A wave of emotion crashed over her. She felt elated, euphoric even, and yet at the same time Mary was sad and angry, perhaps upset that she would someday have to look away. She was inspired, moved, jealous, enraged, in love, and everything in between; sentiments she couldn’t put a word to or even fully grasp flitted through her mind like a great flock of birds-of-paradise, each exquisitely unique though none could she identify. She stood transfixed as the painting surged in through her eyes, dwarfing anything her other senses had ever told her.

It was the most beautiful scene she had ever perceived.

How long she stood there Mary could not be sure. The painting seemed to transcend time; old visions and memories stirred from the most obscure depths of her psyche and the associated upwelling of long buried sentiments was nearly overwhelming.

Eventually Dave came and stood by her, he was still holding a paint brush in his right hand. She could hear him breathing. After a while he murmured a greeting.

“You… you, uh, did this?” Talking felt difficult as though Mary hadn’t done it for a while and her words felt insignificant and clumsy in the presence of the artwork before her.

“Yes,” he replied, his throat constricted with emotion. “I finished it this afternoon.”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, barely audible.

Side by side they stood and marveled at the overwhelming perfection of Dave’s work. Finally he took her hand and began to lead her from the room. It wasn’t until Mary stepped on a shard of the bottle that she took her eyes from the painting and regained enough awareness to walk to the door. As he shut it behind them she slumped against the wall breathing heavily.

Instantly Mary’s mind began racing. What if the canvas fell over? What if someone stole it when she wasn’t looking? What if a bird flew into the room? What if the house caught fire? She thought furiously of the appliances in the house. Were any of them a threat? Maybe she should unplug the stove to be sure.

She desperately needed to check on the painting, to make sure it was okay and she turned to pull the studio door open. Dave put his hand on the door and held it shut.

“Move, David,” she snapped, as anger rose in her. “This is more important right now!” She strained harder to pull the door open, but still he held it fast.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Hey! It’s okay,” he added, raising his voice momentarily. “Trust me. But I am glad you like it.”

Slowly Mary calmed down and relaxed her grip on the door knob, gathering her thoughts.

“Of course I like it, it’s amazing! It’s like – the best painting I’ve ever seen! It’s stunning, literally!” Her excitement was growing now that she could articulate once more.

“It was kind of funny,” explained Dave. “I had been working on it these past few weeks and I was liking it more and more. I knew it was almost done, or that I was almost content with it, and then when I applied a brush stroke on it this afternoon it was suddenly complete. I just knew it was. I stepped back and looked at it, and, well, I think I stood there for a very long time before you came up.” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, and Mary giggled to herself as the realization hit her-

“You’re going to be rich! We’re going to be rich! This is your masterpiece, people will love it!” She could barely contain the emotion in her voice.

Mary began to giggle uncontrollably, an infectious, childish sound, and Dave couldn’t help but laugh along with her and they stood hugging in the stairwell, laughing, elated together.

Abruptly David looked down, still grinning. “Jesus, Mary, your foot’s bleeding! And nice toenails.”

“Hmm, so it is,” dismissed Mary, without looking at her foot. She was too happy to care about a little blood loss right now. It didn’t hurt anyway so couldn’t be that bad. Part of her euphoria was from her certainty of an imminent windfall of money and part of it was a persisting high from the beauty of the painting.

“This call’s for wine!” she yelled out in a sing-song voice, descending the stairs in a sudden hurry. “The last bottle is all over your studio floor. Once it drips through the roof we’ll just have to redo the ceilings,” she threw over her shoulder with a wink as she disappeared around the corner.

Mary flipped a page.

She began absentmindedly humming along with the classical music emanating faintly through the ceiling from the attic above. Dave was up there painting, which was good, for he was after all a painter by trade. An artistic one at that, and that was how he made a living.

His most recent show had fared only fairly, even though Dave regarded the works he had showcased as better than his previous and more successful paintings, and he had been working harder than ever for the past month.

Mary did not identify herself as a connoisseur of the arts by any stretch of the imagination. She liked most of Dave’s works, though some she found pointless and they evoked no reaction in her. Vain though it may be, her favourite painting featured her as the subject, although that one was not for the public’s eye.

Mary flipped a page and folding the paper to a more manageable size, she started on the crossword puzzle.

It was cold and dreary outside; good painting weather Dave called it. Mary chocked it up as good couch weather.

‘Not science’, 3 letters.

