructure needed to keep them working for the long term. And when the Tourists finally left, off to visit their next port of call, guess what happened? Some of those magic Gifts began to break down. Even the magic of the Tourists doesn't last forever.

"Why not? Our coldbox and everflame still work just fine."

"Some of them lasted longer than others. But they all break down eventually if they're not maintained. When it was first made, that coldbox in your father's inn could freeze water into ice. Now it just keeps beer cold. The thing the Tourists did to make the gifts had very little to do with the matter they were anchored in. You could make a coldbox out of paper if you wanted to – the important thing is the change in the space around it. But that change is a little like combing hair. The change in the space stays straight for a while. Years, maybe even a century. But eventually it gets un-straightened again, goes random, like your hair is in the morning when you wake up. And we didn't know how to comb the space straight again. If you want to call it magic instead of psionics, fine. But they didn't train any magicians. So it all started to fall apart. And since we'd changed over to depending on it, our whole civilization fell apart."

Why didn't they teach us their magic? Lester asked.

Simple economics. It takes a long time to collect the DNA cookbooks of a whole planet, you see. If they'd taught us how to make the Gifts for ourselves, well, we wouldn't need the Tourists anymore. We might stop trading with them. They might miss out on a plant or animal species that would turn out to be a lifesaver. They couldn't risk that. So they kept their secrets. Made all the coldboxes we asked for, all the everflames and swizzles and all the little shortcuts we were greedy for. Then they left, taking their secrets with them.

The mosquitoes were beginning to come out. Lester swatted one and grimaced as he wiped his hand on the flat bed of the cart. How do you know all this, anyway? Did you see it happen?

Lord, no, Xander laughed. It was long before my time. But records were kept. People always gossip and there were reporters of news back then, just as now. People who saw what was happening couldn't stop it but they could write it down so someone would remember. So I remember things I never saw. And I'm trying to do something about it.

What are you going to do?

We'll get to that, the old man said. And you'll be a part of it.

Me? Why me? I'm nobody. I pump water and wait on tables.

Well, your pumping days are over, son. They'll have to get along without you at the inn from now on. You're my new apprentice.

Chapter 7

Peter: let these words answer

The letter his envoy brought back from Denver was hardly satisfactory. Peter read it again, sometimes snorting, sometimes chuckling. She hadn't changed a bit.

"To: His Excellency Peter Martinez, the Honcho of Texas

Greetings.

We trust this missive finds you in robust health as usual. We are the same, and expect this condition to hold for the foreseeable future. So don't go getting hopeful! Here are a few points to bear in mind:

1. We both know that armies have to be exercised or they get soft. But must it really come to this, after all that we've both accomplished? I am well aware of the advantage you believe yourself to possess from your discovery of the apparently untouched weapons cache hidden under the remains of Abilene. Let us not pretend that we do not both of us have our spies on foreign soil. I will only say that I, also, have certain advantages that you would be well advised to take into consideration in your own deliberations. Think carefully, and reconsider.

2. I can only agree with you that the current fractured condition of the former United States of America must not be allowed to continue indefinitely. We disagree only in the means by which it should be ended. Shall it be restoration, albeit with a radically new infrastructure? Or, instead, as you suggest, should it be replaced by a different form of government altogether, a continent-wide empire, with you as the first of a line of hereditary American monarchs?

You should be able to predict my answer by now. We have known each other for a long time. If, however, you cannot, then let these words answer.

I am perfectly aware that my present position as absolute ruler of the former State of Colorado is contrary in spirit to that form of government first created on this continent so long ago. I am equally aware of the many millions who have died over the centuries protecting that dream, until the chaos of the Fall seemingly demolished it forever.

But a dream cannot die. Not until the very last person who cherishes it dies or abandons the noble ambitions it embodies. And my late husband the General entrusted me with it.

I assure you that I have not died. Nor have I abandoned the Dream, even if it might seem so because I do not yet have the means to rekindle it in enough hearts and minds to make it manifest and tangible again for all.

3. Please be aware, therefore, that I shall