City of Wonder: A Channel Riders World Book

Michael Lewis Morrison was drunk; really, really, drunk. He leaned himself back gently, head resting on the wall behind him and legs stretched out across the bed. He was in that stage of drunkenness where holding on to a thought for more than a second was next to impossible. The thoughts his mind tried to send him drifted away only half formed as his attention skimmed the vast universe behind his eyelids. It was a tenuous state at best and he knew from experience that it wouldn't last long.

It was a fine line, drinking enough so that the world's edges became soft and blurry, but not enough to send him into unconsciousness where dreams lurked, waiting with sharp talons to tear him to shreds.

Recently he had become an expert in finding that very fine line and walking it with precision.

A sound off to his left made him frown and open his eyes. For a minute the world didn't want to hold still and he feared he would be sick. Being sick would throw him too close to reality; he clamped his jaw shut and swallowed convulsively. To his relief, the world slowed from a rapid spin to a wobbly, but less vomit inducing, image. He frowned when he realized he was looking at a row of buttons. The buttons were blue and sewn onto a darker blue shirt in what he thought might be a straight line. At the moment it was difficult to tell.

Against his better judgment, he lifted his gaze, following the trail of buttons up to a shirt collar topped with a face. The face looked familiar. He was sure he knew it, but he was just as sure that he didn't want to remember why he knew it. The face was scowling down at him, age lines helping to make the scowl deep and darkly forbidding, the short white hair bristling as though in a temper of its own. Deciding that looking up had been a bad idea, Michael let his gaze fall back down the shirt buttons, his head moving in sync with his eyes until his chin was resting on his own chest. He closed his eyes, smiling to himself when the scowling man disappeared.

Michael heard a heavy sigh. "If I don't see you, then you don't exist." Michael said, or thought he said.

He wasn't sure if he opened his mouth or merely thought the words. The thought drifted around his brain, lasting longer than it would have a few moments ago and he knew he would have to take another slug from the bottle soon to maintain the balance and not tip over into either true consciousness or complete unconsciousness. He tried to remember where he had set the bottle down and if he could find it again without opening his eyes. Despite his firmly held belief about the unreality of his visitor, he didn't want to test the disappearance by opening his eyes again. He figured if he was still there, than Michael would have to work that much harder to erase him a second time.

He had just about decided to risk a blind grab when he heard the man's shuffling footsteps. Michael relaxed, figuring that the man decided Michael's version of reality was better and made himself vanish in compliance. He cracked an eye open as a wave crashed into him. Michael sputtered and wheeled his arms about as though trying to swim to shore.

Suddenly, he realized there was no more water. He stopped flailing and opened his eyes again, realizing as he did that he pinched them shut as the water hit. As his eyes opened, he saw the scowling man standing in front of him, holding an empty bucket.

"What was that for?" Michael sputtered. This time he was nearly certain the words came out of his mouth.

"You stink," the older man said.

Michael wondered if that was a general statement or an answer to his question. Before he could decide, the man turned the bucket upside down and sat on it as though it were a stool. This put the man slightly lower than Michael, who straightened up in reaction to his dousing.

"Do you know why I'm here, Michael?" the man asked.

It sounded more like a statement and less like a question. Michael stared into the icy blue of the older man's eyes and couldn't formulate a response.

"Im here," the man continued granting Michaels overheated brain the relief from finding an answer on his own. "Because everyone else has run out of options. In fact about an hour ago, I was sent for because they thought you might have actually managed to kill yourself. I can see why the mistake was made. God knows you certainly smell like something three days dead."

"I'd be better off dead," Michael said softly. He was drifting from the line of oblivion and coming dangerously close to reality, he could feel it, lurking, waiting.

"Allie wouldn't have wanted that," the older man said.

The name hit like a punch to his gut and Michael felt the air whoosh out of him, felt the pain so deep it left him a hollow, brittle shell. He gasped for air, felt it scorch his insides like damnation. Why was he still breathing? Why was he still moving when life had already left him?

A flash of light blazed behind the older man, and for a moment Michael thought it was the end, the bright white tunnel all near death survivors spoke about and he almost wept for the joy of relief, only to have the hope torn away as he realized it was merely the door opening, letting in the morning light. It was morning, he hadn't known.

