Build

“human consciousness is not localized in a set of neural connections in the brain alone, but is highly dependent on the material substrate of the biological body, with emotion and other dimensions as supportive structure.” Tim Lenoir: Writing the Body into the Posthuman Technoscape

One of the arguments from the early Twenty-First Century for why machine consciousness (or the transference of a singular human consciousness into a machine body) could never be achieved was that human consciousness couldn’t be found in one individual place, but was a product of lots of different biological systems. Simply put, if you took away the human body, you took away consciousness, because it lived everywhere. From hormones producing useful behaviours to chemical pathways producing emotional responses, and from decisions made by the brain and spine to electrical impulses acting on those decisions and moving skin and muscle, the idea was that you needed a human body to be human, and human consciousness was a uniquely superior state of being.

Of course, all of this studiously ignored the fact that hundreds of thousands of species of other animals had exactly the same biological setup, and so, if they were truly the seat of human consciousness, most animals had human consciousness too. Unfortunately, biological bodies are pretty useful structures and undeniably delicious, so some pretty impressive feats of mental gymnastics were required to deny nonhuman animals consciousness. The standard response, more or less, was that if something looked different to the agreed parameters of the human body, it wasn’t human.

All of this meant it was very straightforward to perform experiments about learned helplessness, for example, on rats, and explain the results as emotional responses, accepting that the rats were traumatised by electric shocks delivered in a random way that they could not affect. Those results could be applied to human behaviour because rats have an amygdala and can experience fear in the same way as humans have an amygdala and can experience fear. Rats can conceptualise, so can fear future shocks just like humans would, and therefore experience trauma if nothing they do can make it stop. That’s pretty helpful in explaining why children might get traumatised by abusive parents, in a way that it wouldn’t be if rats weren’t conscious. But here’s the clever bit: because rats experience all the suffering, you would think these experiments would be shady, illegal activities. Not so: this was seen as excellent science, because of course the rats didn’t look like humans, so could not experience human consciousness.

Nowadays, it was accepted that machines could be conscious, thanks in part to the understanding that consciousness is the intertwining of various biological and chemical processes in a physical body. Scientists in the second half of the Twenty-First Century had experimented with synthetic hormones and electrical impulses embodied in different vessels and found that they could create fully autonomous, programmable beings. What was really interesting was how the material a body was made from seemed to affect the character of the being that inhabited it. Lab-grown meat bodies tended towards extremes of emotion, while silicon bodies tended to hold much more logical consciousnesses. One set of beings had been created in living wood, and those beings were unreadable and ponderous. In fact, if you could think of a substance, it had probably at some point held a consciousness. No-one yet had managed to swap a consciousness into a different type of body, and the longer for goal of distilling human consciousness into a digital file had never materialised, or dematerialised, come to think of it. It seemed very clear that you couldn’t separate a consciousness from a body.

Silicon was by far the most dominant form of created consciousness in the Twenty-Second Century. Perhaps that was because it was more straightforward to replicate the necessary biological structures in silicone, but perhaps it was because those early scientists had believed that artificial consciousness would be silicon-based and so spent more time making their beliefs become truths. Either way, they had become widespread, with the exception of lab-grown meat consciousnesses replacing rats and other animals in laboratories. This was lauded as a huge step forward in scientific ethics, because of course it’s much easier to admit that something no-one does anymore is evil than admitting something done for your direct benefit is wrong. As the last laboratory kittens were destroyed, humanity celebrated a new era of kindness.

Silicon consciousnesses also made excellent helpers in the home, because a superconnected house interfaces far better with a consciousness that can directly access the internet of things than with a prosthetically connected human employee. A silicone consciousness can also be programmed to be unobtrusive, and depending on whether the owner opts for a one-off payment or a subscription, can be significantly cheaper. Their natural tendency towards logic made them ideal in many academic professions including teaching, accounting and architecture, although you’d always want at least one fiery glass consciousness in the sales department.

These artificial consciousnesses should not be confused with artificial intelligence. In fact, artificial consciousness does not accurately describe them at all: they were just as conscious as a human, a pig or a mouse, but that consciousness was created precisely and for a specific purpose rather than in the chaotic manner of sexual reproduction, where human or dog consciousness might be created for no purpose other than to alleviate boredom or because it feels nice. Artificial intelligence was old news now, no longer the threat it had once been thought to be since humans realised that they could create something more intelligent than themselves without it trying to eat or enslave them. AI was the boring world of superfast calculation, secure encryption and anything that required a decent amount of processing power. Artificial consciousness was anything that required a body and something humans didn’t want to do or have done to them.

