Krane Wupinkov was born in 10,165 to Olga Wupinkov, one of the legendary 100 Concubines of House Vorona.

That noble and ancient House maintained the Great Harem as a breeding stock of the purest human stains as a bulwark against future uncertainties. The wry had often noted that Duke Vorona was always assumed to be of the highest stock himself, which given the curious habits of some of the Dukes, was not beyond question. The 117th Duke, reigning at the time of Krane’s birth, was notorious for converting part of the lush family estate into a gigantic Zen garden that he would spend hours raking each day.

Perhaps this is why Olga took up with an Orc of the Duke’s Own Green Host. The Host had served House Vorona loyally for many years, with their traditional lands and way of life safeguarded in exchange for military service. Needless to say, despite the 117th Duke’s proclivities, the birth of a half-orc child in the Great Harem was the cause of no end of scandal, and Olga promptly found herself dismissed.

Returning to her former station, that of the lowliest peasant, with her son, Olga found it very difficult to make ends meet. Krane therefore fell in early with the gangs of street toughs in the Voronan capital of Olengrad. His considerable strength and cunning made him rather successful as a cutpurse, cuthroat, and cut-rate street performer. Though Olga wished for her son to go into the priesthood, he instead was noticed by Manyfingers McGee of the Olengrad Fortune Guild and trained as an assassin.

Krane asserted to his mother that this was functionally the same as the priesthood because in both cases he was bringing bad men closer to their maker.

As an assassin, Krane was very successful, able to use his unmistakably Orcish appearance to lull adversaries into underestimating him. He racked up over 100 successful kills but was increasingly distant from the profession. Olga’s stories of the rich and easy life available to nobles inspired him to begin using his earnings to try and make himself presentable in polite society.

Thus, despite his thick Olengrad Rus accent and massive 6’5″ frame, Krane poured his money into lessons on etiquette, dancing, and performing. Specifically, he trained under the legendary heavy metal performer Deejay Singh in the arts of the electric mandolin. Heavy metal was, after all, the traditional music of the Green Host. Armed with an electric mandolin, Krane set out to buy his way into high society as a half-Orc bard.

Wearing the finest clothes and trying to practice his manners, Krane is nevertheless on the blunt side and apt to resort to stabbing as a frustrated expedient. He is also completely mercenary, looking out only for himself and possibly his mother, though he will warble a heavy metal ballad on his electric for the right price.

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On the fourth planet, the search for intelligent life elsewhere in the system was called off. There was nowhere that the atmosphere was right; it was too thick elsewhere. There was nowhere that the oxygen and liquid water required for life existed in the proper proportions. Even allowing the remote chance that something could evolve, could survive, nothing had returned the signals they had sent using mathematics and radio waves, the universal language.

On the sixth planet, the search for intelligent life elsewhere in the system was called off. There was nowhere that the atmosphere was right; it was too thin elsewhere. There was nowhere that the sillicon and liquid ammonia required for life existed in the proper proportions. Even allowing the remote chance that something could evolve, could survive, nothing had returned the signals they had sent using infrared and polysaccharide pheromones, the universal language.

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“I’m due to make an appearance in 5 minutes in Courtroom 5,” I said, rolling down the window.

“And you just ran a stop sign to get there?” said the cop. “In front of the Xanadu Hall of Justice? Not an auspicious start.”

“Look,” I said. “I couldn’t see the sign because of that delivery truck parked in front of it!”

The cop craned his neck and nodded. “Okay,” he said, laughing. “You get off with a warning this time. Park over there and hustle to your courtroom.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do yuo know where Courtroom 5 is?”

“No idea!” he cried over his shoulder. “But I’d get going if I were you. They’re not in order!”

I didn’t see what he meant until I got inside. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the Xanadu Hall of Justice looked like a casino–it was, after all, part of Xanadu! But I was amazed by the glitz on display inside, with lawyers and judges walking among throngs of people, water fountains and slot machines, blinking lights and the sound of jangling cash.

I also saw what the cop had meant by “they’re not in order.” Before me, I saw Courtroom 1, Courtroom 19, Courtroom 7, and Courtroom 3. In that order. Frantically, I looked around for the proper one, and didn’t see it amidst the glitz.