Another day without Allie.

Would his torment never end?

The man who opened the door stepped inside. With the light behind him, Michael could only make out the general outline of the newcomer. "Commander

McLaughlin," the shadow man said. "You asked for assistance?"

The older man nodded and stood. "Yes. Help him to the bath house. The cold water might help sober him up a bit, but get him clean regardless. Have a couple of the others clear this place out while you do. The bedding goes along with any drink you find. See if you can get him to eat anything and then let him come back and sleep the rest of it off. I need him sober."

"Yes, Commander," the shadow man said. He stepped forward a little and Michael could see the contempt in the man's eyes. McLaughlin caught the look too and placed a hand on the man's arm.

"His wife was the pilot of The Defender," McLaughlin told him.

Michael watched the man's eyes soften with pity and he slumped. At least with the contempt he could hope that the man would let him drown in one of the large communal baths that were the standard in Haven before he could actually manage to get sober. Michael hadn't been sober since the day of the memorial. It was not an experience he wished to endure.

The commander left the circular, one room cottage and Michael watched the pity in his new caretaker's eyes harden into determination. Michael sighed, realizing that he would be helped no matter how much he didn't want it. Apparently for now, it had been decided that he would live.

"This is going to hurt," he decided. The thought stayed stamped in his brain, solid as stone and Michael realized he had lost his grasp on that thin line of oblivion.

Sober," he said resignedly. "If that doesn't kill me nothing will."

After being stripped, scrubbed, fed and returned to his newly clean quarters, Michael fell upon the fresh sheets and was claimed by the demons of his dreams. He awoke sometime later, twisted in linens soaked with sour sweat, his head feeling as though it were about to split open and the realization that Allie was gone and nothing would bring her back. He leaned over the side of the bed, spotted a bucket some helpful soul had left behind and leaned over as the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth.

He set the bucket down and noticed a large pitcher of water, an empty glass and a bottle of aspirin placed on his small nightstand. Ignoring the glass, he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank deeply. After several gulps he set the pitcher down, fumbled the aspirin bottle open and tossed a couple down his throat. He then set the aspirin bottle down and guzzled the reminder of the water. Feeling slightly less desiccated, he rolled over and fell back into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When Michael again opened his eyes, the bucket was gone and the pitcher had been refilled. He didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed that someone was apparently looking out for him. He sat up and drained the water pitcher, realizing as he did, that the water was not going to be enough. He was hungry. For the first time in a long time, he was actually hungry. Realizing he was also naked, Michael looked around for some clothing. Sure enough on the other side of the small room was a pile of neatly folded clothing.

Deciding that if he didn't make an attempt at moving, Commander McLaughlin would come looking for him, Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His legs felt like jelly and for a moment he doubted his ability to remain upright. He wondered if his skull would crack when he hit the floor, leaking his brains out and foiling the commander's plan to make him live. As if rallying against the thought, his legs seemed to solidify and he found them carrying him over to the pile of clean clothing.

"Traitors," he muttered to his legs as he began to dress.

Task complete, Michael turned towards the door deciding that if his legs were going to betray him, he might as well fill his traitorous stomach as well. At the door, Michael fumbled the banded wooden shield that served to keep predators out of what could optimistically be called his home. Michael braced himself for the light, but found it wasn't needed.

Evening was close. It was the time his grandmother always referred to as the gloaming. Light had gone soft as if unsure whether day or night ruled and was loathe to commit one way or the other. At the sight of him, a younger man Michael vaguely recognized as one of the sailors from a patrol ship stood up. He had been sitting on a stool placed outside the door reading. He tucked the thin well-worn paperback into one of the oversized pockets of his cargo pants and looked Michael over.

"I suppose I have you to thank for the water?" Michael asked, resenting that someone had decided to look out for him.

"Yes, sir," the man said with a smile, taking no insult from Michael's tone. He nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "I'm Gilbert. Friends call me Gillie."

"Of which I'm sure you have many," Michael said dryly. Gillie's smile deepened and Michael shook his head at the sight of the dimples that appeared. The boy reminded him of an over grown cherub.