Mary penned in ‘A-R-T’. That was easy. But is it not? Mary wondered who gave the crossword puzzle the authority to make such claims.

She leaned against the armrest and curled her bare feet up on to the couch, her toe nails gleaming black like little flakes of obsidian. They were cold and she shoved them under a blanket.

Dave had said he was really ‘feeling’ this new piece he was working on and thought it was going to turn out well. She had told him that if he kept up these new hours much longer he wasn’t going to be feeling anything at all pretty soon. She had emphasized the point with the hammer she had been holding at the time. Mary was, after all, his wife and mother of their future children. The kids, who as of yet had only been conceived in their minds, were to be named Pathos and Eunoia. Ah, the tough lives of an artist’s children…

They had finally made the decision to ‘breed’, a Dave word that she disliked, a few months ago and they were both very excited now by the prospect of parenthood.

‘Great cubist artist’, 7 letters.

Mary already had a ‘P’ and an ‘S’ so the remaining I-C-A-S-O came easily. She scrawled them in, arguing again with the crossword puzzle. Frankly, and she had told people this while taking advantage of the free wine at one of David’s art shows, Mary thought Pablo sucked as an artist and needed his perspective on life realigned. No one had contradicted her.

The music from the attic changed, another classical piece but this one was by a different composer. It was one she liked and she da-da-da’d to herself along with it. Sometimes she would make up her own lyrics, often about whatever she was doing at the time, and sing them loudly in time with the songs – a narratorial opera that the neighbours had front row tickets to whether they wanted them or not. Occasionally Liz, their neighbour on the east side of the house, would applaud while leaning out the window that looked into their kitchen.

The afternoon ticked by.

David had not come down from the attic since eleven o’clock that morning. Even while busy he would usually come down every few hours for something to eat, a bit of exercise or stretching and would spend some time with Mary. She knew he was not facing imminent deadlines of any sort and this was becoming an unusually long stint for him to be working away. She had long since put the crossword aside and taken up stretching on the living room floor by the south facing windows. Squares of pale light inched silently across the carpet, slowly morphing into rhombuses of light. Mary thought of the fleeting nature of one’s perception of image and shape, and also of how damn early the sun was setting these days… Rhombi?

Thinking like that meant it was high time for a glass of wine and a start on dinner.

“Old, fermented grape juice? Check.” Mary took a sip and hummed to herself as she pulled open the refrigerator door and stood before it peering into the cavity. She scanned the shelves, feeling the cool air flow over her bare feet, and reflected on the liquid behaviour of air. Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear her father asking if she was trying to cool down the whole house. This made her smile and she sipped from her glass.

“Pickles… celery… nope. Hmm…” She was speaking to no one in particular; in fact, to no one at all. “Old chicken, hummus, oranges…” She rattled off a few more of the refrigerator’s contents before finally closing the door, no further ahead than when she had opened it. Mary was not inspired to prepare anything at the moment and not particularly hungry, so she grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter and another glass and headed for the stairs. It was time to remind David that she was home today too and to make sure that he wasn’t dead on the attic floor or escaped out the window and fleeing to France, as he occasionally threatened to do.

There was no longer any music coming from the other side, so Mary gently drummed her fingernails on the studio door.

Hearing no reply, she pushed the door open and walked softly, almost cautiously, into the room. What she saw before her stopped her in her tracks and the bottle slipped from her hand.

“Oh my God!” she whispered slowly.

Zeb spotted an open area along a far wall and rushed to it. Workers had slathered the sticky honey onto the wall there and he grabbed great handfuls of it. It was a substance secreted by the Queen herself and he gulped it down as fast as he could. No amount of willpower could have stopped him from eating it. The secretion was slightly bitter yet it was satisfying like nothing he had ever experienced before. He felt as though he was completing his raison d’etre and the stuff made him ecstatic. Soon he was frantically licking his fingers and then the wall itself in a desperate search for any last traces of it.

And then Zeb coughed.

It was a deep, rasping cough and he felt something move inside his chest. He stood for a moment, a concerned look spreading across his face. Then he was suddenly racked by a coughing spasm that doubled him up and he fell against the wall. Zeb struggled to breathe and felt like he was beginning to choke. He coughed hard again and then reeled in horror as a sticky, stringy, white substance sprayed onto his hands from his mouth. His throat wheezed as he fought to inhale and he could feel the stuff congesting his airway. He coughed again several times and slumped against the wall, the white film spraying onto his chest and the wall and his hands. Ribbons of it burst from his mouth and trailed from his nose, connecting his face to his hands and his body. He struggled to clear it away from his face, to allow himself to breathe, but he only coughed up more. It was tangling about his arms now and he could feel himself sticking to the wall and the floor. He slipped into semi-consciousness, and then only vaguely aware of his actions he began to spread it about his naked body, wrapping himself in a thickening, sticky web. Sweating, coughing, exhausted, and full to the point of nausea, Zeb lost consciousness as his wrappings slowly swelled and expanded, eventually enclosing his body entirely.

