Michael Bichsel stood on a solitary plateau flanked by two of his acolytes. He stared at the amber aurora overhead, watching the ribbon of light dance, weave, and sway against the wind. It reminded Michael of a time many years ago when he was back on Earth in Alaska. The aurora was as beautiful now as it was then, but it blazed gold instead of glowing green and pink as it did on Earth. It was a constant reminder that this planet wasn't his home.

  Michael had designed the stone plateau where he now stood, which hadn’t existed months ago. He had spent weeks in the planet’s soul cavern manipulating the radiant tree of light he had imprisoned. Using his athanium pen, he told Ash how to change, and the planet grew the protrusion according to his reprogramming.

  He created the plateau to get him closer to the aurora ribbon. Initially, he had tried to pull the aurora down to him permanently, but such a feat lay beyond his skill with a pen.

  Michael bristled as he remembered his dark mentor, who had taught him that planets lived and had anima sequences that could be rewritten. This ‘Genesarch’ masquerading as a human college professor had manipulated him into waking this cursed rock and left him a prisoner shackled to this world. Now, Michael wished to escape his exile, but nothing had worked.

  "Pull it down, boys," Michael instructed.

  His two acolyte companions dug deep into a sack, which glowed from the light ice within. Once opened, the ice's light illuminated the acolytes' faces, and the bag's opening shone like a flashlight.

  The two acolytes he had chosen for this task were Roe and Torn, two of his more reliable but ultimately expendable attendants. Each thrall wore their athanium shackles on an arm with glowing runes that compelled them to obedience.

  Roe was a Momalgan, and he headed the Momalgar zone. Momalgans didn't look much different from the humans native to Earth. Roe’s short black hair and pale skin suggested he had Relrin blood, but his incredibly thick eyebrows hinted that he also had some Colgan ancestry.

  Michael's second escort, Torn, looked drastically more unsettling. Torn was a Totion, about seven feet tall, with impressively long, straight horns protruding from the crown of his head, adding another foot to his total height. Although not very good at thinking or problem-solving, Torn was a fantastic thug. Fuzzy red hair covered the Totion's body like a peach or a recently buzzed head, giving his skin a stark crimson hue.

  His thick tail flicked absently, and his blood-red eyes didn't carry the same intelligence as most of Michael's other acolytes. Michael preferred to use locals as heads of each zone, so Torn was responsible for the Totion zone.

  Michael sighed impatiently as Roe and Torn pulled out a handful after a handful of light ice. Keeping a firm hold on it, the solid light melted in their fists, running down their arms and working its way into their skin. The aurora charge from the ice was evident as their eyes ignited with ochre light.

  "'ow much?" Torn grunted, his snorted language weaved into English when it reached Michael's ears. The world band on Michael's wrist generated the effect.

  "Well, how many times are you planning to fail?" Michael asked.

  The slow Torn looked up thoughtfully as he considered a serious answer.

  "None," Roe cut in, recognizing the jest in Michael's question.

  "Use it all," Michael instructed as he started tapping his foot against the ground. His usual carefree confidence began to slip as his excitement took its place. This was it; it had to be it. He reached into his jacket pocket and fidgeted with his greatest tool, his athanium pen.

  His acolytes melted handful after handful of ice, assimilating the aurora from the glass and infusing it into their bodies. Their eyes burned brighter, matching the flame of the script on the metal armbands they wore. An errant clear pebble ticked off the stone and rolled to Michael’s shoe. He stared at the glassy shard, its light putting a splotch in his vision. On any other planet, this tiny pebble was priceless. Ash generated the concentrated aurora in mass.

  Michael's foot tapped quicker as he waited, beyond his notice or concern. How had it come to this? He had been deceived, and what was worse, he knew better than to let that happen.

  Ash, the small world where he was God, was also his prison. Ash was not his paradise or his salvation. Ash was his master, and he was its slave. Once he escaped, he would make the Genesarch pay for his treachery.

  The acolytes looked at him expectantly as they dropped the now-empty sack.

  "Bring it down," Michael said.

  Both acolytes peered up at the aurora band dancing hundreds of feet in the air above and held their hands overhead. With aurora-infused bodies from the ice they assimilated, they used their aurora to reach beyond their bodies and grab the ribbon.