"The Commander left word that you were to be taken to the mess tent before reporting in. He thought you might be hungry." Gillie gestured to the left. "It's this way sir."

"Reporting in," Michael repeated shaking his head and taking a step in the indicated direction.

If everyone had already decided he would live, he supposed he ought to at least get something to fill his cavernously empty belly. Gillie fell into step beside him and to Michael's relief remained silent as they walked. He found himself darkly amused when Gillie signaled another patrolman in what he was certain the boy felt was a clandestine sign.

They stepped into the mess tent and Michael braced himself for the hustle and bustle of a large crowd, hoping no familiar faces came into view. He was working very hard to focus only on the physical; his empty belly, his foul morning breath, the mosquito bite on his left arm.

'

Or the bite of whatever Haven has in place of mosquitos,' he thought.

Anything more would bring the pain back. To his relief, the large space of the mess tent was mostly empty. He would not be forced to socialize. A few tables were occupied, but they seemed more like meetings than people eating meals.

"Did we miss dinner?" Michael asked as Gillie led him to an unoccupied table.

"No sir," Gillie replied. "Captain, I mean Councilor Calabrese has been slowly phasing out the use of the mess tent. Most folks now have the capacity to cook at home. And many of the vender carts are operating near the main square. We even have a couple of actual restaurants up and running."

"I see," Michael said, realizing that the world had clearly gone on without him. He was somewhat relieved to know that his absence had caused no harm. A thought glimmered. "Councilor Calabrese?" he asked, thinking of the stern older man. "So the channels are open and the Council has taken over Haven?"

"Not exactly sir," Gillie said. He signaled to someone and then sat down across from Michael. "I mean the channels are open again, and the Council has arrived, but Haven is still under Elena Calabrese's direction. She was made a councilor a few weeks ago in a special ceremony."

"Ah," Michael said. Apparently the world had not only continued, it had marched on full steam ahead without him.

"Most are wondering what the new change will bring," Gillie continued on eagerly. "I mean, she isn't exactly like the others, is she?"

"Give her time," Michael said sourly. "In time, everything rots." Gillie looked confused as though Michael's statement was so completely foreign to his world view as to be incomprehensible.

"Not everything." Michael looked up to see Consuelo standing next to the table holding a tray. She set the tray in front of Michael. "Occasionally something survives."

Michael gave a half smile to Consuelo. The chef was large boned and stood a little over six feet in height, a formidable presence at the best of times. As her black hair grayed, she dyed the lighter strips either green or purple. Tonight the multicolored locks were braided and wrapped around her head like a coronet. Her deep aubergine colored caftan looked almost black in the shadows of the mess tent and Michael had the fleeting thought that she looked a bit like the queen of the underworld. He wondered if she would take pity on him and drag him back into the darkness with her.

"Exactly," Gillie said, agreeing with the towering chef. His dimples returned.

"You may go and fetch your Commander," Consuelo said in her carefully neutral accent.

Gillie looked startled. "But..." he began.

"I will sit with Michael and make certain he comes to no harm from his dinner fork in your absence."

The tone brooked no argument and Michael watched bemusedly as Gillie rose and practically scampered out of the tent. Consuelo slid into a seat across the table from him. She stared at Michael and he found himself unable to sustain her gaze. He looked down at the tray of food placed before him.

"Eat," she commanded. "You need it."

"You know you probably made him violate a direct order," Michael said picking up his fork. He knew from experience that Consuelo would not relent.

"Possibly," She said, not sounding terribly concerned. "But he is young and will no doubt recover from the censure ordered."

Michael snorted and took a forkful of the offered stew. He frowned at the taste. "This doesn't taste like your stew." He said.

"It is not," she replied. "It is canned stew with Saltines."

Michael looked up and as he did he felt the years melt away. He felt the tropical heat of Haven fade and the biting cold of the snowy mountains return. It was in

that place, a place whose name he was told to officially forget, where he first met Consuelo.