Lost in a deep and intense sleep, Zeb was overwhelmed by a battery of dreams and emotions. Intense feelings of devotion and dedication surged through him as very old memories of the nursery and his earliest days stirred. A crushing sense of unconditional love and duty pressed in on him as his thoughts turned to the Queen. The rest of the visions and feelings he experienced were confusing and unclear, as though he was seeing them through smoke or hearing voices under water.

His sleep deepened. Through the darkness now came pain, waves of it. His whole being ached and he was trapped in the grip of an inescapable torture. A rigid paralysis spread through his limbs and he could not writhe nor cry out as a sensation of fire smouldered through his bones, searing his joints, limbs and skull. He tried to let go, to give up, but could not. Terror seized him as he realized he could do nothing but endure. All sense of time was lost and what felt like a lifetime slipped agonizingly by. His suffering gave rise to anger and a growing hatred focused his mind, drove away his fear and began to numb the pain. He felt heavy all over, as though weighted down by wet clothes, and then finally, mercifully, the pain faded completely. His anger, however, remained, and he wanted to hurt something – a desire Zeb had never before experienced. He dreamed of fighting, of dominating some unseen foe and slowly his paralysis faded. He thrashed in his sleep as he began to break through layers of unconsciousness. He wanted to fight, wanted to hurt, but he felt shackled as though tied up. His anger reached a crescendo as he could sense his enemy sneering before him, just out of reach, mocking his bound fists. With an enormous effort Zeb threw a great punch and sat up yelling.

The light blinded him. Zeb could see nothing and remember nothing. All was brilliant white. Slowly the nursery resolved around him and Zeb’s memories trickled back into his foggy brain. He was sitting upright inside the cracked husk of a chrysalis, opaque shards of which were scattered on the floor around him. He breathed great gulps of air for what felt like the first time. What had been dimly lit and stale before now seemed brilliant and fresh. However, the nursery chamber was no longer safe and reassuring, it was quiet and boring. Zeb wanted to leave. Far away a Worker tended to a twitching chrysalis.

Zeb’s legs were trapped by the bottom of the fibrous casing and he tried to move them, but couldn’t. He tried again to pull himself from it with his arms but still could not. Suddenly enraged, he smashed at the remnants of his chrysalis with his fists and kicked his legs, eventually freeing them in a rush of noise and debris.

He slowly got to his feet but felt uncoordinated and slow. A strangely small nursery Worker came to help him up but he pushed her way in anger. He didn’t need help. Zeb made his way across the chamber and stumbled into the tunnels. He had to duck his head to avoid the dirt ceiling and the tunnels were suddenly much smaller and tighter. He didn’t like the cramped feeling and as he got his legs back he was soon charging powerfully forward, winding his way up through the maze, desperate to get outside, and then, abruptly, he burst into the blinding light of mid-day. Several small Drones screamed as he stepped from the darkness and they scattered before him. Their fear was a rush and Zeb paused to look at himself.

Throughout the morning Ghillian was quiet and withdrawn. Zeb left her in peace as they laboured, gathering the freshly cut wheat into bundles and piling it onto carts. He knew she was worrying about her uncertain and unglamourous future and he empathized with her deeply. For a female, being chosen as a Breeder was the ultimate honour and working in the nursery was the next best thing. Remaining as a Worker was a much less flattering role for females, although those who did become Workers were often as effective as labourers as any man.

Zeb’s heart went out to Ghillian and he gave her the desserts from his lunch. With his recent appetite she knew how generous he was being and the gesture cheered her considerably. They were very good friends, although not in a romantic way, and Ghillian was glad that Zeb would be there with her if she was indeed going to have to remain as a Worker. They passed a much more social afternoon and climbed onto the last loaded wagon back to the colony as dusk set in over the fields.

