The last time Hallon was ambushed, she’d just finished reading Gulliver’s Travels and was in a riverside pub in London hoping to meet the author. Before Mr. Swift could arrive though, there was a disagreement with a drunken sailor—and his drunken friends—and when Hallon came to next, she was on a ship bound for Jamaica.

Eratosthenes had been traveling at the time and crowed for a week on his return. He’d been intolerable, asking her to share the memories over and over again, laughing himself silly. Well, it had all worked out in the end, and no harm done, except to a certain scallywag pirate captain and his crew.

Are you here yet, you stupid dragon?

Their connection is quiet in response.

It’s promising—so promising—that their captors speak Arabic, but she’s never liked the feeling of being bound. A forest of smelly boots blocks her view, and she has to twist around to get a better look at her captors. “Did we do something wrong? If so, we apologize. We’re travelers and didn’t know better. We’re looking for a city—”

The woman with the scar gives Hallon a kick. “Quiet.”

“But—”

The woman kicks harder. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Hallon does as she’s told. For now. She turns her attention to getting loose, but the rope resists her efforts to slip free. That Zed had done a damn fine job tying her up. Milo watches through the tines of his own net.

Hallon whispers, “Are you having any luck?”

He shakes his head.

“Me too, but let’s keep at it.”

He looks at her like she’s mad, but what would be the use of panicking? That’s the fastest way to die that Hallon knows.

After twenty minutes, the half-track stops for some new passengers, including a giant of a man with a red tattoo across his forehead. He’s easily eight feet tall, and the half-track tilts when he steps aboard. Hallon and Milo merit only a glance before he shuts his eyes to sleep. They restart their trek across the ice, and Hallon returns to trying to escape. The western mountains slowly recede in the distance.

Eventually, a small window in the back of the cab opens. “Almost there,” the gunman yells through it. “Get ready.”

Smelly boots shift and stomp as the passengers get themselves in order. Each and every one wears a necklace under their shirt, dangling from which are two flat metal cards. The half-track stops in front of a tall chain fence topped by razor wire. Two guard towers flank the gate, and everyone goes still as a pair of machine guns point down at them.

A soldier in a black greatcoat climbs aboard. “Papers,” he says, using the word like a command.

A single card is detached from each necklace and passed down to the soldier. “Everything checks out here,” he says to someone out of sight. “Eleven registered, including one Gloop. Two unregistered, bound on the floor.”

“Two registered in the cab,” a second soldier says. “One is Gloop.”

“All right,” a third soldier says. “You can pass, but take the wild Gloop to Receiving.”

“Understood,” the gunman says. “I’ve done this before, you know.”

“Just do your job,” the third soldier says.

“Right, right.”

The camp is made up of ten or twelve stone buildings surrounding an open pit. It’s impossible to see what’s happening below, but the sound of heavy machinery can be heard, as well as people yelling to each other and the clink clink clink of pick axes on stone. Mounds of rock are piled up, ready to be loaded onto massive trucks. The half-track stops in front of a stone barn with the word Receiving chiseled above its double doors. The giant picks up Hallon and Milo and carries them inside.

Hallon cranes her head for a better look, and the first thing she sees is a row of iron rings embedded into the stone floor. Each has a length of chain attached, with a metal collar at the end. There’s an office area to the left, and her view sways to reveal an older man at a desk giving dictation to a younger man. The giant drops Hallon and Milo.

The dictation stops. “What’s this? A shipment isn’t due until tomorrow.”

Hallon rolls over and sees the gunman come into the barn. “These are wild, Doctor. Zed spotted them out on the ice.”

“No papers?” the doctor asks. “No tattoos?”

“They’re unregistered,” the gunman says. “Wearing nice clothes though, so they’re probably runaways from Barada. The rich folk sometimes don’t tattoo their servants.”

“They’ll have to be tested,” the doctor says. “There’s a chance they’re not Gloop.”

The gunman snorts. “How likely is that? Them being out on the ice and all?”

“It’s the law,” the doctor says. He gestures to the far wall, and the giant drags Hallon and Milo there.

“Careful with the smaller one,” the gunman says. “She’s a fighter. The taller one’s a runner.”

The doctor waves a hand as if to say, “Yes, yes, fine.”

