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The Reed man tapped the side of his head.
 
“It’s all online.
 
Don’t worry about us.”

Metatech nodded, pointing at the box, palm up.
 
“If the box really does contain the rain…”

“Wait,” said Haraway.
 
“The rain?”

Metatech and Reed looked at each other, and then at Eckers.
 
Reed spoke first.
 
“The interest is conditional on a number of factors.
 
Mr. Eckers suggested that the recent atmospheric effects are controlled by Apsel technology.

“Yeah,” said Metatech.
 
“And that the technology would be up for sale.
 
But what we were really interested in—”

“We’ve of course heard about Jennifer Haraway, head of Apsel’s Atomic Energy Division.”
 
Reed unbuttoned his jacket.
 
“The acquisition of scientific minds is a top priority for us.”

Metatech looked back at Reed, then at Haraway.
 
“It would be a package deal.”

Haraway looked at them, then at Eckers.
 
“That’s not a part of the deal,” she said.
 
“Tech for cash.
 
Simple sum game.”
 
She licked her lips.

“Fellas,” said Eckers, walking forward.
 
Mason shifted against the skylight, trying to get a better view of the man.
 
A sweat stain like an oil slick sat on the man’s back, the fabric sticking to him.
 
Nervous.
 
“Before we get too carried away, we should see the demonstration.”

“Of the atmospheric effect?”
 
Metatech looked at Eckers, then at Haraway.
 
“I’d be uncomfortable if we were wasting our time here.”

“Yes,” said Reed.
 
“This endeavor has a significant dollars per hour investment in syndicate resources.”

Eckers was moving towards Haraway.
 
“C’mon.
 
Turn the thing on.”

“The rain’s not in the box,” said Haraway.
 
She held up a hand before the other men could speak.
 
“What’s in the box is much, much better than the rain.”

The two syndicate men looked at each other, then back to her.
 
Metatech crossed his hands in front of him, the cuffs of his tailored shirt poking out from under his suit sleeves.
 
The Reed man nodded at Haraway.
 
“As you say, Doctor.”

“I’m not a—”
 
Haraway shrugged, then moved towards the box in the middle of the room.
 
She started tapping on the panel, the clamps holding the lid closed snapping open.
 
The top began to retract open, soft smoke drifting on cold feet over the edge and onto the floor.
 
“You’re probably wondering why I’m not concerned about you guys stealing this from me.”

Reed spread his hands.
 
“We’re bargaining in good faith, Doctor Haraway.
 
It would look bad if word got out that syndicates couldn’t be trusted in…
financial
matters.”

She looked over her shoulder at the man.
 
“Right, financial.
 
Well, the thing is, one of you bozos tried to use it already, and you know what happened then.”

“Wasn’t us,” said Metatech.

“No,” said Haraway.
 
“It was him.”

Reed shrugged, as if saying,
sometimes these things happen
.

“Anyway,” she said, “you know what happens now if you don’t use it right.”
 
She was pulling power cables from the stage over to the box.
 
“It needs a lot of power.”

“Got it,” said Metatech.
 
“That’s what you guys are good at, after all.”

Haraway started plugging cables into something in the box, the thick lines stretched across the floor, black against the concrete.
 
“Yeah,” said Haraway.
 
“If you think that’s Apsel’s only gig, this is going to blow your mind.”
 
She clicked on something in the box, and a bass hum started.

The syndicate men didn’t move, but Eckers moved back with small nervous steps.
 
“Doc,” he said, “what’s going on?”

She looked at Eckers, then started typing on a keyboard.
 
Mason could make out some kind of computer within the box, set against a metal structure.
 
Tubes.
 
A solid core.
 
Struts.

“Carter,” Mason said.
 
“What the hell is that?”

“Already on it,” she said.
 
“I can tell you something, though.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not a reactor.”
 
She paused, Haraway continuing to work beneath Mason, then Carter continued.
 
“Ok, I got nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing.
 
We don’t know what that is.”

“We made it,” said Mason.
 
“We’ve got to know what it is.”

“Yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you,” said Carter.
 
“This mission is starting to feel—”

“Stretched,” said Mason.
 
He hefted the rifle in his free hand, his other glove still held against the skylight.
 
“I’d say the parameters of the mission have become elastic.”

“Sure, elastic,” said Carter.
 
“That’s a good word for it.
 
When are you going to break up the party?”

“In a minute,” said Mason.
 
“I have to say…”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t wait to see what’s in the box.”
 
Mason smiled inside the helmet as the rain fell and spat around him.

Haraway was still working on the keyboard.
 
Metatech shifted, the movement small.
 
“Is this going to take much longer?”

“No,” said Haraway.
 
“In fact…
 
Well, here we go.”
 
She tapped the enter key on the keyboard in front of her.

The lights in
The Hole
dimmed, and Mason could see the street lamps around him flicker and die.
 
A bolt of electricity, bright as the sun, spat and arced out from the machinery in the box.
 
Eckers ran behind the bar, ducking down from sight.

Metatech looked at Reed.
 
“This is… unexpected.”

“Yeah,” said Reed.
 
“I still don’t—”

A storm erupted from the box, arcs of lightning converging in the air in front of it.
 
Mason’s overlay stuttered, static falling like snow, and the suit lost the audio from the room for a second.

The electricity was hitting the same spot, over and over again.
 
It looked like it was hitting something, but Mason could only see empty air.
 
