Barth DeManth scrutinized a digital map of The Zone. Over the last week, countless laborers and robots had scoured the barren terrain for fragments of the Zantha Gaelen, better known as 12-B. Supposedly, if every last particle were found–or at least a good number of them–the explosion of the 12-B could be reconstructed. By comparing the location of a million fragments with their original position in the Zantha Series Flyr Specifications, his software would show him the size and trajectory of whatever weapon brought down the flyr.

  Barth was pleased when his technicians finally handed him a two page, neatly formatted report. However, his pleasure turned to dismay as he scanned the results. The site of impact was not at all where he'd expected it. According to the simulation, the flyr had exploded from the inside out, an explosion of seven megashocks originating within the engine compartment. He reread the report, perplexed.

  Wonderful. The flyr is not capable of generating a seven-megashock force. There was not enough fuel on the ship to generate such an explosion, but there was no other way the debris could have been spread over so large an area. So a bomb was snuck aboard the flyr. It couldn't have been in the engine. Perhaps it was placed next to it? Or maybe the fuel was switched out with something more... volatile? He felt a sigh of relief. Yes, we lost one of our brand new flyrs, but at least it wasn't a missile that destroyed the 12-B... that means the IAMDs are still functional. Barth frowned. He no longer feared that the Hakes had developed a weapon capable of taking down the expensive anti-missile devices. But that still left open the question of how a bomb, or whatever it was, was snuck aboard a Sheek war-flyr. A dissenting Sheek would have to be found. Or, had a Hake managed the feat? Surely security at the air base wasn't that bad? Of course, it wasn't clear whether someone snuck a bomb onto the flyr and escaped, or if they were on it during the battle and went down with the rest of the crew. Barth sighed. He would have to look through hours of tapes and logs. Somewhere there had been a lapse in security, and it was his job to ensure it did not happen again.

  The detective looked through the digital images once more, and a bright spot in the corner of the forty-second frame caught his eye. He zoomed in to see a small green chair lying near the edge of the crash site. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “That would match my rug well–I should have someone bring it in.” He zoomed in even further, noting the simplicity of the design and the brightness of the chrome-colored legs. “A strange place for a piece of furniture. I wonder why no one mentioned it.”

  * * * * * * * *

  What prompts the V'hogle to leave their comfortable homes of thatched sarram and enter the hectic world of Sheek and Hake? Theories abound, though each falls short in its own way.

  Personally, I find no single theory more plausible than any other, though one curious habit of Sheeple strikes me as relevant.

  Our unending curiosity: our desire to leave the familiar to find what lays around the corner, down another block, another road, another region. Just as some turn to Wandering as a course of life, plodding the far paths of Shamonj with no seeming purpose other than to exchange worldly possessions for worldly experiences, perhaps the V'hogle likewise are driven by some instinct older than time, calling them to give up their safe, comfortable sarram for our alien cities of steel.

  Wuter Heins, Psychology of the V'hogel

  Hans flipped through the thick book, the crisp, new pages snapping reassuringly as he turned them. Wuter Heins' Psychology of the V'hogel was a classic; years old yet still the authoritative work on the semi-sentient creatures. The book was a gift from Zak for some occasion he could no longer remember; it was essentially a token gift, the kind passed from person to person until it is tucked away in the back of a bookshelf and forgotten. The subject of V'hogle was interesting enough that most Sheeple had at least one copy of the book buried in the recesses of their houses, but it was rarely read for two reasons: First, V'hogle were increasingly rare and given little thought, and second, the book itself was far too dry and academic to hold one's interest.

  Only two hours had passed since Hans found the V'hogel in his kitchen, but he'd already found the book (buried underneath a pile of clothes in his basement) and read the first three chapters. He was most interested in learning about what happened when a V'hogel adopted a Sheepel (or was it the other way around?) but his pedantic temperament kept him on a steady path through the difficult early chapters, learning such things as their discovery, their clans, and their eating habits.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “They is come,” said V’han eerily, rising from his place at Hans’ feet and looking out the small window overlooking the back yard.

  Hans pulled his head out of the book, startled. “What?” He folded the top-right corner of page seventy-three to mark his place, marring the otherwise pristine copy, and set it on the floor. Then he strode towards the window and stood beside V'han, looking out into the darkness. Is it the rabadon again? He shuddered, and took a step back from the window… and from the V'hogel. So many changes, so fast… he wished he knew more about both V'hogle and rabadons.

  “They come! Is in air, hear? Air creatures come!”

  “What air creatures? Who is coming, V'han? Do you mean a rabadon?”

  “Is not know! But they come!”

