Dark Tales From Dandelion

1

As Leere approached the circular black door at the top of the steps, he noticed there was an engraving of a red creature sitting cross-legged on its surface. The door opened on its own. Leere walked in. The floor was black and reflected an almost perfect picture of Leere back to Himself. The walls were the same sand-like material that the outside of the building was. From the door, the floor sloped down at an angle to the middle of a great foyer where a large box sat that was made of the same reflective, black material as the floor. There were no other doors in the foyer besides the one Leere had come in through. There was a square hole in the ceiling about thirty feet up, directly above where the box was. Leere walked to the box and looked on all sides for a handle that would open a door, but found none. He touched the side and his hand fell through it and disappeared for a moment. He pulled His hand back and inspected it. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it, so Leere walked through the box’s side, immersing his entire body within the blackness.

The trees were tall and red. It was night here and a moon shone brightly above. Leere did not recognize the place. He noticed a cave up ahead and made for it, giving a glance back to the black box. Once he was in the cave, he noticed there were lights just a short distance away.

“What is it you want, interloper?” hissed a voice in the darkness. Leere paused and tried to inspect his surroundings to no avail. It was too dark. If he could just get to the lights ….

“You must answer, interloper. I will not ask again, but I will kill you. You should not be here.”

“I need one to get through. One that can shift and is willing to stay that way after they come through fully, never to shift again. One that can learn multiple orders in two years time and study one in another potential reality. I have the bullet that can do this. When the time comes, all he need do is shoot it.” Leere said.

“It. Is. FORBIDDEN,” hissed the voice, causing wind to stir in the cave and blow Leere’s cloak all around Him. “There are rules. There is an agreement.”

Leere spoke, penetrating the roar of the wind. “I offer you something much more than a feast of vibrations for your people.”

“What could you possibly—“

“I am the Necrolore. I was before and will be again. All will be one under me, and Him.”

The wind stopped. Leere’s skull cracked into that impossible smile.

“It is inevitable. You will choose me, or you will choose death for all of your people. If you choose life, you will be the only shifters left after the One Dream, however, and you will be rewarded,” Leere said. Some of the superstitions that all shifters shared were actually true; if the story-taker got hold of the realities and smooshed them together, shifters would all disappear. All one needed say was ‘Necrolore’ and it incited terror in them, no matter what reality they lived in.

“Anyone could come to me and say they were Necrolore in an attempt to frighten me, I—“

Leere pushed his ünta at the shifter called Alamy. He knew Alamy had to be somewhere close. Maybe the shifter was taking the form of a fly somewhere above? Leere searched the cave for other üntas. A strange snake with the ears of a mouse, digesting its latest kill; a fly on the wall, sucking on something long dead that still remained spread across the damp surface. A rat—too still. THERE! Leere invaded the rat with all of his will. The rat screamed. Once His ünta was inside of the rat, Leere showed the images of the entangled ones, the child and the woman. Then Leere showed the rat—Alamy—the future from which Leere had come with the Eraser.

When Leere was finished, Alamy lay on the floor, resuming his red creature form, panting.

Leere looked at the shape-shifter curiously. “How are you existing still? Wouldn’t that portal have destroyed you? Your kind can’t travel through time and space without … consequences,” Leere said.

Alamy panted still. “Made … for shape-shifters … by shape-shifters. Not … a portal … but … illusion.” And as Alamy finished this statement, lights came on all around the room. Red velvet chairs and couches bordered the walls in-between golden-rimmed tapestries of abstract things like men holding pictures of women holding pictures of men and so on. The carpet was red and gold, and embroidered into the gold lines were red creatures dancing all in a line. The desk looked like cherry tree wood, dark and lacquered, it shone almost as reflectively as the floor in the foyer. Alamy stood behind this desk in a black tie, white button-up and suit with tails. He was bent over the desk, still panting, his red face seeming to be more red than that of the shifters he’d seen thus far in this strange potential. Alamy’s tie had been loosened, and he looked like he could use a drink of water and fresh air. Leere saw a bar against the wall to his left. He attuned the Inner Vibrations and used them to pour a glass of water with ice and bring it over to the shape-shifter that had been a rat only moments ago.