The problems began when it became clear that traditional sexual reproduction would work between a human and a lab-grown meat consciousness. As these consciousnesses had none of the protections afforded to humans, it could not be considered abusive, but it was certainly viewed as deviant.Nevertheless, the practice was widespread enough that thousands of new half-human hybrid consciousnesses were created. Humans were unable to distinguish the difference between traditional babies and hybrids by sight alone, but some silicone consciousnesses had the capacity, and it could be determined at a genetic level.

Frozen

The AfterCare team was on standby, but despite the sheer volume of equipment needed to carry out the process, they somehow managed to stay virtually invisible in the corner of the room. As hospital rooms go, this was one of the better ones. Once you had been there long enough you could filter out the humming and whirring of the machines and the wipe-clean floor. It was furnished comfortably, clearly designed by someone who wanted the residents to feel at home. It was a safe place.

 

Julia took a break from reading to her daughter, not because she was tired (she had been tired a month ago: there wasn’t a word for how she felt now) but because she wanted to treasure the moment. Her brave, clever, not-so-little girl looked so peaceful, and after all the pain and struggle of the last few months, it filled her heart with joy to see a smile. Lauren had approached her illness in exactly the same matter-of-fact way she approached her maths homework, planning an outfit for the Year 7 disco or having to wear the goal attack bib in netball when she really wanted to be centre. She got on with it and tried her best. Even Mr Webster, the crazy English teacher, said she was special, Julia remembered, and he’d made at least three mums and dads cry last parents’ evening.

 

She smiled at her daughter, who hadn’t spoken in weeks now, but managed to smile back. It was a beautiful smile that conveyed love, trust and acceptance. She was such a good girl. Julia put the book down and walked over to sit next to Lauren, gently brushing the hair away from her face. She kissed her gently on the forehead and cuddled in close. It looked like any mother anywhere, tucking their daughter in for the night.

“I’m so proud of you, angel. You know that, don’t you? We’ll probably finish Lemony Snickett tonight.” She talked in the light, singsong sort of voice that had always helped Lauren drift off when she was smaller and had a nightmare. “I thought we could move onto ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ next. You’re getting so grown up I’ll be struggling to understand what the words mean! You’ll have to explain it to me. You’re the clever one in the family. You take after your grandfather like that of course. He was the cleverest man I ever met.”

 

Julia kissed her daughter again and held back a sob that had been building for months. She had known this moment was coming and had tried to prepare for it, but how can a mother ever be prepared to lose their only child? The little body next to her relaxed, but she didn’t stop telling her little girl just how loved she was until long after her last breath. She was still stroking her hair when the AfterCare team started preparing her for cryo storage.

 

“Just be patient, angel. The doctors say they’re close to finding a cure and then I’ll come and wake you up. It won’t be long. Sleep well, baby girl. I’ll just be next door, so you don’t have to worry. I love you so much.”

*********

They hadn’t made a conscious decision to try for another baby. In fact, the hole left by Lauren was too monstrous, to awful, too painful to bare that Julia had considered not keeping the baby. Two years had flown past like a grey smear on the window of a train, but the pain hadn’t gone away. In the end, both Dan and Julia decided they didn’t have the will to end the pregnancy, and they would try their very best to be the parents the baby deserved.

 

He was perfect. A tiny, chubby little thing with his sister’s smile and her sunny temperament. He was the sort of baby that was always laughing or trying to put things in his mouth: the remote, his favourite teddy, even the cat’s tail. The cat didn’t seem to mind though, and by the time he was a toddler they were best friends, and occasional partners in crime. There was no shelf that could not be reaced by that industrious pair if it held a plate of sausages. The first time Julia caught them raiding the counter it was clear that Ginger had swiped a whole family pack of ham and was listening patiently to the little boy’s lecture about sharing nicely. She didn’t have the heart to stop them, and instead waited until they had finished portioning out the spoils before offering a plate.