He remembered the desolate rage, the howling loss in her eyes. She fought against those who killed her family. Impossibly outnumbered and armed only with a bit of broken bottle, she was severely wounded and left to die. Through chance and an odd set of circumstances, he came across her, patched her wounds, at least the physical ones, and shared the only food he had; canned stew and Saltines. It was a life time ago when they were both impossibly young. It was a time long before either of them even heard of the Guild of Families.

"I remember," Michael said in acknowledgement. "I suppose you are expecting me to rage," he said bitterly.

"No," Consuelo said. "We each chose our methods of suicide. Mine was the blade of glass and yours the unbroken bottle. You never had the temper I did, but we both understand how grief can hollow one out and create a pain that seems unendurable." Consuelo took a deep breath and Michael saw her eyes darken with memory. "I was away from home when my family was killed. I wished I died with them, so great was the pain in me. I picked up the only weapon I could find and did my best to follow after." She continued softly. "I asked you why I survived. Do you remember what you told me?"

"It was a lifetime ago," Michael told her, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mind returned to that place. He could smell the wood smoke and snow on the wind and hear the wracking sobs of Consuelo as she wrestled with pain that his bandages and limited medicines could not hope to touch.

"You said that perhaps the world still had use for me," She continued relentlessly. "You were right. I punched you for it. But you were right. You took your young nieces and nephews from the Docking Facility during the evacuation, seeing them safe to Haven, keeping them out of the combat zone when the others would have merely taken them aboard the patrol ships. This is why you were not aboard The Defender. Why you did not die with your wife. Perhaps the world still has use for you as well."

Michael shook his head unwilling to believe her.

"Ah," Consuelo said, the edge of a dark smile tilting up the corners of her mouth. "I did not believe you then either," she said understanding more than he was comfortable with. "It took quite a while for me to realize you were correct. You do not believe me now, although what I say is true." She looked away from Michael and he heard footsteps approaching their table. "Perhaps it will become more evident sooner for you than it was for me."

Consuelo stood and looked at the two approaching men "Commander McLaughlin. Mateo," she said in greeting. "See that he eats."

With that parting commandment, she turned and retreated back to the kitchen. Michael looked up from his bowl of canned stew. He absently crumbled a cracker to dust in his hands.

Commander McLaughlin looked more or less the same as he had the day before. With a glance he confirmed that the dark blue buttons of his shirt did in fact form a straight line. The Commander was looking towards the still swinging divide between the eating and cooking areas of the mess tent as though he wanted to call Consuelo back and explain why his authority should be respected, but didn't quite dare.

Next to the Commander stood Mateo Andresetti, looking very much as he had the day Michael arrived in Haven. He wore a pair of scarred hiking boots, faded jeans and an old t-shirt. The one change was the messenger style bag that was currently slung over his shoulder. Michael could see long cylinders of rolled maps sticking out from beneath the flap. As always, Mateo reminded him of his grandfather Alexandro, the man who first introduced him to the Guild of Families.

Deciding that thought would lead him too close to painful memories; Michael squashed it and took another bite of stew.

"You look better," McLaughlin said turning his attention to Michael. "I would like to introduce Mateo Andresetti. He has a project for which we both feel you are perfectly suited."

"We've met," Michael said.

"We have," Mateo confirmed.

McLaughlin lifted an eyebrow, but when neither man explained further, he shrugged and let the matter go. Michael was surprised the Commander needed an explanation when the whole damn Patrol could probably tell him of Michael's connection to the Calabrese Family. He was certain someone would happily explain the connection to the commander should he ask. The thought was bitter and he tried to wipe it away with another bite of stew.

"Well, then I will leave you to discuss the project," he said. "I have already given all of the input I feel is needed." McLaughlin walked away and Mateo set his messenger bag down on one end of the table, taking the once again empty seat across from Michael. Michael wondered if he would stay in the seat any longer than the others.

"Well," Mateo began. "Let's get right to it shall we?" When Michael remained quiet, Mateo shrugged. "You are of course free to refuse the commission. I should warn you however, McLaughlin has decided to take an interest in you. If you decide to turn me down, I have the feeling he will find something else for you to do."