Nothing else happens until two soldiers hurry into the barn, tracking mud with their wet boots. They hold their rifles at the ready, and only then does the giant untie Milo and remove the net.

Milo’s breathing is fast and short. His eyes dart around the room, but he doesn’t dare struggle. The giant puts a collar around his neck. Hallon’s turn is next, and she feels the barrel of the gunman’s pistol against the top of her head.

“Stay still,” he says.

The giant works quickly, and the collar is tight and the metal sticky with cold. Its lock closes with a clink, and the gunman steps away quickly, as do all the others.

The doctor says, “We’re ready.”

His assistant pulls a lever by the desk, and electricity shoots through the chains into the collars, sending Hallon sprawling onto the floor. Her muscles lock, her jaw clenches, and she’s left writhing for five endless seconds before the electricity is shut off.

The gunman holsters his pistol. “Need me for anything else?”

The doctor crouches beside Milo. “No, I have it. Someone in Administration was asking for you though.”

The gunman says something foul and taps the giant on the arm to follow him out.

Gasping for air, Hallon controls her anger and reminds herself that she’s a stranger here. Who knows why these people do what they do? Not Hallon. Not yet. But she will. These people teach her about themselves with every word and every action, about what matters to them and what doesn’t, about how they see the world and the people in it. That information is power is an old, old lesson, so she steadies her breathing and stands to be ready for what comes next.

Milo moans. The assistant walks over with a clipboard in one hand and a device the length of a cattle prod in the other. He hands the device to the doctor, who jabs Milo in the arm with it. Milo yelps and scrambles away, only to be caught short by the chain.

“Yellow,” the doctor says, reading from a meter built into the device, “with three white bands in the upper ranges.”

The assistant makes note of the information. “Gloop, male, approximately 16 years old, yellow with three white bands. Does he have a name?”

“I suppose he must. Let’s ask.” The doctor smiles at Milo. “What’s your name, boy?”

Milo stares at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s capable of speech right now.

A guard prods him with the butt of his rifle. “He asked you a question.”

The doctor shrugs when Milo doesn’t answer. “Nonverbal.” He turns to Hallon and pokes her with the device. There are two prongs that break the skin, and a trickle of blood discolors the sleeve of her shirt. He taps the meter to make sure it’s functioning and jabs her a second time. “That’s odd. The reading’s null,” he says.

The assistant looks up from his notes. “Maybe it’s malfunctioning?”

“It must be,” the doctor says. “Bring me another.”

“Of course.” The assistant goes to the desk for another of the devices.

The doctor pokes Hallon’s arm again. Frowning at the results, he jabs her a second, third, and fourth time with the device until her sleeve is soaked with blood. The guards tense, but Hallon doesn’t react other than to narrow her eyes and watch the doctor’s antics. It’s just pain after all, and life’s full of that.

“Inconceivable,” he says. “All the readings are null. According to this, it’s not human at all.”

“I’m not a piece of meat,” Hallon says.

The doctor startles. “It can talk!”

“Of course, I can talk,” Hallon says.

“Why, that’s astounding. Do—do you have a name?” the doctor asks.

“I’m not sure I want to share it with you, but it’s Hallon. And what about you—what’s your name?”

“Fascinating,” the doctor says, ignoring her question. “And your friend here, does he have a name too? Are you from one of the Barada estates? Perhaps a curiosity?”

Hallon quirks her head, studying him. The doctor has all the hallmarks of a petty tyrant, and this barn is his kingdom. She sniffs and glances away, but the doctor ignores her slight.

“What? That’s all? No more words—are you out of them or is it something else, I wonder?” The doctor smiles. “No matter. No matter. I’ve heard enough. It has language and a sense of self and appears to be healthy too, but that’s surely misleading. The Taint must be manifesting inside it somehow. I’ll talk to the commander about keeping this one aside for study.”

“This will be a wonderful addition to your memoir,” the assistant says.

“Yes, it will.” The doctor claps his hands. “Now, let’s finish the processing. What’s soonest begun is soonest ended, as they say.”

“We still don’t have a name for the male,” the assistant says.

“Just make up something,” the doctor says. “It’s not like it matters.”

The assistant thinks for a moment. “I”ll write down Hader. I had a cat named Hader once.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s get on with the paperwork,” the doctor says. “I’d like to retire to the Officer’s Club after.”