Leere took a seat in a chair that sat facing the cherry-wood desk. The chair was very comfortable. Leere’s large red cloak covered and blended in with the red cushions of the chair, giving Leere the appearance of having absorbed the seat into Himself.

The glass of water landed on the desk in front of Alamy, startling him as it did, and spilling over the red man’s hands. “Ahh!” he said. When he realized it was water, he grabbed it with both hands and drained the entire glass with one gulp. Leere smiled with his bones. Alamy looked up from his glass of water and jumped.

“We have an agreement with … another client,” Alamy said.

“Yes. You have been paid. For many years. I understand it is a bit of a symbiotic relationship. You get to feed on the vibrations of the fight with these vibrationalists, and in the process, she gets a report from you on the type of vibrations that are passing through, correct? All with a tricky bit of thrumming, keeping you in this endo so you are not risking anything by crossing over,” Leere said.

“Yes, that is correct,” Alamy said, tightening his tie.

“Your client will be going out of business in the near future, Alamy. Time to change the hands that hold your contract.”

“Putting it safely in your hands?” Alamy said.

“Why, yes,” Leere said quietly. The room seemed to bend in to listen to his whispers.

“We have her signature. Are you willing to give us that kid of commitment? Surely you can’t invade the ünta of everyone here and convince them that you are … what you say you are,” Alamy said.

“What I am, Alamy. And while I could invade their üntas, I’m afraid I do not have the time, and neither do you. I do not give out my signature. I bind all to one. The little glitches of phase-shifters and shape-shifters and blood-shifters and—well, you get the point. They disappear, Alamy. Poof,” Leere opened His hands to emphasize the poofing. “Gone. Now what I’m offering you is to remain while all others cease to exist.”

“I have no way of holding you to this without a signature. A binding signature.”

“Even after I have showed you what has been and what will be, you still doubt me?”

“I do not doubt you will keep us alive through the merging, I simply need insurance that you will hold to your agreement. I have nothing else. I could say yes, then you could just destroy my people after you’re done with us. It might be a few years before you do, but you would still have that ability all the same. We’d be dancing the shanti with The Strings. I want a signature before I send one of my people to their death for your purposes,” Alamy said. His expression was severe and Leere guessed that if he wasn’t dealing with the possible destroyer of his race, he would be quite the conversational adversary. This one doesn’t bend that often. I suppose I can change my aura if this signature becomes … inconvenient later, Leere thought.

“Done,” Leere said.

Alamy’s eyes widened. “Done?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I do not have the luxury of time. I need your lamb to begin its training now if its to be ready for slaughter in time.”

“Why must you phrase it that way?”

Leere ignored this, using the vibrations to bring a glass of wine to him from the bar. He took a drink, though it would look like he was simply putting the glass to his skull, he was actually able to drink the liquid down. It bubbled warmly in his belly. “I don’t care who you send. I only care that they are capable.” Leere pulled a rolled up piece of paper from his sleeve. He thrummed into it, sending it through the air to Alamy. “There are all the details: the skills they will need to specifically learn, where they need to go and why, what they need to do there … “ Leere pulled out a green bullet from his sleeve and let it float in the air in front of him. “This is the bullet he will need to use. If you draw up the contract, I will sign.”

Alamy unrolled and read over the sheet of paper Leere had floated over to him, then put it down on the desk and got out his own sheet of paper and a pen.