 

As their little boy got older,Julia and Dan told him all about his sister. They told him how brave she was and how she was the kindest, cleverest little girl. He wanted to meet her of course, and they said she had gone to sleep for a very long time, but one day she might wake up if the doctors found a way to make her better. She had been very poorly. The little boy understood, of course. He wanted to be just as clever as his sister, and he remembered the time when he had a cold and he had to stay in bed for days. He thought she must be very brave indeed, because he had been very sad. She didn’t even have a cat to bring her presents, he realised.

“Mummy, can we visit Lauren one day? We could bring her a present to make her feel better.”

He was such a good boy, Julia thought, but the idea made her feel sick. She didn’t want him to see the truth or to guess what she was starting to believe. When Lauren had gone into the cryo tube, the specialists at AfterCare promised that scientists were close to a breakthrough which would shrink the tumours in her brain. That breakthrough had never come though, and when Julia had asked how they would wake her little girl up once they had the cure, she was met with hollow sounding assurances that science was making huge leaps towards reanimation. The cryo tube held her little girl in stasis along with her grief. She had never properly come to terms with Lauren’s death, because she had always held onto the idea that one day she was coming back. That hope was starting to melt and one day soon, the whole lot would come crashing down on her. “Maybe one day. When you’re a big boy perhaps.” He looked crestfallen, but with the same bravery his sister had shown, he nodded his head and went to find the cat.

 

That summer was the last before school started, so Julia and Dan tried their best to fill it with as many happy memories as possible. They went on adventures in the woods and built whole villages out of mud and leaves. They climbed all the way to the top of a castle and pretended to be kings and queens looking out over their kingdom. They went to the seaside, pale as ghosts under all the layers of suncream, laughing about how silly they all looked and eating so many chips they thought they might have to roll back to the car. It was a magical summer that stretched out forever, where they learned how to understand what the bees were saying as they buzzed happily through the flowerbeds and made up converstaions between the naughty magpies in the trees.

It had all come crashing to an end in the most pointless of ways. The whole family had been walking to the park to feed the ducks when a car screeched round the corner far too fast and lost control. Julia could not explain how it happened: one moment she was holding her son’s hand talking about which goose was his favourite, the next she was holding his little body, bent in all the wrong places and covered in blood. There was noise, and a sudden huge gust of wind, and then they were at the hospital. Back in the hospital.

 

The surgeons had operated for hours and neither Julia nor Daniel slept. It felt like they were under water, drowning together. It might have been the same day: it might have been the next week, but at some point, a doctor had come and told them the news. Their son had sustained massive injuries. His legs and arms were broken, his pelvis crushed, his little ribs splintered like twigs. The main blood vessels going into his heart were failing and the heart itself was damaged beyond repair. He was a fighter though, and with the aid of an external pump, he was still alive. The damage to his bones could be fixed, the doctor said, and they could patch up the damage to the blood vessels, but he needed a new heart. They could keep him alive using the external pump, but that was a short-term measure because the chance of infection was so high. Sooner or later, the thing that was keeping him alive would kill him.

 

The doctor sat down next to Julia. “I’m going to talk to you mother to mother here. Your little boy is the bravest little boy I’ve ever met, and if anyone can make it, he can. He’s a fighter, and you should be so proud.” Tears flowed unchecked from both parents and both knew they would give that little warrior their own hearts in a second. “But I have to tell you, it’s not looking good. The chance of a matching transplant becoming available in the next few days is next to nothing, and we’re talking days before infection sets in. I’m going to do my very best to get him to the top of the list, but he’s A negative and that’s very rare. He’ll need a miracle to find a match. I think you need to prepare for the worst.”

 

Julia wasn’t sure what horrified her the most. The thought of losing her little boy was unbearable, but the image that flashed in front of her eyes was so repugnant, so terrible and so utterly impossible that she didn’t know how to articulate it. All she could see was one of her baby girl’s many medical certificates. Type A negative. Over and over it flashed up as if waved under her face by an insistant nurse. Lauren was A negative. She screamed uncontrollably: terror, rage and absolute dread tore her apart. There had to be another way. Another way: another mother losing their precious baby. How could anyone wish for that? But part of her could, and did. Another way: putting him in the cryo tube. Two frozen babies because she couldn’t stand the alternative. She was their mother. She was supposed to be strong. She was supposed to know the answer. She was supposed to keep them both safe. She loved them both so much.