I ran around a corner, thinking it might be there, only to inadvertently find myself in line for a water slide. I had to hastily excuse myself, stepping over chorus girls and mafia men in bathing suits.

The other way, around the opposite corner, brought me to the plaza that held Courtroom 5 (along with 13, 6, 4, and 20). I burst through the zebra print doors just as my watch clicked over the my official court date.

“Well, glad you could join us,” the judge said, raising her eyebrow. Her dais was low and gaudy, with the advocates’ tables in wront of it covered with purple velvet and backed by white countoured clamshell chairs. “Have a seat.”

I hopped into one of the tall clamshell chairs.

“You can try the ones at the other table if you like,” said the judge. “They recline.”

She seemed rather easygoing, for a Xanadu judge, so I hopped over obligingly.

“Of course,” she added, “you can use the hot tub too if you want.”

I craned my neck and, sure enough, there was a large hot tub where most courtrooms would have benches. One of the advocates was already therein, sporting a glittery bikini.

“I only wish I’d brought my bathing suit,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“Very well, court will now come to order,” said the judge. “Oh, and I hava a note here for you from the parking lot. They say you left a diamond in your car?”

“Well, you know, it’s funny…I’m accused of something relating to a diamond. I bet people will conflate the two.”

The judge laughed good-naturedly. “We can only hope.”

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Forbidden connections
Always asymetical but
Always changing sides
We know not what to
Call them, names fail
We know not how to
Mourn them, for they
Never really existed
All we know is that
A something occurred
A brief spark, light
Brighter than suns
If only for moments
And now it is no more

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“Taos, I hereby declare an emergency in Chandrakant’s cabin. An emergency wrapped up in a security breach wrapped up in a total vacuum. It really sucks. Give me access via override.”

“NO!” Jai shouted. “Taos, override the override! Captain’s direct orders!”

“I am sorry, sir, but I must comply.” The door opened with a slight rush of air as the pressure equalized, revealing Myassa clutching a hull brace that was dented in on one end. Her features, dark but delicate, were contorted in anger. The jet-black combat hijab scarf she always wore only accentuated the effect, like a Halloween wreath.

“Myassa, wait!” Jai cried. “Just a second! You don’t understand!” The Vyaeh were almost within range of the missile strike that would knock debris out of orbit and rain megatons of ice and rock upon them.

“I understand all right, Chandrakant.” Myassa strode up to Jai, batted aside his feeble attempt to stop her, and pulled the power cable that connected his game system to the ship’s central power supply.

“NOOOO!” Jai wailed. He grabbed the screen and watched as the afterimage of his battlecruiser faded to black, all his progress in Fleet Simulator: Great Campaigns lost. “I was about to turn the tide at the Battle of the Inner Belt! I had them!”

Myassa smirked, and tossed the power cord into Jai’s lap. “At first I thought it was cute that you think your little toy starships are as important as the real one you’re supposed to be captaining. But that was about six months ago. Taos?”

“Five months, thirteen days, seventeen hours, forty minutes, fifty-seven seconds, and-”

“Right, that’s enough.” Myassa fixed Jai with the full force of her best grimace. “I sent you a text message a week ago about this.”

“I…I’m a little behind on my messages,” said Jai, his tone mournful over the sudden and irretrievable loss of his imaginary ship.

“Then start checking them,” said Myassa. “It’s not hard. You know what is hard? Making the necessary preparations for landing without your permission!”

“But…well, once there are so many messages…so many unread messages…it just gets intimidating, you know?” said Jai, raising his hands. “It’s just easier not to deal with it.”

“Easier for you, maybe,” Myassa said. “Why didn’t you respond to any of my calls? I thought something might be wrong with the shipboard server until Taos ran every diagnostic in the book twice.”

“I didn’t get any calls,” said Jai. “Maybe you were sending them to the wrong place? Maybe there was a hardware failure?”

“On a ship with four people aboard? When the only way to get a hardware failure is to scoop out your communications implant with a melon baller?” Myassa spat. “You’ve been deliberately ignoring me. Or blocking me. I’m not sure which is worse.”

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William Partizan, of the Chicago Partizans, was born into that meat-packing dynasty in 1840. The family’s only heir and scion, he sold the plant to Layton and Plankinton after his parents’ death in a rail accident in 1863 and devoted himself to spiritual pursuits thereafter.