2

Vance woke up to find the Auburn-haired girl gone. That was fine, he really didn’t have many words in the morning and was happy to be left alone. His body ached and he could have slept for the next two days if not for this next job. He could probably quit altogether if it all worked out and he brought the bounties in. Maybe he’d go buy a place in the north woods and finish out his days there with the Faedroni people; maybe he’d go to Svargaloka and stay there, it wasn’t an unpleasant place. Vance highly doubted he’d do any such settling down, but it was a nice dream. He got dressed, oiling the jacks of his helmet then putting it back on, strapping his sword belt across his chest and back, sesnickie blade inside the smooth, gel-like black surface of Vince the sheath currently. He still wore the ‘Ol Fuck’s color scheme after all these years, bringing the outfit into tailor’s shops to show them the exact color and measurements when he needed a new shirt or pants. The cape had lasted with only a few tears at the bottom; all of the interior pockets still held. The helmet continued to function properly, but he took very good care of it, oiling the jacks every morning and allowing its batteries to absorb vibrations at night to recharge.

Vance hadn’t been able to figure out how to add new skills to the potato that loaded the helmet with abilities, but there were still things on there he hadn’t even tried to look into yet; he may have a use for growing Sly Grass someday, but for now he was content with the abilities that had been preloaded at the Laboratory on Lavender.

He coughed blood into his hand, cursed, then lit a cigarette with a match from the cape pocket, flicked his hand to put the match out, threw the match on the ground and pulled out a Boost. The liquid inside the Boost syringe was light orange and it glinted in the morning light that came through the window. The liquid was stored in a cylindrical cartridge and the needle had a light orange cap surrounding it, making the Boost in its entirety two inches long and about half an inch thick. He looked at it for a moment, put the cigarette in his mouth, then pulled his sleeve up to the middle of his bicep, found a spot that hadn’t been completely ruined with needle marks, and rammed the inch-long needle straight into his flesh. He pushed the plunger in to administer the orange liquid, then took a drag of the cigarette, waiting for the effects of the Boost to guide him into the beginning of his day.

It hit him like vibrational symphonies climaxing, like confidence in a lover when you’re away, like cold water on one-hundred degree days; the relief, was palpable. The Boost collected his things, walked out the door of his room, paid his bill at the front desk and left the Golden Goose. Vance’s chest felt tight and he took every step with a sense of fundamental importance. He flicked his cigarette down in the street and lit another. The cigarette smoke seemed a banner to his purposeful stride.

Vance’s first stop on this day of productivity, was to be the “Sesnickie Moving Company” on south 23rd street in Harrentree which was fifteen miles away. To get there, he’d either have to run or rent a dirfweed. Though running was a temptation because of his Boost-influenced freshness, he thought he’d better save his strength for a time when renting dirfweeds wasn’t an option. There was a dirfweed stable about three miles away he knew, so he ran there. As Vance ran across the grimy cobbles of Jubilee Street, he saw greasy haired, toothless wretches gathered around fires; people sleeping, using trash for blankets. Grease stained the area around a sewer grate. A child walked the street in its filled diaper, sucking on a chicken bone that had obviously been picked clean long ago. Vance kept walking—seeing things like this was common on Jubilee Street, and one learned to turn a blind eye, lest one be swallowed up by the depravity of the street, or be cast out for a lack of stomach. Vance had no time for scruples, he was on an important business trip and he must be on his way. The sun was up, so most of the businesses were closed on Jubilee Street, but the dirfweed stables stayed open eighteen cycles a day. ‘Cause with the things that go on down here, Vance thought. Motherfuckers need a way to get out quick, to save face with they husband or they wife or whoever the fuck. Or to bring some shit back home and sell it. Yeah, this place can afford to stay open.

Vance’s feet crunched on the gravel drive that led up to the stable’s little office at the top of a small hill. The stables themselves sat just off to the left of the office. As Vance approached the office, a boy came out of the stables to meet him. The boy rubbed hair too long out of a face too dirty and squinted up at Vance.

“How far, how long, and do you have a preference of any kind?” said the boy dispassionately.

“Just up ta Harrentree. Gotta get to the sesnickie Moving company, eva heard of it? South twenty-third street.”

“Yeah I heard of it. There’s a stable on twenty-first where you can return the dirfweed. Any preference?”