  The aurora ribbon grew taut and shuddered, like a bird accustomed to flying free but finding itself in the unseen hands of a massive child.

  "Bring it down!" Michael cried again.

  The two acolytes grunted as beads of perspiration formed on their foreheads. They strained against the radiant curtain, aurora blazing in their amber eyes until, with a tremulous shudder, the ribbon began to drop. Quickly at first, but slowing down the closer it came to the mesa, like a massive rubber band, growing tauter the further it stretched. The feet turned to inches as the shimmering ribbon groaned to their head level.

  Michael reached forward with his aurora and grabbed the band, adding his effort to those of his acolytes. The aurora ribbon jumped several feet before inching the final few inches and contacting the plateau's ground.

  "You have it?" Michael asked.

  "Yeah," Roe grunted.

  "You sure?" Michael asked. "Cause if I let go and you screw this up, I'm going to be super pissed."

  "We've got it," Roe assured him, and Michael released his hold on the aurora ribbon. The acolytes grunted as they took on the brunt of the weight.

  Michael stepped forward with his metal pen and began to write code into the aurora ribbon. He wrote into the translucent golden wall, leaving seraph-script runes blazing brightly on the luminescent curtain. The pen also pulsed with its own amber coding. It didn't have any ink, but Michael willed the aurora in his body to flow into the pen, leaving fiery lettering on the light wall.

  The ground where the aurora wall touched dirt lit up, flickering brightly as Michael finished his code.

  "Locked," he noted, satisfied, as he looked at the metal bands on his acolyte's arms. The light emanating from the coding on their armlets had greatly diminished, leaving the runes glowing like candles.

  "You can let go now."

  His acolytes gratefully relinquished their hold on the shimmering ribbon, and the lock on the ground held true.

  Michael allowed himself a grin before he continued to write coding into the misty veil. Michael wished coding was faster, but a simple mistake could have disastrous consequences. Michael furrowed his brows in concentration as he continued writing his meticulous script.

  Like computer programming, which Michael had studied as a young man back on Earth, he knew how to recode anything on this planet, changing its nature to suit his needs. Unfortunately, aurora coding was also prone to bugs. A simple mistake could result in an unexpected explosion that could wipe out a city block or open an unexpected black hole.

  He should have been able to simply will the programming into the wall, and he would have—if Ash itself weren't working against him. Even now, he felt Ash’s mind, young and enraged at being contained, bound by Michael’s coils around the tree in the soul chamber. The Genesarch had probably expected Ash to possess Michael’s mind and wear his body like a flesh suit, but Michael had written careful contingencies that locked him into a stalemate with the young world. Alone, he had to reprogram by hand, penning the script into existent and subreal matter.

  At length, he stepped back to examine his work. The transparent amber wall glimmered gently, then shone translucent, revealing a house on the other side as if behind yellow-tinted glass.

  Michael threw back his head with a bark of laughter. "Suck it, Ash!"

  "What is it?" Torn asked in wonder. Michael found that Torn was easily impressed.

  "It's a breach in space," Michael said with victory in his gleaming eyes. "I've breached the laws of space and folded this spot with the space in front of my house."

  "You can get back…" Roe marveled, his lip twitching as Michael caught a glimpse of jealousy and grief buried deep beneath Roe’s compulsion.

  "Damn straight I can," Michael said before reaching forward and touching the wall of light. His finger passed through as if moving through half-boiling fog. Despite it being uncomfortably hot, he smiled. He saw his finger on the other side and encountered no disastrous symptoms. The breach didn't rip him to pieces or boil him alive, and his finger didn't disappear. The code worked, finally.

  Michael withdrew his finger, and it returned unscathed. He allowed himself a final laugh before stepping through the breach way.

  He stepped through, finally free of his prison, the yellow tint dissolving as he stepped foot on Ohio soil. His lungs constricted as they threatened to betray him to emotion. She could be home.

  His joy and triumph of victory shifted into dread as an unseen force buffeted him, two like poles pushing each other on a magnetic charge. Gravity doubled back on him and violently spat him back through the breach way.

  Michael screamed as he tumbled across the plateau, stopping only feet away from an extended plummet.

  Both of his acolytes yelped as they ran to him. Michael groaned in despair. "Why?" He moaned, not expecting an answer.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  A rich, masculine, yet somehow youthful voice answered, speaking directly to his mind.

