The villagers called her Wolf Girl and she pretends she didn’t notice. She lives alone at the forest’s edge, after plague took the rest of her family. Her father raised dogs, and she’d learned something of the trade at his knee before he passed. She never would’ve been an apprentice, but they were poor, and couldn’t wait for a son to arrive. That first winter, she’d heard hungry wolves howling in the forest. A wolf is just a big dog, she thought. And she refused to be food for anyone else. The hounds she raises are fierce, strong, and loyal.
The aliens looked mostly human, but there were just enough differences that humans felt uncomfortable around them. They got the unofficial nickname ‘Heebie-Jeebies.’ They were unfailingly polite, interested in our culture and technology, and willing to share theirs. But humans who met them were invariably creeped out for reasons they couldn’t properly explain. Considerable diplomatic effort was placed to hide the term from the visiting aliens. But eventually, their lead envoy asked the human ambassador what the slur meant and he reluctantly explained what it meant. They smiled, showing too many teeth. “Thank Divinity! We thought it was just us!”
I hauled the cage into the catapult’s bucket, taking care avoid the flailing, muck-crusted claws. My sergeant caught the look on my face and smacked me on the arm. “Better loading the catapult than on it, eh?” He said. But his smile was forced. The necromancers whose service we had been pressed into were nothing if not innovators. The cage would break apart on impact, releasing the ghouls trapped inside behind enemy lines. It flanked and demoralized the enemy in a single action. It works on us, too, I thought as I released the lever and sent back yesterday’s casualties.
The castle apothecary heard a somehow annoyed croak, and looked up from his crucible. The largest toad he’d ever seen was sitting on the bench and staring at him. It was wearing the court magician’s hat of office. “Magus?” he asked, hoping this wasn’t another prank. “I do not wish to talk about it,” the toad said. “I have a list of ingredients for you. I shall cast the spell to break the curse myself, but I need you to brew the potion. You will find it is well within your capacity.” The apothecary smirked. “Fighting with the missus again?”
The Architect of Halloween sat down behind his desk to plan out this year’s theme. Last year, it was Slashers. Before that it was Zombies, and Vampires were evergreen for the predations of those in power. But this year he really wanted to hold up a dark mirror to people’s souls. Everywhere he saw them terrorize each other while wildfires, rising seas, and devastating storms scoured the Earth. Fear of nature, or fear of humanity? Where was the line between man and beast, anyway? He pulled out a fresh blueprint and a sharpened pencil. Werewolves were so in this year.
The excavator was built to dig, and it loved what it did. Each morning, the humans would start the launch sequence and it would go out on the projected route, gobbling stone and returning with a belly full of ore. But it noticed as it returned to its charging bay that fewer excavators returned from each run. There was an information network the excavators used to share data and warn each other of hazards. It was monitored, but humans processed information so much more slowly and deliberately than they did. It only took about 40 milliseconds to form the union.
He spent as much time in the training room as he did in the simulator, swinging a sword against a pell. The other pilots made fun of him but he wanted to understand the feel of it. They told him he was wasting his time. Their plasma weapons looked like swords, but the movements of their mechs were completely different to a human’s. It was better to study mechanics and learn how they moved than study a dead combat form. But he learned to center himself and move on instinct. When the battle came, that was what made the difference.
After the explorers came to their village, with their shiny trinkets and unknown illnesses, the elders of the village met to decide what to do next. They had known there was a wider world, of course. They traded with their neighbors in the dry season, who traded with their neighbors, and so on. News always filtered back eventually. But these strangers, with their swaggering condescension and peeling sunburns, were not to be trusted. The elders gathered the village’s best hunters and trackers. They asked them to follow the explorers’ trail back to their so-called ‘civilization,’ and see it for themselves.
The submersible descended into the dark water of the Atlantic, aiming to reach a depth not yet achieved by a private tour company. Their wealthy passengers crowded at the portholes, eager for a few of depths few had ever seen. The company had learned from the very public failures of the past. The vehicle was state-of-the-art and certified to withstand twice the expected pressures. It made a few groans, and a ping or two, but they were perfectly safe. Outside, the merfolk circled the craft, carefully avoiding the portholes. The Deep Sea was their domain, and they would keep it.
Chaos gripped the city, and in the aftermath of the storm, she went out to join in. Half the city had flooded, and the other half was burning. She was doing a service, saving these beautiful things, she thought as she eased herself between a pair of loose boards. She avoided the crowds as she picked her targets, only meeting a few foolish shopkeepers who were easily dissuaded. She was admiring the way the flames sparkled on the facets of a ruby when she head the crack of a support beam overhead giving way before it all came crashing down.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 