“I like the browns if you have any.”

“We do.”

“That’ll do just fine, then,” Vance said. The boy didn’t move. Vance sighed and got out two chips and tossed them to the boy. The boy ran back into the stable to get Vance’s brown dirfweed ready. Vance walked into the office and saw a beautiful fat woman attending the desk. She had light red hair and big brown sinkholes for eyes. Vance wasn’t usually attracted to heavy women, but now he found that his belief about them had been blown apart. She was fine, alright. She smiled at him without letting it touch her eyes, an expression that conveyed her complete disinterest in any of Vance’s attention. Vance woke out of his appreciation of her. He wondered if she knew she was appreciated by more than just whoever the lucky man was that she was holding out for. Maybe she wasn’t holding out for a man at all, but preferred not to welcome the attention of strangers. Who knew—Vance didn’t. All he knew was that he felt as fine as she looked and a little rejection in a facial expression couldn’t change that.

“Hi there, I’m Vance Raffery. I’m here to rent a brown dirfweed. Ya boy out there already bringin’ her around. Headin’ to the dirfweed stable on twenty-first in Harrentree.”

“Hello! Alright that’ll be—” she wrote on a piece of paper with pen and looked down as she did so, “eight golden chips please!”

God-damn but she made it sound like eight golden chips was the easiest thing to just hand over. I bet they make a motha-fuckin’ killin’ doin’ this shit. I bet everyone pays that price too; they desperate, convenience sells, and don’t I just know it like I know my Boost sells convenience to my brain, he thought as he handed over the eight chips.

“Wonderful, thank you! Louie out there will get your brown ready and bring it around. The chips bought you the rental—that includes the down-payment—the required insurance in case the dirfweed gets lost or dies, your harness, and the saddle. Do you want any gloves or other riding gear to make your ride more comfortable?” she asked.

“For only eight golden chips more, I presume? No I’ll be jus’ fine, thank you,” Vance replied. The woman gave him a withering look which was compounded with her strange fat beauty to completely disarm him. He broke eye contact first. She wrote something down on a piece of paper, tore the page out and handed him a copy of the receipt.

“Give that to the attendant at the stable on twenty-first to get your two golden chip down payment back. If the saddle is still in good shape, you’ll get half a golden chip back for that. That’ll amount to two hundred dandys and fifty bits of the common Worth.”

“Thank you, honey,” he said, which won him a contemptuous look; some people were so touchy about words. Vance left the office and stepped back onto the gravel drive with a crunch. Louie was there—holding a harness—with the brown dirfweed, all saddled and ready to go. The dirfweed had large pointed ears like a mouse, in fact the entire head was quite like a mouse except the horns that pointed straight up in-between the creature’s ears. The body was large, about as wide as a sesnickie’s. The front and back paws were the same length so the dirfweed could walk on all fours if it wanted and sometimes that was the faster way to go about traveling, but dirfweeds usually preferred standing at an angle on their spring-like hind legs. The paws had sharp, bendable claws which were each about two inches longer than an average human finger; the claws bent so that dirfweeds could actually grab onto things to climb—which is why dirfweeds were ideal for travel. If you ran into a large hill or were traveling through mountains, the dirfweed could climb reasonably fast with you on its back by digging its claws into dirt and rock. The tail was like long, thin hair on a human’s head dropping down to the bent-backward legs that could propel them forward twenty-five feet at a time. Louie held out the leather harness with both hands so Vance could put his arms through, then strapped Vance into the harness, bringing the bottom straps around his thighs and connecting the metal buckles near his crotch area. The back of the harness had two scorpion straps with metal loops attached to them that hung down at Vance’s sides. Vance climbed up on the dirfweed’s back using the left stirrup that hung down from the saddle near the dirfweed’s thigh. He hooked the two metal loops that hung down from his harness into snap hooks which were attached to the saddle—this was for the sake of keeping the rider attached to the dirfweed while climbing or traveling at high speeds—and put his hands on the metal grips on each side of the saddle near the dirfweed’s long neck; the grips could move the top part of the saddle to the left and right, putting pressure on the dirfweed one way or the other to signal a turn—pull back to slow the dirfweed down, press forward to go faster. One nice thing about being a trancer was that you could actually trance into most animals and influence them, so Vance wouldn’t have to use the grips for anything but hanging on. Vance tranced into the dirfweed and it carried him down the gravel path in giant leaps.