  Hans closed his eyes and listened warily. A loud scraping noise alerted him that the living room window had been pulled open. He hastily took another step back, frightened that something was coming at him. “Get out!” he shouted, putting his hands in front of him for protection as his eyes flew open. He saw now that V'han had opened the window, flooding the room with the cool nighttime air.

  “Listen again,” said the creature. “They is come!”

  Ah! Now Hans could clearly hear the sound of an approaching group of war-flyrs–no other flyr made the low, buzzing sound. Were they Hake or Sheek? The sound grew louder and more threatening. Hans didn’t expect any trouble, but a war-flyr was a war-flyr. “Come V'han; into to the basement!” He ran into the kitchen and grabbed an armload of food and water, then herded V'han down a narrow stairway that led to a dark, stone walled cellar. Piles of old clothes and broken furniture littered the floor, and the walls were covered in cobwebs. Hans cleared a space for himself and V'han to sit. They waited. A few minutes later, the house above them began to tremble from the roar of the approaching flyrs. Not long after, the flyrs reached the city, dropping fiery bombs one after another. The war had reached Talmyn.

  Two hours later, the deafening rain of falling bombs and buzzing engines was over. The cellar was dark–the house had lost power. Hans felt his way up the stairway and pushed open the thick metal door. Though it was the middle of the night, enough light filtered in through the broken windows that he could see the destruction.

  Bookcases were knocked over, windows were shattered, and a thick layer of dust covered everything. The kitchen was the worst. The ceiling had a gaping hole and debris filled the room. A digital hourglass lay on the floor, the cracked screen displaying a frozen band that marked the final minutes of a long day. The screen was dark; a new day would not come to the hourglass.

  “What is happen to house?” asked V'han, entering the room behind Hans.

  Hans ignored him and stepped outside. His vehicraft looked okay, but the view down the street gave him the chills. Already, he could see that three homes belonging to Hakes had been razed to the ground. At first, he was relieved to remember that those Hake families had already fled Talmyn and were well out of danger, on their way to the sanctuary of the Hakes' Area. But then, he wondered why his home had been hit less severely. Did the Sheeks target these homes because the Hakes had left? Or did they target all Hakes, and I was missed? He did not personally know any other Hakes that still remained in Talmyn. He did know that the Hakes and Sheeks never had short wars. If the Sheeks were trying to rid Talymn of Hakes, they would not stop until they were finished; his home was as good as gone. I've put it off long enough. The others were right. I cannot stay in this city.

  Hans rummaged through his home, collecting anything of value and handing it to V'han to carry out to the vehicraft. Money, food, books, anything that seemed useful was carried out. When he reached his back bedroom, he discovered it had been hit directly and was in even worse shape than the kitchen, the roof destroyed and the walls caved in. As he dug through the rubble in search of his shoes, he was surprised to see the shiny, sea green chair he'd bought from Zak. Somehow, it had survived the bombing, and looked just as wonderful as when he'd purchased it.

  “V'han, where are you?” he called.

  “Is here,” announced an eerie voice behind him.

  “Take this chair and put it in the vehicraft. If it doesn't fit, you can take out the guitar.”

  “Is a fine chair.” V'han gingerly picked up the piece of furniture and carried it away. Hans had the strange sensation that he would never see it again, and thought about calling V'han back, to carry it out himself, but the V'hogel had already disappeared down the hallway.

  A half hour later, the vehicraft was packed and Hans and V'han were ready to go. Hans briefly considered stopping by Zak’s to say goodbye, but decided that if the Sheeks were truly ridding the city of Hakes, he had to leave as quickly as possible. A cloud of dust rose from his vehicraft as he tried to start it, the engine sputtering in protest. Then, it came to life. He backed the vehic out of his driveway, examining the pile of junk in the rear. “You did remember that green chair, V'han?”

  “Yes, is here.”

  They made their way out of the city without incident, crossing the A3 Bridge, a web of steel spanning the River Swift, one of only a few which made ground travel possible between the two halves of Talgar. Hans was glad the bridge had not been damaged in the raid, and that traffic was light. These days, most Sheeple had personal flyrs, rendering roads and bridges ever more useless. Hans however, was old fashioned, much preferring the feeling of the ground beneath him to the strangeness of flying. They said the flyrs were safe; that they practically flew themselves, but he was suspicious. “The young kids… they can have them,” he'd always said. “But keeping up with technology is a useless endeavor. My trusty four door vehicraft will still be going when they're trading in their flyrs for teleporters.”

  It had been a long night. The sun Myria was rising before them, and Talmyn diminished behind, a fading speck beneath the glowing Etani Cliffs.