A mature Worker, its back caked with dust and creased with lines of sweat, leaned into the leather harness as Zeb and Ghillian pushed to help get the wooden wheels rolling before jumping onto the potatoes at the back. The workers legs pumped tirelessly to draw the wagon back to the colony centre and he was proud to put his strength toward getting them home. They sang a worker’s hymn and swung their legs in the dust clouds kicked up by the back wheels as the last rays of the setting sun warmed their faces.

That night Zeb quite literally ate everything he could get his hands on in the dining area. He only gave up his quest for extra nourishment after he asked two Soldiers for their meals and was promptly dragged from the room by terrified Drones. His appetite stayed at a truly ravenous level for the next couple of weeks and he developed an insatiable craving for meat, milk and strangely enough, bones. To his delight, the cookstaff maintained a large stock of bones in their cold stores and he as able to bring some to the field everyday, where he gnawed and sucked on them throughout the day –much to the revulsion of those around him. As embarrassed as he was, Zeb felt powerless to stop himself and was quite literally a slave to his cravings. The cooks joked that he was ‘boning’ but readily handed them over regardless. Zeb’s girth continued to swell and he seemed to be getting heavier by the day.

The summer came into full bloom and the heat of the sun waxed mercilessly. Early one morning, as the Workers were preparing for the trek to the fields, Zeb was overcome with a sudden drowsiness. He wavered on his feet and collapsed into Ghillian’s arms just as she moved to support him. She strained to hold his considerable weight, but he soon roused and Ghillian helped him to stand. Zeb felt an irresistible urge to descend to the nursery. There, where he had been born, a honey-like secretion coated the walls and it was fed to infants to help them grow. He hadn’t thought of the stuff since the day he had walked out of the nursery at four years of age, but now the taste and smell of the sap came rushing back so vividly that he could think of nothing else. He craved it like a drug.

Ghillian knew what was happening and she worried over him like a mother, but he pushed her away. Almost in a stupor he staggered from her, drawn inexorably toward the mouth of the subterranean chambers as though pulled by an invisible rope. Zeb clutched at his head. He couldn’t think clearly and all was a blur around him. Pain grew in his temples and he felt a pressure building inside his skull to the point that he feared it might burst. He knew what was happening. He was going to metamorphose into an adult! He was not excited though. In fact he was terrified and confused. Some of the mature Workers who had been waiting at the muster with them noticed his behaviour and guided him toward the tunnel entrance.

Like a drunk Zeb stumbled through the earthen tunnels, ricocheting between the dirt walls and staggering ever closer to where he had been born. The air became heavy and stale and the temperature rose steadily. He was short of breath and felt unbearably hot as though gripped by the worst of fevers, and he desperately, clumsily, ripped off his clothing as he moved ever deeper. His vision was blurred and misleading, but somehow he knew where he was going just the same. An invisible trail of pheromones led him through the underground labyrinth. He could smell the presence of the Queen, her unmistakable cocktail of pheromones intoxicating his brain. He longed to rush to her, to serve her, but the other chemical trail pulled him harder.

He paused mid-thought to cross a stream, stepping smoothly over a series of slick, dark stones with an air of agility surprising for his chubby appearance.

“I think I’m slated for work forever,” he resumed as he helped Ghillian cross after him, her foot splashing into the cold wet as she jumped the last gap to the bank.

They made their way along the forest path past the old stone quarry and towards the freshly excavated living chambers, just visible in the distance through the branches and dust haze.

As they emerged onto the main dirt road the young couple passed throngs of Workers and other Drones like themselves milling about en route to or form various work sites across the colony’s vast expanse. Some were carrying baskets of food or tools and others pulled carts teetering with construction materials or piled high with freshly pulled vegetables – rich, black earth dripping to the road from tangles of roots as every pothole reverberated through the wooden wheels. It was nice to walk in the late summer sun and Zeb was finally starting to enjoy working outside although he still felt exposed and vulnerable without the earthen tunnels around him.

“Well, I’m worried I’m going to be left alone somewhere unpleasant while all of my friends start changing or get sent to the new colony,” said Ghillian quietly.

She shielded her eyes against the sun as they moved on towards their work site for the day and she cast her eyes about, surveying their surroundings. Ghillian had eyes the colour of pecans, and dark curly hair that always seemed about to engulf her face. Her soft features were not unpleasant but hardly beautiful, although Zeb was oblivious to her physical appeal as he was not a Breeder and free from those sorts of thoughts. She was a kind, sensible girl and Zeb enjoyed their conversations and her non-competitive, agreeable nature. They walked in silence past a few fields and a lumber camp, watching the bustle of industry.