Vance felt incredible. He and his dirfweed felt each other through the connection Vance was instigating, and it felt like they were of one mind navigating through the mostly empty streets of Jubilee Street.

2

The dirfweed arrived in Harrentree with The Drifter on its back thirty minutes after leaving the stables in Jubilee Street. They moved at a slow pace—the dirfweed on all fours—down the brick of twenty-first street. Vance’s stomach grumbled, but this was easily ignored while under the influence of a Boost; he’d eat after dropping the dirfweed off. They passed towering buildings that seemed to have no entrance or purpose. People crowded the streets of Harrentree—quite the opposite of Jubilee Street during the day—and they were all heading somewhere, somewhere other than here and nowhere close to now. The people were faceless and Vance knew he was as faceless as the rest. There was something comforting about slipping into the anonymity of faceless pedestrianism.

Other people on dirfweeds walked at the slow pace that Vance moved; the street was too crowded for jumping without hurting someone with every leap.

The dirfweed stables here looked less like a stable and more like one of the other towering nothings that decorated the street. He dismounted and pulled the dirfweed by a leather rope that had been tucked into the saddle strap that crossed the dirfweed’s chest. They walked through ten foot high glass doors which gave the dirfweed enough room to walk through. Inside, the ceilings were very high; Vance’s boots slapped on marble floor; the dirfweed’s feet made a clik-clak scraping sound as they made their way to the front desk across marble floor. A man with pale skin and a tuft of bright orange hair sat behind the desk.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to return this,” Vance gestured to the dirfweed with his head. The man looked as though he didn’t work here and wondered why Vance was talking to him about such things.

“Twenty-sixth floor, you’ll want to take the thrumming lift; dirfweeds tend to slip on the marble stairs,” the man said disinterestedly. Vance felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of trancers spending their lives keeping city lights on and running lifts with their vibrations to make a living. Waste of fuckin’ talent, he thought. Then he thought about his own occupation and raised his eyebrows in a submissive gesture. Then he realized the irritable orange puffball was trying to get his attention.

“Hellooo? Sir? Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nah. Thank you,” Vance said, and he pulled the dirfweed away from the desk toward the lifts. The orange puffball shook his head and looked back down to whatever he’d been taken away from by The Drifter. Vance laughed and waved his hand at the attendant behind him. Toodaloo, you puffball fuck. All these people unhappy in they jobs. Jus’ fuckin’ quit then if you so goddamn misrable, Vance thought as he continued toward the occupation that he was so happy he’d chosen to occupy his time with. Occupy. That’s what we do. We born, we die, and in-between, we just occupying time.

Vance lit a Never cigarette as he approached the thrumming lift. The trancer who worked the lift was a short pimply little woman who looked quite excited about being here.

“Hello! Love your helmet. Hello sweetie,” she said as she reached out and massaged the dirfweed under the chin. Vance could feel and see the trancing she was putting on the creature. Peace. Calm. Love. “Where are you two headed this morning?” She said with a smile. Maybe Vance was in the wrong line of work.

“Um … twenty-sixth floor ifya please,” Vance replied.

“Alright let’s do it.” Vance watched as the trancer vibrated into the lift, making it lighter so it could be pulled up. There was a weight behind it that counterbalanced this, allowing the lift to shoot up into the air. Vance’s empty stomach lurched a bit at the initial rise. “So,” the trancer said as they rose to the twenty-sixth floor, “what’s the helmet for anyways?” She smiled at him and he could tell she was being earnest. He didn’t run into pleasant conversation too often so he indulged himself; the Boost was also making him feel a little talkative, though this thought was buried somewhere deep, past the things he was willing to admit to himself. As far as Vance was concerned, the Boost was medicine: Trauma medicine.