“So that’s all,” Hallon says. “You’re done with us?”

“It talked again…remarkable, remarkable.” The doctor smiles at her and goes back to his desk.

Hallon turns to the soldiers. “What about you? Will you answer my questions?”

One sneers, while the other makes a rude gesture. They move to a corner to play dice, and Hallon and Milo are left by themselves.

Milo slowly gathers himself together and stands. His voice quivers when he whispers. “I—I have bad news.”

“If it’s that we’re being treated like animals, I already know. The question is why,” she says.

He stands closer, wincing when he reaches the chain’s limit. “It’s worse than that. What’s happened—what’s happening is providing more than enough sensory data, and the evidence is strong—very strong—that this isn’t a dream.”

“Oh good. So now you believe me when—”

“The next most likely hypothesis is that I’ve gone insane.” Milo adjusts his spectacles and waits for her to be shocked.

Hallon sighs and rubs at her eyes. Could this situation get anymore surreal? It was only just this morning that she was celebrating her arrival in a new universe, which—by the way—is amazing, and she would love to point that fact out to someone, anyone, who would understand.

“Milo, you’re not insane.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” he says, “but you’re only a figment of my deranged imagination, so your words don’t matter. Disappointing really…I’d like to believe you.”

The doctor frowns in the direction of their hushed conversation.

With a wave of her hand, Hallon captures his nascent attention, as well as that of the assistant and the soldiers. There’s nothing interesting here. All is well, she thinks, swirling the thought and the attention together. Once they’re bound, she circulates the energy around herself and Milo in a sphere. The Look Away spell isn’t foolproof, but its influence should protect them as long they’re not too conspicuous.

That done, she looks to Milo. “Whether I’m real or not,” she says, “whether this experience is real or not, it’s still unpleasant. These chains are uncomfortable and humiliating. That device of theirs hurts. In other words, this experience feels real. And I’m guessing that you’d prefer the unpleasantness to stop.”

“I’d like that very much,” Milo says.

“Good, because I’m sure you’ve also noticed that we’re able to affect these unpleasant experiences. Not perfectly, of course—life has a way of not cooperating—but the world does respond to our actions. If we don’t do anything, then the unpleasantness will continue. But if we work to change things, then there’s at least a chance to make the experience better.” Hallon pauses to let the words sink in. “I assure you that if we do nothing, then nothing will change. So let’s work together to change things, eh?”

“A—a sensible approach. Does that mean we try to escape?” Milo asks.

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.” Milo sighs, relieved. “Then I’ll help.”

“We need to get these chains off first,” Hallon says. The links are thick and strong enough to hold a bear. She should be able to pull the ring out though, but then the soldiers would notice, even with the Look Away. “Milo, stop fussing with your collar. You’re not going to make it fit any better.”

“Hmm? Ah, got it.” Milo’s collar opens, but he quickly holds it closed before the soldiers can see.

He’s full of surprises, this Milo Rabbit. “How’d you do that?”

With his free hand, Milo shows her a tool that looks like a stubby double-screwdriver. “You’d be surprised at the number of times I’ve been locked inside a closet, so I made this. Just turn the knob here, and it does all the work.”

Hallon’s lock picks are in her backpack, but this strange little screwdriver will do just fine. “Hand it over.”

Milo glances towards the soldiers, but they’re engrossed in their game. Milo tosses the tool, arcing it perfectly into her hands.

“Nice toss.”

“Thanks—” Milo freezes, his eyes looking behind her.

Hallon palms the tool and spins around to see the double doors opening. The giant is back, and this time, he has a middle-aged woman with him. She has a withered left arm and a green band tattooed across her forehead. With her good arm, she carries a leather case. The Look Away is no match for someone actively searching, and after a moment, she spots Hallon and Milo. Her attention is enough to trigger the others. The doctor stops his dictation, and the soldiers grab their rifles.

The woman opens her case to lay out needles, ink, and gauze. “I’m the tattooist,” she says to Hallon and Milo, “and this is how it’s going to work. The tattoos will hurt, but you’ll behave, because otherwise the guards will run the electricity. That’ll hurt even more, and more importantly, you’ll spoil the tattoos. You won’t like that. Do you understand? Behave and everything goes smoothly. Don’t behave and things hurt more.”