*******

First day of senior school and he was ready to go. He was so excited to see his friends again after the summer, especially now they knew they were all going to be in the same class. He was a bit worried about their form teacher, Mrs Parker, who was supposed to be really scary, but his main concern was if the senior school PE teachers would still let him play netball. He’d be the best centre they ever had and his favourite thing in the world was when Mum and Dad came to watch him play.

 

 

Mindless

This batch had failed. It was a source of intense professional frustration to Nick who had, very literally, poured his own blood, sweat and tears into the project. Well, blood certainly. The team was working on a project to grow human organs inside pigs for transplant in order to ease pressure on the chronically overburdened waiting list. There were simply not enough people willing to part with their constituent pieces after death, so finding a solution where parts could be grown and harvested was the obvious next step.

 

When he had first been approached about working on the project, Nick had imagined long rows of organs hanging from bio-scaffolding all bathed in the dim red glow of a Twentieth Century darkroom. The reality was far more rooted in animal biology and located in an outbuilding not really designed for the purpose. The reality snorted and grunted, and they stank. It really wouldn’t be fair to say that Nick disliked the pigs, and it had never crossed his mind to treat them badly, but for him they were an object: a means by which he could end human suffering. Ultimately, if one human life was extended by it, the death of however many pigs would be worth it. He’d lost count of exactly how many they’d been through, but this was the ninth batch and he had been so sure they would be the ones.

 

Pigs were the ideal choice, as biologically, they share so many similarities with humans, and they are the right sort of size. While you can graft an ear onto a mouse with little difficulty, having a whole kidney flapping around up there would be less than ideal. From a purely utilitarian point of view too, it was useful to have an animal that was intelligent enough to be able to express its emotions when what you were trying to achieve was a reduction of suffering. Obviously, any animal with an amygdala would probably experience fear: as an evolutionary tactic, it’s a pretty effective way of not getting eaten. Likewise, anything with a pituitary gland probably experienced love, because what else would all that oxytocin do? No, this study would be improved by using animal that experienced nuanced emotions which could be observed in the later stages and monitored for any negative impact on the intended organ recipients. If nothing else, keeping cortisol limits to a minimum would decrease instances of tissue rejection.

 

The premise was simple: grow human kidneys inside the pigs so the required organs could be harvested to order, transplanted still warm (so to speak) into the new owner. If they could succeed with this, the plan was to expand into lungs, hearts, livers: anything that illness, accident or poor choices could destroy, the pigs could be used to replace. Well, almost anything. Obviously, transplanting pig organs would be easier as you could just farm as many of the things as you liked, but human bodies need human organs or they start getting in a mess. With some clever use of stem cells and human gene editing, Nick and the team had found a way to create human structures in pig embryos which then matured with the piglets. After only a few months the organs were fully grown and, at least theoretically, much less likely to be rejected by their prospective owners.

 

This is where Nick’s blood had come in. The ethics committee had approved the venture as it was demonstrably in the public interest to have a plentiful supply of replacement organs. They had stipulated, however, that blood donations could not be used in the creation of the modified genetic code required to grow the human organs. Roe vs Wade had a lot to answer for. They had also stated that frequent testing would be reqired, because if the code spread through the blood to the brain and that became a fully functioning human organ, the pigs might start getting problematic. A pig who could hold a conversation about why it didn’t want its kidneys removed because it felt it had a right to life would be a legal nightmare anyway. The whole thing had been rendered moot anyway because the kidneys that grew had been far too porcine, no matter what the intervention, and started failing because human cells grew like tumours instead of replacing the structures perfectly.

 

Nick always felt a bit glum on the days the bad batches were destroyed. Something about lost opportunities, he thought. It always felt so wasteful destroying them, as they had so much that could be used, but no scientific study would want contaminated test subjects. That lunchtime, over a particularly well-timed bacon sandwich, Nick had realised that pigs could be used for more than just science. It hadn’t even been that hard to find a slaughterhouse willing to process them: you would have thought that the horsemeat scandal and numerous explosive headlines about contamination would have made the rules on what could be processed and how much tighter, but with a growing population and relaxed food production standards to allow for chlorinated chicken and other cheap imports, it was actually very straightforwards. A few pigs with not-really-human-anyway kidneys were far from the most surprising thing on the menu these days. The most important thing is that the organs weren’t human enough, and if they weren’t human enough for transplant, they could at least fund the next batch. Steak and kidney pie might be off the cards for a while, though, he mused idly.