Michael took a bite of stew and chewed it slowly while he looked at Mateo. He had been barely twelve when Alexandro brought Michael to the Guild. He and his cousin Elena were as inseparable as Siamese twins. Brilliant and precocious, the two of them constantly pushed every limit placed on them and drove even Alexandro Calabrese to distraction.

Over the years, he spotted Mateo often, the boy was hard to miss. His hand was in nearly every major technological innovation to the Guild in the past twenty years. He mixed human and alien technology like an artist mixed paints and came up with undeniable masterpieces. He looked different now. He seemed more solid and focused, the precocious brilliance sharpened by determination. It was hard to think of him as a boy any more.

"You are right," Michael said after swallowing his food. "He has decided I should live. He doesn't seem the sort to give up at the first sign of trouble. Of course, that doesn't mean I will accept your offer."

"I wouldn't expect you to accept without hearing it," Mateo said, the corner of his mouth quirking up a little as he processed Michael's response.

Regardless of the surname of Andresetti that Mateo carried, he was Alexandro's blood. Michael remembered that when dealing with any member of the Calabrese Family it was best to give short answers. They each had a dangerous habit of seeing more in your words than you intended. As Mateo continued, he wondered if he cared.

"Would you like me to wait until you have finished eating to present my offer?"

Michael sighed. He felt exhausted and realized this was more activity than he put himself through in weeks. "Best get it over with." He told Mateo.

Mateo nodded. "Very well. As you are no doubt aware, when we arrived here, this town had already been established and abandoned. We have no idea who built the town, or why they shaped their buildings like giant gumdrops. The archaeologists are still studying them. In addition to the town and the remnants of the docks, we found a road." Mateo paused and ran his hand through his hair. He looked as though he were trying to order his thoughts. Somehow, Michael couldn't muster the curiosity to care about the order. He just wanted to go back to his oblivion.

"Quite a substantial road actually," Mateo continued. "The stones used to create them are massive. While the width varies from stone to stone, the depth of the road is a uniform twelve feet deep. It's like who ever built the thing wanted to only build it once and have done with it. They, the archaeologists I mean, have found wheel ruts and things in the stone and have been speculating like crazy." Mateo shook his head.

"The artistic renditions of possible vehicles have gone from purely speculative to sheer fantasy to be honest. While they throw around images and theories, one concrete thing they did find was that the road did not end in town."

Michael frowned. "I thought the road was built to go from town to sea," he said, feeling like he ought to at least pretend to care.

Mateo nodded, looking pleased that Michael was taking an interest. "That was my thought too, but as it turns out our little town of Haven is really only one stop on what looks to be some form of highway system."

"And you want to find out what else is out there?" Michael asked, unable to stop himself.

There was something intriguing about the situation. After all how many times had he been sent into the middle of nowhere only to find the remains of ancient roads where it seemed no people had ever been? He was a cartographer and not an archaeologist, but he still couldn't help but wonder where those roads led and why they were built.

"I do. We have a fair amount of people settling here. It will be years before a new Docking Facility can be completed, and that can only be done after the Matrovean threat is gone." He sighed and shook his head. "Even then, there are those who will more than likely choose to stay here rather than move to a new Docking Facility."

"And in time they will spread out," Michael replied, nodding his understanding.

"They have already begun to spread out," Mateo corrected. "Several farms have been established outside of the city limits. One of the old mines has been opened. Right now most of the amenities, bathhouses, generators, schools, that sort of thing, are all in town. Eventually people will push too far out for commuting back to our central location to be feasible. New generators will be brought, or new power supplies found and new city centers will emerge. We would like to know what else is out there before people begin settling new regions."

"It will take quite a while before that happens," Michael replied, thinking Mateo was gathering trouble before it's time.

Mateo smiled. "A fishing village has already been established about fifty miles north of here. The Librarians have already agreed to send a small contingency of tutors to establish a school."

Michael snorted. Clearly the world had gone on without him. In a way he was pleased. His presence or absence caused no impact whatsoever. It meant that sooner or later McLaughlin would give up and let him be. Then, he could return to his oblivion with no one harmed by it.