Hallon has managed six hundred years without a tattoo. She’s not interested in getting one now. “What are they for? The tattoos.”

The woman looks at Hallon like she’s asked a stupid question. “It’s how people will recognize that you’re Gloop. I have a bad arm, so mine is green. Hussein here is a giant, so his is red. Blue’s if you got the animal in you. Yellow’s for the touched ones, and brown for the simple. Now do you understand?” the woman asks.

Hallon nods. “Yes, I think I do.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the people with tattoos, the Gloop, are out of the ordinary. And that they’re treated poorly on this world. If not slaves, then very like it. “But what causes the Gloop?”

“It’s the Taint, of course,” the woman says, confused by Hallon’s question. “How can you not know the Taint?”

“Enough,” the doctor says to the tattooist. “Just do your job. He’s yellow, and it’s null.”

The tattooist looks at the doctor in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“We tested it with two different meters,” the doctor says.

“I’ve never done null before,” the tattooist says slowly. “I’ll need to requisition the purple ink from the Quartermaster.”

“Why is everything such a bother?” The doctor turns to the giant Hussein. “You. Go to the Quartermaster and ask her for the ink. Tell her I said it was all right, and that we’ll follow up with the paperwork tomorrow. In the meantime, start with the Yellow.”

Milo steps back as far as the chain will let him, clutching his collar.

“Oh, don’t be a coward,” the doctor says. “You’ll be put to good use, and it’s better than being out in the wilderness.”

If either Hallon or Milo are tattooed, then their options for navigating this society will narrow, which in turn will impact their ability to avert the Calamity. The tattoos must be avoided at all costs.

Hallon screams. “Don’t hurt me,” she says, collapsing on herself. She projects fear and distress, and while acting isn’t the same as influence, the effect is often similar. She huddles against the wall with one arm covering her head to protect it. The other hand is on her collar. All it takes is two turns of the strange screwdriver to unlock it.

The doctor sighs. “Look here. Don’t make trouble, or we’ll use the electricity again. That wasn’t so nice, was it?”

Hallon cringes away as the doctor approaches. She rocks herself back and forth, sobbing. “I don’t want a tattoo. I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Now, now,” the tattooist says. “It’s not so bad. The needle hurts, but it’ll go quickly.”

“This is ridiculous,” the doctor says. He stands over her. “Behave or I’ll—”

Hallon spins up from her crouch, the collar falling away. Her left hand rises to catch the doctor’s neck and pull him off balance. The sharp end of the screwdriver finds the base of his soft throat. The motion flows and is complete before anyone has time to react.

The tattooist stumbles back, tripping over her case. The soldiers raise their rifles, but the doctor is in their line of fire. The screwdriver isn’t a knife, but with just a little pressure, Hallon can dig out the main artery feeding his brain. He’d bleed out in seconds, and the soldiers know it.

“Milo, behind me. Now.”

Bless him, Milo doesn’t need to be told twice. He jumps clear of his collar and stands behind Hallon.

The soldiers glance at each other and move in opposite directions to split her attention. The one on the left yells, “Don’t move!”

Hallon drags the doctor back, not giving the soldiers the opportunity to flank her. “Drop your guns or I’ll cut his throat.”

The soldiers shuffle forward, tracking mud across the floor. Hallon is careful not to smile. She moves—backward, left, backward—and the soldiers follow. Where she goes, they go too. They’re fixed on the doctor in danger.

Slowly, she makes her way to the office area. “Milo.”

“Ye-yes?”

Hallon pitches her voice for his ears only. “Look at their feet.”

The soldiers’ boots are wet and filthy from having trekked through the slush outside. And Hallon had maneuvered them just so—each one standing on a length of chain.

“Ah,” Milo says, catching on. He reaches across the desk to throw the switch.

Electricity flows through the chains, and the rifles fire—BANG BANG—as the soldiers spasm. A bullet whizzes past Hallon. Another ricochets off the ceiling. Everyone freezes, except for Hallon who tosses the doctor aside to snatch up the rifles. She slings one over her shoulder, works the bolt action on the other, and aims it at her former captors.

The so-called Gloop react first and raise their hands in surrender. The doctor is slower, gagging from being held prisoner.

“Are you all right, sir?” the assistant asks.