“It actually connects to my brain through fiber optic wires that were implanted into my nerves. The wires and nerves reach up and connect to the helmet’s jacks when I put it on. Different information can be downloaded into the helmet then transferred to my brain. See this antenna?” He flicked the antenna with his finger, and the woman nodded. “It picks up on vibrations and I can see what you’re attuning on this screen in front of my eyes. This is useful ‘cause then I don’t hafta attune the Inner Vibrations to see what another trancer is doing, that way they can’t sense me.”

“That … is so fucking COOL!” the woman said, “ok, so what am I attuning now?” The screen moved from complete bliss to bliss with a bit of irritation, and the lift slowed ever so slightly. Interpreting these readings was something that had been downloaded into his brain through the helmet, the wave patterns surrounding the person speeding up or slowing down.

“You changed your vibrations from bliss—which makes the lift rise—to bliss with a bit of irritation.”

“That’s amazing! You’re right, You didn’t attune the vibrations to see what I was attuning. Where’d you get it?”

“Lavender,” was all he said and he exited the lift at the twenty-sixth floor, leaving the woman dumbfounded, mouth agape. He expected this reaction which is why he usually didn’t disclose this information, but he was feeling forward today and she was very kind to him so he thought he’d be honest with her. People didn’t usually just go to Lavender and then come back.

Vance pulled the dirfweed down a hallway, following signs that pointed the way to the stables; there were several businesses and offices up here on the twenty-sixth floor. He came to a section of the hallway made of glass walls, and there was a sign that read “Twenty-First Street Dirfweed Stables.” Vance pushed open the glass doors and walked into a carpeted waiting room. There were chairs to his right bordered by two plants; a wraparound desk sat in the middle of the room in front of a woman with long red hair that had black spikes running through it, a pointed mousey nose, red lipstick and a black leather dress. Behind the desk, there was another wall of glass, showing the stables and a field of tall grass; the walls behind the stables were white, the ceiling was the same. It was an odd sight, seeing this grass growing indoors, a few dirfweeds grazing, all in a big bright room that was completely closed off to the natural world. Vance assumed there was some sort of trancing at work here as well; he didn’t see any windows that could let sunlight in to help the grass grow. The lady behind the desk straightened some papers and smiled up at Vance.

“Return?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Paperwork?” He handed his receipt to her. She looked it over, her black earrings jingling as she moved her head to do so. Something about earrings like those had always bothered Vance. Why put something in your ears like that? For attention? I suppose I wear a cape, he thought, though he wasn’t convinced by this argument; the cape was basically a cloak with no hood, it kept him warm during both Falls, Winter One and Two, and it had several pockets inside. Still … those fuckin’ earrings. The woman moved her head again to look at some papers on her desk, making that jingling sound. I might rip those fucking things out if she moves again. Vance was beginning to sweat. His expression darkened. The woman flipped her head again to look at the receipt. The jingles seemed louder than the last time, as though someone were turning up the volume with every turn of this lady’s fucking head. She turned back and it felt like things were moving slower, the jingles lasting longer. Vance felt like he was about to pass out. His upper lip pulled away from his clenched teeth and he breathed in quick breaths that sounded like tearing paper. The dirfweed next to him began to stir, aware of The Drifter’s uneasiness. The lady reached for something under the desk, jingling all the way down. Vance started to move toward her. I’ll fuckin’ kill her, I’ll fuckin’—

“Here you are, hon. Two hundred Dandys and fifty bits, our stableman will be here shortly to collect the dirfweed if you’ll just have a sea—”

“No, I think I’ll be leavin’ now,” Vance said shakily and started walking away. He heard those Voidforsaken jingles getting frisky behind him.