 

The transport for the pigs had arrived, but Nick was busy working on the next steps, and he had little interest in wrestling the almost fully grown animals onto a truck. That’s what the interns were for. He was so engrossed in the data that he didn’t hear the truck pull away. This batch should have been fine: he didn’t understand why the organs were showing signs of failure at such an early stage. Previous batches with less perfect genetic adaptations had lasted far longer. Slowly, a knot started to form in Nick’s gut. What if? He pushed the feeling away and tried to focus on the data. The most recent blood tests, kidney function tests and basic health checks all told the same story: this batch should have worked. The knot pulled tighter. What if that was why the organs had started failing? What if they were fully human organs that were failing because the growing pig bodies were putting such stress on an organ never designed for them in the first place? Why hadn’t he checked before sending them to be processed?

 

He should have known this would happen: should have factored it in. Furious at his own oversight, but suddenly elated at the idea that he migh just have cracked it, he started putting together a request for further tests. If he could replicate this on the next batch, they could harvest the organs earlier than anticipated and start the process of disection and chemical analysis to see if it really was a human organ. He would be the man who ended so much suffering. He felt dizzy, sick and terrified that he might not be able to replicate it again. But perhaps there was still time to get one of the kidneys. The pigs probably hadn’t been processed yet: if he could just get one kidney! He didn’t really know how it worked at the processing plant, but they must be able to tell which was which from the ear tags and this could change the world! In any case, there was one person he needed to call more than anything. The person who had been there when he received his first science medal at primary school. The one who argued with him for weeks until he agreed to take triple science at GCSE. The one who had beamed so brightly through the crowd the day he graduated that he thought she might never stop. The one who had always believed he could do it.

 

 

It was crowded on the truck, full of frightening noises and smells, but they were all together and that was good. No-one liked it when they had to go away by themselves because it hurt and the lights were too bright. They all tucked in close, snouts touching tummies for reassurance, and it wasn’t long before they were asleep. At the front, the oldest, bravest pig dreamed deeply, his eyes fluttering gently. He dreamed of a very big pig. A grunt that sounded like ‘mother’ rolled around and around, and while he didn’t know what that meant, he didn’t feel like it fit her. He felt like he had seen her before, ever so briefly, but his memories from when he was very small indeed had already started to fade. He saw another face, like the man he sometimes saw, but with a happy face. She looked so proud and her head went up and down just like when they saw each other again after having to be on their own. The same grunt again: “mother”. In his dream, he remembered her holding him near her face and singing happy songs in a room full of colours and toys. They looked such fun! He couldn’t wait to play with them, but for now he let the beautiful sound of his mother’s voice send him into a deep sleep. One day he’d make her proud.

Ring

Perfect circles: round, whole and complete, the ripples moved across the surface of the water below with effortless strength. So self-assured: they would never know what it meant to be taken apart. You could throw rocks down all day and not a single one would break the surface with anything less than undeniable perfection. A start without end. Those rings below were binding. They said forever and they meant it.

The sky was the colour of concrete, pressing down heavily on the sharp edges of the quarry. It had been raining all day and would rain again later, but for now it was just grey. It was a threatening sort of a sky which promised that things would get worse but revelled in drawing out the misery of waiting. Not knowing was definitely the worst part. He knew it was going to happen, and from time to time he wished it would just hurry up. Get it done with. He hated himself for thinking like that though: it made him complicit. A conspirator in his own sadness.

He couldn’t put into words what was wrong. The world hadn’t prepared him, hadn’t given him the vocabulary to articulate the seething knot in his gut and the stabbing pain behind his eyes. How could anyone ask for help when there were no words to explain what was wrong? Things like this didn’t happen to people like him. He could never be a perfect circle like the ripples, he realised, because so much of him was outside of his control. If you can’t talk about something, you can’t understand it, much less take charge of it. That isn’t to say that he was out of control: his entire life had been a frantic effort to conform and meet expectations. He was under control, but never in control.