“Don’t touch me,” the doctor says, slapping him away. “Don’t touch me!”

Hallon flows forward, spins the rifle, and smashes the butt into the doctor’s face to break his nose. He passes out.

“You—you—you—” the assistant says.

“Enough.” Hallon points the rifle at him, and he finally realizes that he should surrender too. “Milo, turn it off.”

“Right.”

The buzzing stops, and the soldiers groan when they’re released from the electricity’s grip.

“Now lock them up,” Hallon says. “We don’t want anyone running for help.”

Milo does as he’s ordered and moves quickly to collar the soldiers. “What about—” he gestures towards the unconscious doctor.

“Everyone.”

“Wait,” the assistant says. “We have to get him to the infirmary.”

Hallon sniffs. “It’s just his nose. He’ll live. But next time, tell him to treat people with more respect.”

“Damn animals,” the assistant says. “You Gloop deserve everything you get.”

“Enough,” Hallon says. She turns to Milo. “Now lock them up.”

Milo does, being careful not to get any blood on himself.

“You can’t run,” the tattooist says. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“We’ll take that chance,” Hallon says.

The giant raises an eyebrow as Milo approaches him.

“Ah, bend down if you please.”

The giant does as he’s told, but the collar won’t fit. With a sigh, he leads Milo to the far wall. The collars there are larger, and he puts one around his own neck. Making himself comfortable, he closes his eyes to sleep.

Milo comes back to Hallon. “What now?”

“Strip the soldiers. We’ll wear their uniforms over our clothes. We stand out too much as we are.”

“Right,” Milo says.

The soldiers don’t resist. The double threats of rifle and electricity are enough to keep them compliant. Their uniforms don’t quite fit—Hallon’s is too big and Milo’s is too small—but they’ll do for passing at a distance.

Once Milo’s done dressing, Hallon hands him a rifle. “There. Now you look the part. Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, the camp bustles. The sound of heavy machinery overwhelms the air, and no one looks at the two soldiers standing in front of Receiving. Hallon starts walking, weaving a Look Away as she goes. These two are in a hurry, on urgent business for the camp commander and too busy to interrupt. Better not stop them. Better let them go along with their business. If the uniforms don’t fit, it’s the Quartermaster’s fault. Hallon puts the final touches on the spell and lets it loose to surround them.

They pass a barracks, its walls made of gray stone. Across a muddy road is the infirmary. Hallon keeps walking and cuts through an alley between the mess hall and another barracks. They pass under a guard tower and then another. The towers rise up all through the camp.

She’d like to find her backpack, but there are too many people going in and out of the main administrative office. She stands across the road, watching and debating with herself, but there’s really no decision to be made. Getting attached to things is a trap that an immortal can’t afford to fall into. Things get lost along the way—that’s the reality. Well, things and people. The only constant in Hallon’s life is Eratosthenes. Everything else is transient. And besides… Saladin will understand. He’ll say it was just a spyglass.

They need to escape while they can, before the people in the barn are discovered. Moving east, she spots the motor pool and past it, a row of trucks lined up to leave the camp through a guarded gate. A soldier checks each driver’s identification, while a mechanic inspects their truck.

“That’s our way out. Can you climb quickly?” Hallon asks.

Milo adjusts his spectacles and cranes his neck around the corner, measuring the distance and calculating the necessary effort with a glance. “I believe I can manage.”

The mechanic keeps up a friendly banter while he works. At the last truck, he slides out from underneath, not caring about the mud on his clothes. “Looks okay for now,” he says to the driver, “but keep an ear out for any grinding.”

The trucks rumble to life, one after the other, loud enough to stir the air. They begin to pass through the gate one at a time. Hallon walks towards the last truck in line. She reinforces the Look Away and feels the light touch of someone’s attention sliding off. A second and third pair of eyes follow suit. Hallon has a hunch, a feeling in her belly that this is their chance, and she jumps at it—catching hold of the ladder built into the truck.

She climbs up and drops down into a gap between the bed wall and a rough pile of white and azure stone. Milo soon slides down beside her.

“Stay low,” Hallon says, checking the sight lines. “The guards won’t see us if we stay down.” She demonstrates by stretching out, and he follows suit.

The truck slowly passes under the guard towers and picks up speed once it’s clear of the gate.