“Sir, I—” He spun on her.

“I’M LEAVIN’ BITCH. AINT NOTHIN’ YOU CAN DO TA STOP ME, SO FUCK OFF AND EAT SHIT, YOU GOT YOUR FUCKIN’ DIRFWEED.” He knew he had to get the fuck out of here before he heard those earrings again. He ran, sweating. The edges of his vision were becoming a bit black. The walls were closing in. His heart was in his stomach and throat at the same time. Jus’ why, why’d she have ta have those fucking earrings on, jingling’ at me like that? Why, Mama, why?

He hadn’t gotten enough sleep. The Boost was acting on his nerves. This happened from time to time, but this was a little out of the ordinary even for Vance’s fried nerves. What the fuck is happening to me?

A voice spoke.

You jus’ need to eat, mothafucka, Vince said.

Bitch I been starved worse than this shit before, this aint no shit like that. This different and you know it, Vance responded to the sword sheath.

Yeah I know, but shit. What then?

I don’ know, Vance said, but eva since we took this fuckin’ job with those fuckin’ names on that fuckin’ piece of mothafuckin’ paper, we been actin’ crazy. We killed a motha-fuckin’ prostitute! Killed her! Shit, man. That wasn’t no fuckin’ Boost psychosis an’ you know it.

A man walked past Vance who stood outside of a door that said ‘Stairs’ on it, mouthing this entire conversation to himself. In Vance’s mind, he was talking to his sword sheath Vince, which was actually helping him to calm down and make some sense of his insane situation and his insanity. He had wanted to kill the lady for wearing earrings. The man walking past cleared his throat and Vance looked up at him. Wonderful. Vance went through the door labeled ‘Stairs’ and waited there for a moment; he knew this guy was probably going to report Vance to someone in the building and then he may have to deal with some trancers, so he needed to throw them off his trail. He came back out of the door leading to the steps and went to the lifts. His friendly trancer friend was not on this one, which was just as well because she’d probably want to talk, and Vance really didn’t trust himself with conversations presently.

This lift trancer was a greasy haired antisocial—perfect.

“Ground floor, please,” Vance said with a hushed, shaky voice. The trancer didn’t talk and Vance was grateful. He exited the building and headed to a diner down the street. He ate a burger and fries that didn’t have much taste due to the Boost that still permeated his senses.

He felt a bit better after getting the fresh air and food. He drank carbonated squim-juice which had little more effect than giving him the obnoxious tick of pursing his lips on every third exhalation of breath.

Leaving a large tip, Vance exited the diner, heading for south twenty-third street to get to the sesnickie Moving company. It didn’t take him long, and the crowds had thinned out now that it was mid-morning. He saw the sign from a couple of blocks away; it had a big sesnickie on top, smiling and wearing darkened glasses that most people wore to protect from intense sunlight. ‘The Sesnickie Moving Company’ the sign read, and underneath this it said, ‘Anywhere on Dandelion where Moving is allowed, anytime.’ Vance advanced toward the big sesnickie and thought about the job he’d agreed to and the two bounties on that piece of paper.

And what if you have to kill them mothafucka. What you gon’ do? the sword sheath asked.

I’ll kill ‘em I guess, Vance said.

Yeah, sho, and I’m Leere fucking Low on a basket full of Rakshasas. You out on The Strings? Vince said. Why else you havin’ so much fuckin’ trouble if it aint buggin’ you? Why’d you almost kill that bitch back there?

I don’ fuckin’ know.

You don’t have to do it, Vance. You don’t care about the money. A new voice, this one feminine, it sounded like …

Mama? he asked.

He suddenly felt very alone. He called out for the Woman in White, his surrogate Mother.

Return to me, Valucias. Stop your drifting and return to me.

He stopped talking. He stopped listening, and he rented a sesnickie that took him just outside the Moving barrier of the Endynas Valley where he would claim his advance for the highest paying job he’d ever had.