David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Hartford, I don't think this planet is going to do for you. All taken with all, I suspect that the best thing is to load your people and proceed to New Ossening. After we've gotten rid of the criminals I'll let you off at Clarion or Marissa on the way back."

"Captain, we're all quite satisfied with Fane," Hartford replied. "The climate is harmonious, the water sweet, the air pure, the land fruitful, the produce nourishing, and the natives friendly."

"Listen, Hartford, I've been talking with my chief engineer. Between you and me, the equipment is beginning to deteriorate. The magnetic field seems to shift in some kind of harmony with Pyra's sunspots. Certain of the frequencies are able to penetrate our shielding. It's getting worse. Already systems are breaking down. If we don't get out of here in the next ten hours we may never lift the ship at all. Mussman thinks that sooner or later every engine and electronic circuit you've got will decay into a worthless pile of junk. Your colony doesn't have a chance here. In a week you'll be back to the Stone Age."

As he talked the captain's eyes darted back and forth, checking to see if anyone were near enough to have overheard the conversation. Amis Hartford, though, seemed calm, serene, after the fashion of an admiral in command of a battleship which is about to attack a rowboat.

"Captain, it is to be expected that no planet will be perfect. We assume that there will be a few minor problems here and there."

"This isn't a minor problem. In three months standard you'll be plowing the ground with a sharp stick and living in a mud hut. Brute force is the only thing that will stand between you and starvation. This isn't a suitable planet."

"Captain, as you well know," Hartford replied, "the colonists decide what is and is not a suitable planet. We're staying here. If you're worried about our not having enough muscle power, perhaps we'll keep the criminals as indentured servants. I am sure they would choose to stay here in preference to New Ossening."

"Those men are cargo!" Marvin shouted. "They are my responsibility, and nobody takes…"

The captain halted in mid-sentence, speechless with astonishment and fury. Quiet, well-mannered, precise Amis Hartford stood there pointing a pistol at the captain's stomach. Without spoken orders other colonists appeared at the captain's side and relieved him of his weapons. As if by a common signal the crewmen guarding the meadow were also disarmed. Within a few moments captain, crew, and criminals were herded into a tight circle at the foot of the ship's ramp. Amis Hartford addressed the entire complement.

"The captain has decided that for the good of his ship he must depart immediately. I, and those who follow me, will remain. Yonder is the ship, and here is the site of the first city of the New Reformed Credentialists. Those who wish to help us found our city come to me. Those who wish to return to space, and perhaps New Ossening, may board the Lillith."

The captain's anger had now transformed itself into a cold frenzy. He said not a word, but it was clear from his expression that he was determined to return and send everyone, colonists and criminals alike, to New Ossening. No one contravened Marvin's commands or hijacked his cargo.

The colonists moved to Amis Hartford's side. Next, hesitantly, one of the expurgators arose and slowly walked toward Hartford as well.

"Come back here, you scum!" Marvin shouted. The expurgator stopped and looked back at Marvin uncertainly. Then he turned.and studied Hartford. In his years of strife and travail the expurgator had learned one thing: always take orders from the man with the gun. With barely a second's hesitation, he turned his back on the captain and crossed the meadow to stand a few feet apart from the ranks of colonists.

"The rest of you transportees, if you wish to stay you must spend the next ten years as our indentured servants. After that time you will be freed. If this does not please you, go back aboard the ship."

The rest of the criminals crossed the meadow, and a few of the crewmen as well, myself and six of my brother and sister Ajaj among them. In a few minutes it was done. The captain and two thirds of the crew boarded the ship. The ramp slid away. The hatch began to close.

A few seconds later the whine of the Lillith's generators filled the air. As the great cryogenic magnets began to fill with charge, slowly she bucked her way through Fane's oscillating magnetic field. While the colonists focused their attention on the rising ship I sensed a new source of power and wandered toward its focus. At the edge of the clearing stood Gogol and Windom, waving their hands in a complex pattern of interwoven circles.

With the Lillith a pinpoint two thousand yards in the sky, Gogol and Windom simultaneously clapped their hands, pointed their fingers, and uttered a great curse. The Lillith fragmented and shattered like a bullet-blasted mirror. A twinkling rain of metal fragments cascaded across the sky. The colonists stood transfixed by the disaster.

In that instant Gogol, Windom, and three of the zombiests seized five guns, four women, and three Ajaj and fled into the forest. Though chase was given almost at once no sign of the fugitives or their captives could be discovered. All had fled into the heartland of Fane to found their own empire.

So it began. This is the history, the source, the genesis, of the Gogols and the Hartfords, the twin camps which inhabit our world. There is much to tell of my brother Ajaj, the Grays, who serve the Gogols, and my people, the Pales, who share Fane with the Hartfords, and of the Fanists. Always the Fanists, but the story is long and I must rest. Later, perhaps I will tell the tale.

Grantin pushed the book away from him and stretched his arms above his head. He had finished volume one. The flame on his lantern popped and flickered and seemed ready to sputter out. It was late, later than he had meant to stay.

Downstairs, he heard the creak of the great front door opening under Greyhorn's hand. Grantin stumbled about the room in a flurry of sudden activity. He replaced the book, blew out the flame, and took down the blanket. Now, stoop-shouldered, bent and sore, only a few seconds ahead of Greyhorn's tread, he tottered off to his bunk.

Grantin yawned, stretched his arms, and attempted to burrow his head into his pillow. His nostrils filled with the odor of the pillow's ticking, a fragrance like the mixture of burlap and wet hay. Regretfully he forced open his eyes, sat up on his bunk, and stared around the room.

A clock stood on the dresser. Grantin rubbed his bloodshot eyes and strained to read the glowing numbers. A beam of light penetrated a hole carefully drilled in the far wall. As the sun arose the shaft of light inched its way down the tall column of etched glass. The front of the clock was studded with hemispherical bulbs of black-painted crystal. On the surface of each dome a number was etched through the paint. As the light struck the back side of the dimples the figure glowed and so announced the hour. The Hartfords had long ago decreed that each day would be twenty hours long, to be divided into two sets of ten hours each. Sunrise was at the first hour B. D. (Before Dark); lunch typically at the fifth hour; dinner at the tenth; midnight at the fifth hour A.D. (After Dark); and sunrise at the end of the tenth hour. Grantin stared incredulously at his clock. The beam was between the third and fourth hours-no, almost to the fourth hour. Could someone have moved the instrument and so impaired its accuracy?

Grantin threw wide the covers and leaped from his bed. He pulled on a pair of rough woven pants, a white homespun shirt, and the same soft shoes he had worn last night. Without washing he slipped from his room and raced downstairs.