"To this end," Mateo continued. "I sent out aerial probes to scan various areas. We were only able to get general views, but managed to follow the various roads leading away from Haven to other ancient abandoned town sites." He shook his head again. "Keeping the archaeologists from running into the wild with their kits and cameras has been a bit like herding cats."

"I can imagine." Michael said. Quite frankly he was surprised it had been managed at all.

"One of the few ways we have managed it has been by telling them we have a plan. This is the plan." He patted his satchel. Michael's eyes were drawn to the rolls of paper sticking out of the bag. Despite himself he found his interest quickening.

"I want you to lead one of the advance teams. You would follow one of the roads to the first town site. Along the way you will look for various conditions and potential dangers a future archaeological team might face between here and there. Once in the next town, you will establish a base camp. While you send the probes further along the road to gather more intel, a more permanent team will be dispatched to explore the town and the area fully. When they arrive, you will let them know what issues you found in both the road to town and the town itself. Once they are established and have restocked your provisions, you will proceed further down the road, the process continuing as you make general maps of the area. Ideally this will last until you reach the end of the road, wherever that may be. Other teams will be doing the same down other roads."

Mateo paused and Michael scraped the last bite of stew from his bowl, ate it and pushed the empty bowl away. The food formed a knot in his belly. The proposal intrigued him, he couldn't deny it. His interest made him feel like a traitor. How could he go on when Allie was gone? He opened his mouth to refuse. Hopefully McLaughlin would come up with an alternate plan, a proposal that would be more of a punishment than a reward for surviving.

"If it makes you feel any better," Mateo said before Michael to voice his refusal. "There are many poisonous plants, snakes, and spiders out in the wild. Most of which we have no antidotes for. In addition, we are certain of at least three types of large cats in the area. Admittedly, we have only studied a relatively small area. I'm sure you will run into many other dangerous things. Getting killed by a large predator may not be as painless as drinking yourself to death, but it would probably be quicker." Michael lifted his eyebrow in surprise at Mateo. Mateo smiled. It was a cat's grin.

"And until something manages to kill you, you'll at least be useful. Something to think about." Mateo stood and gestured to the messenger bag stuffed with paper. "Take tonight to look things over before you make your decision. You can let me know in the morning. I'm sure whoever McLaughlin sends to watch you will be able to find me when you are ready."

Michael watched as Mateo walked away. His words echoed through his brain as he bit into one of his few remaining crackers. He thought about how many things could kill him in the wild back on earth. On a largely unexplored planet, the number had to be multiplied exponentially. He remembered how McLaughlin ordered any drink found removed from his quarters. No doubt if he stayed in town he would be watched and unable to complete his drink into oblivion scheme.

"And if the Commander has to come up with another task for me, no doubt it won't be as dangerous." He glanced at the full messenger bag. The interest he felt in its contents no longer felt traitorous, but like a means to an end. "Snakes and spiders and cats, oh my," he said to himself softly.

He should have known that Mateo would know how to get to him. Every Calabrese he had ever met had the knack for that sort of thing in some sort of measure. Michael swallowed the last of his meal and pushed to his feet. He picked up the messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Michael thought about finding Consuelo and telling her he was leaving, but she was nowhere in sight. He crossed to the exit and stepped into the warm evening. There were lights strung up through town at random intervals, but they were nowhere near as bright as those inside and it took him a moment to adjust. As he stood looking around, the town seemed like any other he visited over the years.

People walked the streets with friends and family, chatting and laughing. Stores offered wares produced locally as well as those gathered from afar. The scent of spice and cooking food wafted from vendor carts. For a moment the resemblance of Haven to Festha, one of the towns of the Praxtal region of Segeran was so strong that he expected Allie to come walking around the corner. It was their favorite vacation spot whenever Allie could manage an extended leave. He could see her smile, her hands holding a bag or box, eager to show him what amusing little item she came across while shopping.

For a moment the illusion was so painfully real that he almost couldn't breathe. He shifted his gaze, forcing himself to take in the details that made Haven different, made it a place where Allie wasn't and had never been. The mass of the buildings, as Mateo pointed out, were shaped like large gumdrops. It made him think of a place dreamt up by cartoonists.