  Because you are my voice, I won't let you go.

  Michael cried as he scrambled to his feet. He had heard Ash speak before, but he had silenced it—it shouldn't have been able to talk.

  "How?" he muttered, frustration seething through his veins. "I have you confined."

  Ash didn't respond. Whatever opportunity allowed it to find its voice had passed.

  "Paramount?" Roe asked.

  Michael glanced at Roe's confused face. Clearly, the Momalgan couldn’t hear the voice.

  "It's nothing," Michael said as he dusted his pants and got to his feet. "Roe. Go through the breach way and walk back the way you went. If it doesn't work, make a jump point and get back here."

  Roe saluted with a flotilla salute, bringing the back of his left hand, fingers closed in a fist, to cover his mouth before running into the shimmering breach.

  Michael's gut twisted horribly as his acolyte passed through the breach as though it were made of vapor. On the other side, the Momolgan appeared in front of the house. Roe abruptly turned and walked back, but he disappeared from view as he passed the point where the breach was.

  "One-way breach," Michael noted.

  He counted to ten before the air thickened, and a crackling shaft of yellow light struck down with a roar of thunder. Roe stood in a newly burned symbol of circles only feet away from Michael.

  "Paramount, I couldn't get back through the breach."

  "I have eyes," Michael growled, venting his dejection. His final plan had failed.

  He tapped the breach with his pen. The ember curtain rippled before turning back into a translucent window, replacing the house on Earth with the other half of the plateau. Several code runes glowed brightly as the breach reverted into the aurora wall.

  One by one, he tapped the symbols with his pen, pulling them off the breach. They followed the pen's tip, fluttering as they were removed from a solid surface. Michael flicked the pen as he removed each one, and they lost their form, dissipating into the air like vapor.

  He dismissed the coordinates’ coding before removing the ground lock on the aurora wall.

  The ensnared ribbon of gold light seemed to cry out in relief as it released from its restraint and sprung back up into the night sky where it belonged, slowly weaving under the moons on its own accord.

  The air coagulated again, but it was much more concentrated than when Roe had jumped.

  "And—cue the three little pigs," Michael muttered.

  On that note, three more shafts of light roared from the sky, hailing three more of Michael's acolytes.

  One of them, Chris, headed the Third Jericho zone. Chris was definitely born on Earth, but he was snatched from Third Jericho, the most recently discovered of the Jericho planets. He was a colonist of the Jericho Movement. Chris was a man of a thin yet athletic build; he wore worn jeans and a dirty grey t-shirt. In true Third Jericho fashion, the pigment of his hair had been genetically altered, causing it to grow fluorescent yellow.

  The other two were of a more strange visage.

  F'fintek's body was covered in fur with a fox-like snout and a bushy tail. F'fintek stood as tall as Chris and wore baggy pants and a tight red leather vest. Michael didn't like Critters. The race of rodent-like men came from the word Shth, which was within Ash's feeding range, so Michael had programmed Ash to harvest from there as well.

  The same could be said for the world of the final acolyte, Sel. Michael liked Sel the most out of the three, even if Sel possessed an irritating loyalty, bordering on religious fervor, to him.

  A wet green scarf covered Sel's face. His body was armored with some sort of shell cut into body-formed plates. A lingering mildew scent followed Sel wherever he went. It reminded Michael of his grandmother’s house, which had had a severe mold problem. His people from Fenjeck called themselves Fenji, but Michael called them Jeckies.

  "What do you want?" Michael asked. The acolytes had shown up simultaneously, much to his annoyance, which meant they had presumably left their zones defenseless. "No, let me guess. You need more ice?"

  They must have sensed his distaste because all three heads bowed like scolded puppies.

  Michael sighed. "Already? You guys go through your ice faster than my mom left my dad."

  The three newcomers glanced at each other nervously.

  "It's not our fault," F'fintek whined, his pointed ears and furry snout twitching. "The meat in our Districts has been building little tribes, banding together and fighting back."

  "That's what teeth are for." Michael chastened. "I designed them to take care of that problem for you. How do you manage to be so high maintenance?"

  "Boss, we have used our power to create more teeth and to protect ourselves," Chris muttered.

  "No," Michael corrected, "you use it to jump everywhere and to give yourselves superpowers. You're just a bunch of kids who can't get enough of a new toy."