There was a snap, and then —

“Fuck me,” said Mason.
 
His suit had gone dark, Carter’s link down.
 
He looked into the room, unblinking.

A perfect sphere sat in the room, the floor cracked and pressed down underneath it.
 
Lightning continued to arc and crack from the box, feeding the sphere, the edges softening until they were gone.

Mason could see a circle of desert sand in the middle of the room.
 
The light of a sun was falling on it, and three people looked back from the other side of the sphere into the room.

His link came back with a snap.
 
“Mason!”
 
Carter’s voice was frantic.
 
“Thank God, you’re—”

“Now, Carter.
 
Get Harry here now!”

“About goddam time,” said Harry.

The link carried the audio from the drop ship.
 
“HALO insertion beginning on my mark.
 
Time to burn, zero seconds.
 
Time to fall, 11,000 meters.
 
Time to impact, 47 seconds.
 
Beginning burn, mark.”

Mason stood, slapping the rifle into the lock on his back, then pulled the subs from clamps on his belt.
 
He clicked the suit over into combat mode, active camouflage dropping away as the reactor fired up.
 
Cherenkov blue flaring out through the winged falcon etched on his back.
 
He stood over the skylight, pointing the subs at the floor, and fell like a burning star as he held the triggers down.

The dawn smiled at them, fingers of their tired red sun reaching over the desert sand.
 
Laia shivered, huddling against Zacharies in the cold.

The Master looked over at them, holding up a hand.
 
“Come.”
 
He gestured at the sand.
 
“Make a fire.”

Zacharies looked around, the sand stretching alone and complete around them.
 
“A fire?
 
But Master, there is no—”

A look silenced him, Zacharies looking back down at his knees, pulled close for warmth.
 
He spared a glance for his sister.

“I can do it,” Laia said.
 
She stood up, walking a little away from Zacharies.

The Master starred at her, the folds of his hood dark against the dawn.
 
“I didn’t
ask
if you could do it.”

“Yes, Master.”
 
She looked down at her feet, tugging at the collar around her neck.
 
The metal made it so hard to think, to focus.
 
Laia held her hands in front of her face, then let them fall, her shoulders slumped.

The whip tumbled free in the Master’s hand, the tails touching the ground, leaving small trails in the sand, like the passing of snakes.
 
His eyes flicked to Zacharies.
 
“And you will cook.”

“Yes, Master,” said her brother, walking towards the small bundle tied to the divan.
 
He began to unwrap pieces of cloth, pulling out a small pot, some dried fruit, and some oatmeal.
 
Zacharies didn’t look at the whip.

Looking at the whip drew attention to it, as if it wanted to be used.
 
Laia shuddered, then tugged at her collar again.
 
“Master..?”

The man walked over to her, his head bowed for a second, his hand held out towards Laia and the collar at her neck.
 
She felt the release, like a hand had lifted from her mind — or a hand pulled back from around her throat.

It would be hard, yes.
 
But for just a moment, she was free — free to use her gift, to see the world around her with other eyes, to call the light out.
 
She stretched an arm out towards the sands at her feet, reaching deep inside it.
 
Laia could feel the life in the old stones, these tiny rocks all that was left of once mighty castles and empires, spires stretched tall before her father’s father’s father had stood under the master’s whips.

“Come,” she said.
 
Burn bright, show me your kingdom’s power.
 
Just one last time
.
 
The sands shifted under her hand, a vibration so slight it was almost easy to overlook.
 
The memory in the sands reached back to her, the tiny stones trembling in anticipation.

The fire spat and sparked, the stones remembering, reaching up to the sky, their spires and trellises a new memory against the dawn.
 
The ghost of something mighty and tall rose around her, the stones burning bright in yesterday’s memory.
 
They stretched one last time, glowing white with heat, spreading, before melting into glass.

She felt the grip closing tight once more, the lock back on her mind, the hand at her throat.
 
Laia stumbled, exhausted in the dawn of a new day, and would have fallen into the molten sands at her feet if her brother’s hand hadn’t caught her arm.

The Master looked at her, and the sands at her feet, nodding at her exhaustion.
 
“A pity,” he said. The whip dangled from his hand, then he turned away.
 
“Breakfast, and be quick about it.”

Zacharies helped her sit, then turned over the heat from the sands, the porridge cooking and steaming.
 
He took care to prepare breakfast just so, but his eyes never left the Master, smoldering with a heat of their own.

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

Zacharies stretched before her, the skin on his back torn and bleeding, the whip coming up and around again.

Laia was sobbing.
 
“Master, please!”
 
She reached her hands forward, then covered her head as the whip moved to lick at her.
 
The strands of old leather and metal slashed out, the pain burning bright along her arm and her jaw.
 
She cried out.

Her brother was struggling, trying to get to his feet.
 
“I—”
 

The Master turned to look at him again, his hand raised up, clenching into a fist.
 
Zacharies cried out, falling back to one knee.
 
“I do not like the way you look at me,” he said.
 
“I will teach you respect.
 
I will break it upon your body, and work it on your mind.”

The whip stretched back again, lashing out.
 
Zacharies was spun with it, a piece of skin pulling loose at his shoulder, glistening red.
 
Sand clotted against the lash wounds.

Laia tried to stand, but the fist on her mind returned, and her legs felt like stone.
 
One of her hands reached up.
 
Her master came to stand over her, one gloved finger tracing along the cut at her jaw, then down her neck towards her small breasts.