The ripples were getting bigger, grey swellings urged to action by the increasingly large rocks and chunks of mud being hurled from the ledge. He’d run out of pebbles back when it was raining. It didn’t matter how sharp the edges were or how uneven the shape: they all produced the same perfect, unbroken, honest rings and the splashes were getting more satisfying. The pebbles had delivered a whining, ineffectual sort of sound now he thought about it. The bigger rocks produced a deeper, manlier sort of sound, he decided. His hands were ragged, bloodied and torn from the effort of prizing them from the quarry’s edge, but it was worth it. Each rock sent crashing down let loose a howl of rage his voice had no way of screaming.

It was dark by the time the rain returned. He worked with relentless determination, and soon there were only puddles, empty and lacking, where once there had been the means to let go. Absolution. He stayed knelt down for a while, not searching any more, but not ready to give up completely. Not quite yet. From over the ledge came the petulant moan of a pebble: on hands and knees he crawled to the side and peered over. There were rings! Small at first, but soon bigger. Not the ripples of a pebble, but a rock. No: bigger! The rings spread out further and further until they were all that was left in the world. Those perfect circles were all he had. They consumed him entirely, so he never heard the loudest splash of all, a cry of pain and anger that expressed every word he had never been able to say.

I couldn’t stand it: staring, glaring,

Judging my face, finding fault, picking holes

The Calling Home of Haralan and Farren

The sight had stopped her dead. The air in her lungs caught between a sob and a scream and her legs felt drained of life, as if they might give up walking and grow roots, for here was everything that mattered, and here it would stay. At her feet, Haralan lay peacefully, his head haloed in dead leaves and cooling blood. All struggle was gone and the words of love and kindness once so freely given from his lips now drifted away on the wind, nothing more than a memory.

“Farren! Move! You do not have the luxury of grieving here!” She was aware of a voice and an insistent pressure on her arm that dragged her away from that fateful place. All around, the sound of battle was muted, as if far away or under water. She looked down at her arm and along at the one dragging her to safety. Confused and heartbroken, she did not understand how it should be that she saw the face of her fallen friend.

“Come on. Pull yourself together. You’ve got to be strong. I believe in you. I always did.” His smile was just as strong and confident as before, but it was just a lie now.

“You’re not real!” The little priest screamed, her heart shattered into dust and smoke. “You left me! I thought you’d never leave!” The smile melted into nothing and all that was left was Bartos dragging her away from the most immediate danger.

Farren saw the arrow long before it struck; she simply did not have the will to dodge it. She looked down at the blood pouring from her chest and let the world go dark. Her eyes opened too soon, not to the blessed fields of the afterlife but instead to see a different childhood friend kneeling above her, pouring healing magic into her crumpled form. She saw the worry in his eyes, and although she felt her strength return, she lay on the cold ground unable to move. The sky above seemed made of stone: it leeched all colour so it seemed to the little priest that the world had turned to ash.

Her Erinian friend dragged Farren to her feet. He said kind words and smiled softly, but it all washed over her. She was numb. To the right, the remaining Ashrai stood awaiting the order to charge. She smiled to see their beautiful, beloved faces and knew what she had to do. To the front, a wall of enemies stood tens deep, with shields and spears ready. Magic crackled and hissed in the air, sending allies flying burned and unbreathing to the ground as it arched from the hands of corrupt mages.

Farren gathered the Ashrai together. Not a soul said a word, for none was needed. They all understood what had to happen next. And so, the little priest in green led the charge, her spear aimed at the heart of those that stood in her way. She tore through the line and did not stop. To the left and the right, enemies fell under the almighty power of her wrath and loss. Her rage cut a channel and the Ashrai pored through, followed by the full might of the warhost.

And still she did not stop. She ran and ran, hacking down anything that moved, until colour returned to the world. It was soft and calm, and flowers blossomed in her footsteps. Farren looked around. Behind her, in the grey that was starting to fade into dark shadows, a body lay on the floor. It was of no consequence any more. Farren turned to look forwards, knowing what she would see. The trees bowed to her, their blossoms shining with hope. And there he was.

“I told you to carry on, Farren. What are you doing here?” His face was sad, but no anger lived there.

“I know, but I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t do it without you.” Tears ran down her face and where they fell to earth, bright lillies burst forth.

“But you did, Farren. Look! You paved the way!” And as she looked back again, Farren could just make out figures that filled her heart with joy surging to victory through broken lines.