The absurdity of living in a cartoonist's fantasy calmed him somewhat. In the distance, he spotted the outline of the stone aqueducts leading water to the communal bathhouses. Like the ones of ancient Rome, they were precisely engineered for their task giving them some similarities, although the details of the stone work displayed alien artistry.

"Like nothing else anywhere," he reminded himself. The pain of losing Allie still throbbed like a bad tooth, but he was able to breathe again. He saw the outline in the distance of the buildings at the crossroads that the Librarians claimed as their own. "Not Festha," he told himself. Festha had no buildings over one story tall. He wondered how long it would take before the odd elements of Haven became familiar to him, more familiar than his previous haunts.

'Maybe it would be good to leave,' he thought stepping out of the doorway and on to the path. He was not looking to build a new home.

He walked no more than ten feet when Gillie once again appeared by his side. Michael glanced at the man wondering if the commander ordered a watch placed on him. He thought it likely and wondered if the watch was also a way to get him to agree to Mateo's plan, knowing that the watching would end once he was gainfully employed.

To his relief, Gillie stayed quiet as he walked Michael back to his quarters. His relief increased when Gillie bid him goodnight at the door rather than following him inside. Once through the door, Michael snapped on the lantern and hung it on the hook in the ceiling, providing his windowless space with some light before he placed the banded wooden shield over the opening for the night.

"Alone at last," he said to himself, taking off the messenger bag and placing it on the end of his bed.

A glance around the room let him know that someone was busy in his absence. While his room was quickly cleaned out when he was sent to the bath house, someone came in while he was occupied in the mess tent and done a much more thorough job of it. Every speck of dust had been removed. Along with the dust, all sharp objects were likewise missing. He spotted several stacks of folded clothing placed on a curved bench set into the wall. As he looked at it, he chuckled darkly.

Someone thought to remove his belts. "Although there are no beams to loop them over for an impromptu hanging," he thought.

Michael scanned the room wondering if he could actually do harm to himself with what they left him. He thought the bed sheet might make a decent noose if twisted up tightly enough. Again he was faced with the lack of places to hang. The smooth domed surface of the ceiling was not encouraging. He supposed he could use the hook from which the lantern hung, if it was sturdy enough to hold him.

He shook his head thinking of the mortification of being found in a crumpled heap of bed sheets because he pulled the hook from the plaster, or whatever passed for plaster here. He doubted the lamp oil was poisonous at least not in the small quantity available to him at the moment.

"I guess they did a decent enough job making me safe," he decided.

Not that he chose a particularly active form of suicide to begin with. It was oblivion he craved, the numbness and the cessation of thought. He figured the drink would eventually end him and the oblivion would be permanent. No muss, no fuss. Focusing enough to plan on creating his own death took too much thought. He preferred a more passive approach. He wanted to lay out the welcome mat for the Grim Reaper, not go hunt him down. He looked at the messenger bag and thought of Mateo's assessment. Making himself available for a host of deadly things to take advantage of was much more his style.

"I suppose we had better see if it is true or not," he decided settling himself on the bed and opening the bag. A part of him thought that Mateo might be lying, that the entire offer was just a ruse to get him back into the land of the living. The Mateo he once knew was not one to just let someone die.

"Letting someone die while making them useful to some plot or scheme is more Alexandro's style." Somehow he didn't think Mateo had changed that much in so short a span of time. "Which means there's a catch somewhere."

Michael pulled a sheaf of images from the bag and began to flip through them. The road Mateo mentioned could be seen as a slight depression with limited over growth covering it. While dirt accumulated and grasses had taken root, there was not enough accumulation to allow trees to grow.

"And if the road is twelve feet of solid stone, very little is pushing its way up from below," Michael thought.

As his interest drew him in, everything else faded to the back of his mind. He looked at the height listing from which the images were captured and mentally calculated distances and elevations. The next town along the ancient highway appeared to be at the very edge of the aerial probe's range and Michael found himself disappointed when he came to the last of the images. He set them aside and brought out the next stack.

This stack provided images of the land between the roads and he mentally calculated distances, wishing to take notes. He quickly searched the bag and found no pen or paper. He glanced around the room and saw no pen had been left behind.