  "If you hadn't taken most of our ice for your experiments, we wouldn't run out so quickly,” F’fintek interjected, his orange eyes snapping. Besides, you have so much of it in the mind cavern, why can't you just—"

  "Let me stop you right there." Michael interrupted. "First of all, the ice isn't yours; it's mine. Second, it doesn't come out of thin air; it is the residue of Ash's feeding. It's literally Ash's shit, meaning if Ash doesn't eat, you don't get ice. Third, you morons are the only ones running out of it so fast; why can't you at least try to be efficient with it, like Arthur?

  His acolytes acolytes tensed visibly at the mention of the newest member of their crew. They had received this lecture before, and it probably wouldn't be their last.

  An unseen force lifted dust and pebbles in a five-foot diameter near Michael. The dust swirled in a lazy circle, foreshadowing a jump.

  Michael felt the static build-up as a conduit of light streaked down to the ground with a flash, temporarily blinding everyone on the plateau with its glare.

  Michael blinked away from the flare to see Arthur standing in the place of the light, a ring of symbols scorched into the ground around him.

  "Speak of the freaking devil. What, were you listening for a theatrical entrance?"

  "Commander," Arthur smirked and cocked his head to the side, a common tick for the mercenary.

  Michael's favorite title was a toss-up between being called 'commander' by Arthur and 'boss' by Chris. Roe called Michael ‘Paramount,’ which was absurd but not nearly as bad as when Torn called him 'Supreme Alpha Mate Chief.'

  Michael had never ordered his acolytes to address him by any title, but the acolyte shackle seemed to compel them to use a familiar term of deference.

  Michael glanced over the motley collection of indentured servants. Most were randomly chosen and then granted power, but Arthur was the exception. For one thing, Arthur carried a pistol on his side, making him the only acolyte who had a weapon. The next defining factor was his acolyte ring. Rather than pulsing weakly as the others did, the rays of golden light brightly beamed out of the characters. The soldier always carried aurora in his body but seldom used it. The Earth zone produced more light than the other regions. Well, all except for maybe the Crode Zone, but as far as efficiency was concerned, the Earth Zone set the standard, and Arthur was his star acolyte.

  These physical differences weren't the only difference between Arthur and the others. More distinctive than his weapon and his shackle was his smile, which dripped with arrogance. The smirk that he carried before he put on the shackle carried over to his compelled servitude. Michael's acolytes' personalities weren't erased once they put on the shackle. It just forced them to comply with his directives. They were the same people, only utterly obedient to his commands.

  "Anyways, who bought marshmallows for this impromptu powwow?" Michael asked.

  "I did," Arthur said as he dropped a sack to the ground, causing several large chunks of light ice to roll to Michael's feet.

  "Kafreakingboom!" Michael cried. "That's how it's done!" He faced the other three, who turned green with envy. Rivalry and jealousy were still problems Michael had to deal with; he sometimes felt more like a youth camp director and less like an overlord demigod.

  In the distance, two tributary jump points lashed down in the Crode District, bringing fresh meat.

  "How do you provide such good profits, Arthur?" Michael asked, then turning to the other five, he added, "That means results, in case you didn't know."

  "It's not hard," Arthur said. "I'm just not using my ice unless I have to." He shot an accusing grimace at the other acolytes.

  Heat radiated from the others. Chris looked away, grimacing, his neon yellow hair catching aurora like a blacklight. Sel took the slight stoically, simply leveling his eyes at Arthur.

  "How many teeth do you have in your district?" F'fintek asked. His bushy brow furrowed over his snout. "Or do you personally shoot the meat in your area with your gun so that you can hoard ice?"

  "Your district is probably crawling with teeth to do your job for you, isn't it, rat?" Arthur guessed.

  The critter bared its teeth and uttered a low growl in response.

  "How many teeth do you have in your district?" Michael asked Arthur.

  "Eight."

  The acolytes gasped in surprise. So few?

  "Yet you keep Ash well-fed in the earth zone. How?"

  "I only use my teeth in famine areas. The survivors kill each other to keep Ash fed for me. It's an efficient system. It's easier to kill another survivor than to slay a tooth. So they murder each other to keep the teeth away."

  Michael nodded in approval. "You turn your residents against themselves. Good." He turned to the other acolytes. "And it seems that the residents of your districts are uniting against you. Why?"