“I’m tired, Haralan. Shall we find somewhere to rest?” He nodded gently, and holding hands, they walked into the light of the sun and the twisting shadows. The battle behind them transformed into nothing more than the song of the stars.

No-one ever knew for sure how lillies had come to line the paths away from the battlefield, but all who walked away from that field felt the love and peace that radiated from them. The Hunter and The Goddess walked hand in hand down that same path, blessing those flowers to live forever in tribute to what had been freely given.

Of Faith and Tactics

Smoke billowed across the hill and down into the valley. The Warhost of The Laughing Star stood silently at the crest of the hill, awaiting the sighting of the enemy and the order to engage. Taeneas shifted slowly from one foot to the other. He needed both mind and body to be alert and he was keenly aware that the soporific hush of the Erinian forest was working against him.

The plan was simple, but as a seasoned commander, Taeneas knew this meant nothing at all. Plans rarely survived contact with the enemy and he would need to react quickly. There was so much at stake, and so many bright, happy lives relied on his actions to keep them safe. Well… as safe as is possible when lined up willingly against a stronger foe.

Hold the flank. Do not allow the line to break. Easy enough to say, but Taeneas knew what was coming. He had told only those who needed to know exactly what to expect: no sense in creating hysteria. There were too many moving parts already to consider without adding in blind panic.

These moments of calm before an inevitable engagement filled Taeneas with an odd feeling. He could feel his blood rising: the raw, untamed aggression of The Hunter strained to be released, waring with the cold tactical maps laid out so clearly in his mind. Meanwhile, at times like this he could not avoid a very fatherly feeling of tenderness and care for those he led. That was dangerous though, as today he would need a cold, sharp mind unclouded by emotion.

The Goddess tempered his warlike spirit with care and love. Sometimes it felt like a burden, as the most efficient tactics revealed themselves to be entirely without compassion; this was not his way though. In victory and loss, Taeneas would always choose the path of considered goodness. He could be ruthless, for sure, but he was not a man for whom the end necessarily justified the means.

The sound of crunching leaves announced the return of The Spears. Their footsteps were fast but not frantic: before even a word was said, Taeneas knew that the enemy had been sighted due west, not yet close enough for engagement. There were a few minutes yet. He spoke in hushed tones, carefully instructing the skirmish force to wrap around and leave the main body of fighters.

A breath. The wind picked up, rattling through the trees like a warning. The sound of marching filled the glade, rhythmic and full of threat. They emerged through the treeline: the full might of a Praetorian battle company, its front line full of powerful old fae. The time had come. Taeneas had selected the perfect spot: a glade which would squeeze the approaching enemy into a thin line between dense foliage. Their overwhelming numbers would count for less here.

And even though he knew it would not be enough, the warleader of the Warhost of the Laughing Star roused his fighters to action. To falter was not in his nature, nor theirs while he led. With a sickening crunch the fine steel of Estragales met the unwavering might of the Praetorian guard.

All was chaos. The Spears had wrapped around to take the flank, but found themselves caught defending their own from a surprise attack. The main force started to crumple as the fae army exerted its will over Taeneas’ force. He muttered a prayer to The Hunter before driving his sword through the chest of his nearest foe and calling the order to retreat.

On the floor, wounded fighters lay bleeding into the parched Erinian soil. A cry caught in the warleader’s throat, but now was not the time for weakness. For the plan to work, he would have to have faith. Now was the time to keep calm and ensure the fighting retreat maintained order. Eyes full of pain and anger accused him of leaving good people to die, but none broke ranks. Eyes full of hurt and judgement.

And then, in the distance, a figure in gold and purple strode into the clearing. Sunbeams danced around him like halos, as if The Goddess herself blessed his steps. Butterflies danced in his wake, and glad thankfulness filled the heart of the warleader. Alejandro knelt by the body of each fallen fighter, administering blessings until they were able to run to safety. The agreement had only ever be that he fight alongside the Praetorians; nothing had been said about healing his own.

The battle lasted many hours. It was hard fought, and enemy numbers proved overwhelming. They had not been able to save the tree nor those who guarded it, but that day, not a single Algaian soul was lost, for the plan had been simple, and Taeneas had held his nerve. He probably owed Alejandro a drink, but that smug S’forzan was going to be unbearable now and he needed a drink himself.