"Probably thought I'd stab myself with it," he muttered to himself before turning his attention back to the papers before him.

Having gained a general idea of the radius of the probes, he set the second stack to the side and picked up the third. This stack appeared to have been taken by the same sorts of cameras, but instead of following the road or moving between the roads in a large circle, it covered the coast line. Images depicting the shore were shown to him bit by bit. The stack was much larger than the other two and Michael frowned.

Mentally he recalculated distances. The length of the coast line represented was much greater than the radius of the aerial probes. He flipped through the two previous stacks again, checking the numbers provided. His calculations were correct, he was certain of it. More of the coastline was shown than the interior.

"They must have sent a ship up the coast to explore," He said to himself.

It was the only answer he could come up with. As the Guild's answer to most things involved ships, he wasn't terribly surprised. "I wonder if the captain sent to explore thinks of himself more as Magellan or as Blackbeard?" He had been with the Guild long enough to know that even though they thrived on commerce, their Pilots and Captains each had a hefty mix of both explorer and pirate in their blood.

"I suppose as long as there are no locals to terrorize it should be all right." Michael set the stack aside and picked up one of the rolls of paper. "So they did send a ship," he said confirming his suspicion. The paper, when unrolled proved to be a partial map of the coastline. It gave a general sort of view of the coast but concentrated on the water, showing underwater hazards, water depth and the location of currents.

"Navigational tools," Michael thought, not terribly surprised at the focus of the first surveys. "Not a terribly good map as far as land mass goes though."

The coastline, while more or less accurately depicted from what he could tell by matching the photographs to the map, was clearly of secondary import with only the general shape and size of the coast given. All details were reserved for the ocean. He unrolled the next map and found a continuation of the coastline and navigational details. He found himself itching for his tools and time to do an accurate map.

All of the rolled maps were the same and in the bottom of the bag, Michael found more images, clearly taken of the seabed. Marks were placed on the images, showing depth. He was fairly certain he could make a decent topographical map of the sea off the coastline from just the images and markings. He was also certain that was the point.

"They certainly aren't someone's holiday cruise photos," he said.

The last item in the bag was a binder with images of various plants and animals already encountered. Notes concerning each were carefully typed beside each image. While many of the notes were culinary, medicinal and commercial, many others listed the ways in which the item could kill. Treatments discovered, if any were available, were listed beside the red warnings. Michael nodded when he saw that very few of the items were survivable.

"So at least he wasn't lying about that," Michael told himself with a nod of confirmation. Even though it was what he wanted, he found himself vaguely disappointed in Mateo.

Having gone through the entire contents of the bag, Michael yawned, realizing how tired he was now that he had nothing to focus his excitement. He gathered up the materials and put them all back in the bag. He set the bag to the side, stripped until he was wearing nothing but his boxers and extinguished the lantern. In the velvety darkness he slipped between the sheets and settled into bed.

He stared into the darkness unable to sleep. For weeks he trusted the alcohol to eventually send him into a state of blessed unconsciousness. Now it seemed his body had lost the ability to find sleep on its own. He reached over to his night stand and picked up his watch. A press to the side of the watch illuminated the dial with a warm blue light. His watch proudly displayed the time as one thirty eight in the afternoon and he realized that he had not reset it for Haven.

"The last time I set it was in Betra," he remembered.

With the Matrovean rapidly becoming more of a threat he and Allie cancelled the longer vacation they planned and instead borrowed a family ship for a quick weekend away from the Docking Facility. Michael set the watch down and closed his eyes, his mind conjuring images of Allie as she laughed, tugging him reluctantly to the dance floor as the band played something loud and fast. She laughed as they tried unsuccessfully to imitate the local dance steps. The multi-limbed locals smiled indulgently at their clumsy two-legged efforts.

He remembered how the music slowed and she came into his arms. He recalled the scent of her hair and the feel of her skin as they swayed to the alien tune. Matrovean or not, at that moment everything had been right with his world. Sleep began to pull at him and he let himself sink into the memory, pretending that he and Allie were still on Betra, that she had only slipped out to look at the stars once more before coming to bed. He held to the warmth of the memory as sleep finally claimed him.