A dedicated follower of and correspondent with the Fox Sisters,
Cora Hatch, and other spiritualists during the movement’s nascent days, Partizan eventually came to the conclusion that the old morals that had informed human religion were morally bankrupt and irredeemable. He preached on this thesis throughout a series of self-finacned lecture tours throughout the midwest in 1870-1875, gradually selling off more and more of the Partizan estate and collections to fund his efforts.

Eventually, Partizan distanced himself from the Foxes and Hatch and claimed that their brand of spiritualism did not go far enough. What the world needed, he claimed, was a revolutionary fucion of spirits and science to provide a “New Moral Power” to replace that of (to him) discredited faiths. Partizan preached that, through the combined sciences of magnetism, electricity, and spiritualism, humanity could create a being of perfect morality, imbued with the wisdom of spirits from spheres beyond the grave, to which the species could turn for guidance.

The massive success of the Armour meat packing company, which had acquired Layton and Plankinton, provided Partizan with the funds needed to realize his vision. He sold all of his remaining stock and gathered the small group of devoted followers he had been able to amass. They retired to Beaver Island in Lake Michigan, which had a reputation for both lawlessness and friendliness to unorthodox religious ideas. There, Partizan established himself a settlement abandoned by the Mormon Strangites after the murder of their king. It appears that this was not lost on him, as several items of religious significance to the departed Strangites were incorporated into his construction plans.

Over the period from 1877 to 1885, Partizan and perhaps a dozen followers worked on the construction of their “New Moral Power.” They sent out the specifications for precision components to firms all over the world and had the manufactured components delivered for assembly on site. Magnets from Germany, electrical components made to order by the Westinghouse Air Brake Company, and more were acquired. The plans do not survive in whole, but contemporary sources indicate that the “New Moral Power” had two components: a large central dynamo unit that was sunk into a subterranean chamber once used as a cistern by the Strangites, and a motile anthropomorphic automaton. Apparently Parizan intended the stationary Power to control the motile one, connected by a “spiritual-magneto tether.”

Alarmed by reports of Partizan’s activities, and wary of another incident like that with the Strangites, the Michigan authorities banned postal shipments to the island in 1885. They were further alarmed by a letter, held at Muskegon due to the order, that called for a female follower of Partizan to “birth” the New Moral Power. Though some have argued that this was a purely symbolic Spiritualist ritual, the authorities were sufficiently inflamed to raid Partizan’s settlement.

The Michigan State Police arrived on June 6, 1885, apparently interrupting the ritual that Partizan’s letter had mentioned. The spiritualist and his followers were taken into custody, while his New Moral Power was photographed but left in place, being too unweieldy to move or disassemble. The authorities sealed the cistern, destroyed the aboveground buildings, and deported Partizan and his few reamining disciples to the maintland.

William Partizan lived out the remaining six years of his life engagning in increasingly far-fetched attempts to return in secret to Beaver Island. Eventually, his funds exhausted, he attempted a solo crossing by rowboat from Wisconsin, drowning in a September squall on the lake. He left behind a massive body of work on the occult, which was rediscovered and eventually celebrated as outsider art in the 20th century.

Notably, though, no trace of the automaton portion of the New Moral Power was ever found.

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Installed in 1974, the concrete viaduct replaced an older steel model and helped Arizona State Route 601 cross over a dry arroyo that was occasionally flooded in very wet weather. One of hundreds of infrastructure projects Governor Williams put in place, the viaduct was so unimportant and ignored that it was not even given a name.

It would have remained such if not for a maintenence crew dispatched to conduct a routine structural examination 18 months later. On one of the large, smooth concrete pilings beneath, the workers found a discoloration that strongly resembled a human face. They took a snapshot of the phenomenon and mailed it to the Arizona Republic, which carried it as a local color piece.

When a curiosity seeker visited the site a week later, after the article had been published, they found that the initial “face” had vanished. Instead, a similar discoloration on a different piling was present. Returning the next day, this second face was found to have been replaced by a third.

A media frenzy followed, with the “601 Faces” being intensely studied and photographed. A total of 79 different “faces” were recorded during the period, though no formal scientific inquiry was conducted. Frustrated with the traffic blockages that resulted, the county arranged for the viaduct to be demolished and replaced by a new structure.