The Trapper

Why did he do it? There had been a point to it all once, but that had got lost somewhere along the way. Now it was habit. A rote repetition that urged his muscles to action. What other choice was there, anyway?

He trudged towards the gate. Two guards stood watch, badly. The one on the left looked almost asleep and the one on the right was idly cleaning his nails with his dagger. The trapper straightened his tunic, brushed back his hair and approached wearily.

The right-hand guard paid little attention. The left-hand guard snored gently, her chin resting on her chest. Sighing, the trapper set to work. He unwound a length of wire very gently, tying one end to a tree just behind the sleeping guard.

“Nice day today, isn’t it? Looks like we’re in for an early summer.” The awake guard grunted in agreement and went back to cleaning his nails. How did this work? Was he invisible, perhaps? The trapper unearthed a wooden bowl from his pocket, complete with a contraption that looked like a cross between a blowpipe and a mousetrap. He handed it to the guard. “Hold this for me, would you?” The guard grunted again, noncomitantly, but obligingly held the bowl as the trapper filled it with brightly-coloured sweets.

He went back to the wire, handling it with expert care so as to avoid the devastatingly sharp blades that ran along its length. Once it lay taught across the path, he lashed it tight to the wheel of the guards’ wagon. “I’ll just be off then.” Said the trapper, a tinge of misery and loneliness on his voice. “Alright then. Take care on the paths. There’s wronguns out there.” Not a hint of actual compassion in the guard’s voice.

The trapper retreated to the safety of the bushes and once he was happy he could not be seen, he settled down to wait. It didn’t take long. A large group of soldiers was travelling towards the gate, the noise of which awoke the snoozing guard. She saw the tempting bowl of goodies her colleague still held and a look of childlike joy crossed her features. She leant in to examine the wonderful treats and, as she took a handful, the contraption inside released. The look of wonder became a grotesque mask of horror as the toxin in the dart ate away at her facial muscles.

The soldiers reached the gate at the same moment, marching forward in perfect unison. The first soldier acknowledged the single remaining guard with a brusque wave before turning around in utter confusion to find his severed feet two yards behind him. The others rushed to his aid, only to suffer a similar, dreadful fate. All was chaos and screaming.

The trapper looked on with quiet sadness. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he stood up to move on once more.

Rashid’s Camel

It really was a very bad-natured camel, Rashid decided. All things considered, he wasn’t having the best of days. It was at least half a day to anywhere even remotely populated and the sand was intollerably hot in the midday sun. “You selfish beast! You show no respect, no pride. What, should I carry you maybe? Perhaps I will leave you here.”

The camel continued to chew, a look of bored insolence writ clearly across its face. Rashid turned around in disgust, somewhat surprised to see his shadow had followed. Not his shadow. A tall, robed figure, features obscured beneath a veil.

“Ah! Rashid. What an unexpected pleasure!” At the figure’ s wrist glittered an enormous diamond. The blade in which it was set glittered too, cruelly. Rashid sensed its bloodlust. He coughed loudly enough to make the intruder flinch. “Do I know you?”

As the stranger began what promised to be a long and tedious tale of theft, betrayal or some such rubbish, he suddenly buckled in two as half a ton of bad-natured camel slammed squarely into his ribs with a satisfying crunch. Rashid raised an eyebrow. “Oh! Now you have energy. I could have handled that! Most interesting thing that’s happened all week you lazy dung beetle!” The camel huffed in response and sat down to wait as Rashid took a very thorough inventory of the stranger’s belongings.

Kalia’s Story

The wind snapped through the warrior’s hair, tugging her back to the moment at hand. Crows circled below the storm clouds as rain pummelled the sodden earth. To the front: a wall of unimaginable horror. To the rear: a rabble of shields, blades and occasionally questionable judgement.

Kalia took a deep breath, her eyes closed. A bitter tang lingered on the wind. She allowed the doubts to fly off with the storm and held tight to the pride now swelling in her chest. “Right, you crazy bastards. Listen up. The odds don’t look good, so here’s the plan: no retreat. No prisoners. No fucking stopping until we’ve severed the last of their miserable heads from their bodies. Fir Cruuutheeeen!”

Lightning tore through the sky as the storm itself took up her call to arms. Today would be a good day.