  "If I may?" Arthur prompted.

  Michael nodded in permission.

  "Snatched people are only interested in survival. When you swarm them with teeth to butcher them, uniting is simply a matter of perseverance for them. If you use teeth to feed Ash only when people aren't dying enough, they will turn against each other to increase their chances of survival and, therefore, save us ice, which, if I understand correctly, is what you need to leave this place."

  Silent realization dawned on Michael. Arthur was, indeed, his greatest asset. Sparing him was Michael's best choice. Maybe he could break through the breach way if he had enough ice. Possibly, he could go home.

  "Everyone, pull your teeth to the Bowl. Leave only eight of your teeth in each zone. Manage your zone like Arthur does and divide the people in your District against each other. I expect you to conserve your ice and feed Ash efficiently without abusing your ice reserves.

  "Eight teeth?" Chris shrieked. "We'll die!"

  "Then maybe, Chris, you aren't competent enough to wear that band.”

  Chris turned pale and instinctively cradled his acolyte arm ring. "It's not a problem, boss."

  "Allow me to clarify," Arthur said. "I usually have nine teeth, but one died earlier today."

  Michael cursed. He designed those teeth, knowing they were vicious and tough to kill. In fact, to his knowledge, only a handful of people on Ash could kill them. "Was it Vlad again?" he asked.

  "No, commander," Arthur said. "It's a new arrival. Vlad has been staying low."

  "Why isn't he dead yet?" Michael demanded.

  "His movements have been difficult to follow," Arthur said. "Don't worry. I'll find him. He can't hide forever."

  Michael nodded, satisfied. A new arrival? Killing a tooth? That was both impressive and unsettling.

  "How did the newcomer kill the tooth?"

  "A lethal dose injection from a Manticore Inc. chemical weapon."

  "What?" Michael tensed. Another one? Had Manticore Inc. sent another team of security contractors to kill him and take his world band? Arthur was the leader of the last one they sent, but after he put on the acolyte ring, his mind was bent into submission. "Who have they sent this time?"

  Arthur stiffened. "It's not an agent; it's—" He grunted as though he were in pain, and his body clenched.

  The unsettling understanding dawned on Michael as he watched his best acolyte strain. He was trying to resist the band. That, he knew, was impossible.

  "Speak," Michael said. "What are you hiding? Who is it?"

  "It's my, it's—" Arthur growled as he tried to hold back.

  "That's an order; tell me who it is!"

  "It's my sons!" Arthur cried. "Two of them!"

  "Your sons?" This was bad, very bad. Arthur Vance was known worldwide as a ruthless security contractor. If he had two sons here, fully equipped with Manticore Inc. weapons to finish their father's job, things could bode poorly for Michael.

  "Then you go and kill them, Arthur."

  "No!" Arthur begged.

  "You will destroy them with extreme prejudice; you will do it quickly, and you will do it now!"

  "I can use them! To bring Vlad to you!" Arthur pleaded.

  His desperate objections were a deflection but also an attractive offer.

  "They can be a great asset," Arthur insisted.

  Michael didn't like this. Arthur was clearly trying to resist the shackle to find loopholes. As far as Michael knew, acolytes had to obey direct directives and felt an unnatural sense of loyalty. Warm sweat dampened Michael's palms. He had never seen a conflict of interest strong enough to meet such resistance. Arthur was dangerous, and his sons likely presented a comparable threat. Keeping the acolytes' devotion was crucial for ensuring they followed the spirit of the command and not just the letter. In Arthur's case, he would have to be more direct.

  "You will hunt—and kill—your sons quickly, within the week. You will not tell them about this directive; you will not seek any way out of this directive. You will immediately stop plotting if you find a way around this. Your loyalty is to me first in all things. Do you understand?"

  Arthur's eyes burned bright yellow as the aurora from his shackle programmed the directive directly into his mind.

  "Yes, sir. I'll do it as you say."

  Michael turned to his remaining acolytes, who regarded him with downcast eyes. So needy, so draining. Arthur needed ice, and they were supposed to help him, not get in his way. "What are you standing around for?" he snapped, impatience welling inside him. The grey sky rolled with thunder. “You have your directives. Get to it!" A column of light cracked down in the Fenjeck region as if in agreement.

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