To date, no “faces” have been observed on the new structure, and the extant “faces,” existing only as grainy photographs, continue to be discussed in occult circles to this day.

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“Hey,” the text said. “I’m running a little late. I should be at Wok of Ages in about 10-15.”

It wasn’t the fact that I didn’t know the number that worried me; I get the occasional wrong text. It’s no big deal.

But I was actually already at Wok of Ages for their Saturday lunch special, and there was no way anyone could have known that–I had only just decided to come in and sit down on a whim, five minutes after the text had arrived with a bleep that I’d ignored.

That was worrisome, but it could easily have been a coincidence. Wok of Ages is a popular joint. No, what really concerned me was the next text:

“What we discussed is in the trunk.”

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“Please,” she said. “Just give me a chance.”

Goris sighed and pushed aside papers to clear a spot on his desk. “Okay, listen,” he said, lighting a fresh cigarette with the stump of the old. “I’m going to give you some advice. Some straight talk, okay?”

Eris didn’t like the weary look on his sallow features, but she nodded.

“Compassion? It’s a finite resource,” Goris said. “Some people have more than others, yeah, but at the end of the day you’ve only got so much to give. You live in Podunk, Iowa, and come here to the big city? See a homeless person? You’d give them a good handout. But if you see a hundred bums on the street every day, there’s not much left for any one of them.”

“But you could give them all something, right?” said Eris. “Especially if you got to know them?”

Goris shook his head. “Listen, kid. When I was in ‘Nam–yeah, I’m that old, say what you want–I had some liberty in Saigon. Went out with a friend of mine to one of the big open-air markets they used to have for dumb GI kids to blow their pay and pay for their blow. Saw a bunch of beggars there, and my friend started giving them all money. They just kept coming and coming and he just kept giving and giving until he’d given out every cent he had, even his lucky buffalo nickel.”

“You’re saying that if you give me a chance I’ll just keep taking?” Eris said.

“I’ve gotta assume that,” Goris said. “I’ve gotta assume that you’ll take my pennies and disappear, taking with you what little compassion hasn’t been fracked out of the bedrock of my heart.”

“But…!”

“No buts,” said Goris, raising a hairy, liver-spotted hand. “Listen, kid. I like you. That’s why I’m talking straight with you instead of threatening to bust kneecaps or bust caps period. But that’s just about as much compassion as the well has. You have trouble paying? Let’s figure something out. You can’t pay me back if you’re dead. But don’t think for a moment that I won’t do it if I think it’ll scare away somebody else who might try to rip me off.”

Eris shuddered at the thought of what “figure something out” could mean. “I guess we could…talk…about what I can do,” she said cautiously.

“Yeah. Tell me what you can do. But don’t think that those big doe eyes are going to dredge up any more compassion. Like I said, I like you. But this kind of straight talk is about all that’ll get you.”

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“Go on, get out of here!” the shopkeeper cried. He lunged at the transient with a baseball bat. It was just a feint–he’d never have actually connected, not with liability insurance and cameras everywhere–but it was enough to send the interloper scrambling, their ratty clothes flopping in the December chill.

“Why did you do that?” his brother said, speaking in Farsi so that the customers wouldn’t hear. “If that poor thing wants to eat our dumpster food, why not let her?”

“It’s not the food, or the smell,” the shopkeeper replied. “She’s been stealing lightbulbs from the back, probably to hawk for a little extra crystal meth.”

His brother looked up at the dark socket above the dumpster. “Oh,” he said. “Even so, maybe there’s a better way than going after her like the Yankees.”

“If you can think of one, be my guest,” the shopkeeper sneered. “In the meantime, we’ve got customers to help and floors to sweep when those run out.”

“All right,” the shopkeeper’s brother said, with one last look into the cold darkness. “All right.”

A few blocks away, the transient stopped running under a viaduct where she often took shelter. Filthy, stained gloves rummaged in her found garments and produced the bulb she had taken from the store–an older model incandescent.

She pulled off one glove and cupped the bulb lightly between wrinkled fingers. It flickered and began to glow, eventually reaching its full brightness and warmth in her hands, unconnected to any grid.

Beneath the viaduct, in the cold and the wind, she laughed with childish delight through toothless gums.

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