They were both thirteen and had worked together since they were eight years old. At their young age both males and females often worked similar tasks and were capable of equal measures of work. Currently they were both assigned to harvesting and loading carts and baskets with freshly picked vegetables and grains for transport to the storage rooms. Lately Zeb had been eating more and more and his appetite seemed to be insatiable. He didn’t feel like he was growing though, just getting fatter. Still, all he could think of was food and by the time he made it back from each day’s work he was always painfully hungry. It was all he could do to stop himself from eating the produce as he handled it. Vegetables had never looked so tempting.

Abruptly Ghillian spoke. “I don’t think I’m going to be a Breeder,” she admitted quietly. “Or even a nurse.”

Zeb knew she was disappointed, it was palpable in her voice. This was the first time she had spoken of her future and he knew it must have been growing in her mind for some time. He felt sorry for her and told her that things would turn out okay.

“Yeah,” continued Ghillian without hearing him, “I’ve always worked so far from Her, I just don’t think there is any way it could happen.”

They turned to a lighter topic of conversation as they moved slowly along the paths to their assigned field and passed numerous tanned, sweat-drenched Workers. The adult Workers, Drones who had pupated into a mature, working form were strong, sturdy and blessed with endurance. Large, lean muscles on a broad frame allowed them to labour throughout the long days of summer. Members of the Worker class were far from creative and the modest development of their brains allocated them extra energy to spend on more important tasks like pulling, pushing and digging. Scholars, and particularly the few that were selected to the secretive Tacticians, were the antithesis to Workers. Their feeble bodies were a sacrifice for the power and cunning of their potent minds. Zeb was dead sure that he wasn’t bound to join their ranks.

Suddenly, Zeb inhaled sharply and Ghillian looked up just as a shadow passed over them and two enormous, grotesque Soldiers marched by. She shuddered and quickly lowered her eyes to the dirt just as Zeb did the same. The Soldiers were big – easily seven feet tall and each was a terrifying mass of muscle and bone. Much more heavily muscled than Workers, Soldiers were the powerful defenders and enforcers of the colony. Armed and armoured with a partial exoskeleton of dense bone, they were terrifying to behold and much worse to deal with.

Ghillian hated Soldiers and reviled them in their absence. They were cruel, rude and vicious, and took pleasure in terrorizing Workers and Drones. Zeb detested them as well and had no interest in joining their ranks. He was quiet and timid, even for a thirteen year-old, and considered himself the furthest thing from a good soldier.

The two young Drones let their breath out slowly as the hulking warriors continued past them. They had learned early on that it was best not to draw attention to yourself when Soldiers were about. They had passed many an afternoon working in silence not daring to raise their heads while under the watchful eyes of a Soldier. Thankfully, their current work detail was close to the centre of the colony where life was much safer than the fringes or the new colonies and Soldiers rarely lingered for long.

“Fong?” she asked softly, rolling over. Then in the candle’s glow she suddenly recognised the creased face and bushy eyebrows of Master Zhou!

“You’re okay!” she cried, nearly dropping her tea into her sheets. She struggled to sit up but Zhou, his right shoulder heavily bandaged and his right arm in a sling, raised his left hand to stop her, “No, please, do not get up,” he implored. “You must rest. I am just glad to see that you are alright.”

“How is your shoulder, were you hurt badly?” Mika asked. “I’m sorry I hurt you when I pushed you, I, I just…” Mika trailed off.

Zhou smiled. “Thank you. I owe my life to you Mika, as does everyone here. Who knows how many more people that man might have tried to kill had you not confronted him.”

“Li died,” Mika said quietly and her eyes, swollen and bloodshot from crying, looked away from her Master. “I knew I had heard something, I… I could have gone sooner.”

With his free hand Zhou stroked his white beard and drew a slow, deep breath.

He spoke in a quiet voice. “Palemika, the arrow that killed Li was meant for me. You saved my life, and nearly died defending everyone here. That man killed Li, and neither you nor I could have done anything to change that. Be careful not to put blame where it does not belong. Everyone is accountable for their own actions and the choices they make. He came here today to kill me. Do not blame yourself.”

Mika nodded, not sure of what to say.

Zhou closed his eyes and sat silently. Time passed and from outside Mika could hear the buzzing of insects and nightbirds calling in the darkness. Somewhere a raven cawed and she smiled. Mika was beginning to wonder if Zhou had fallen asleep when suddenly he spoke with surprising clarity and a return to his usual vigour. He fixed his grey eyes on her with a piercing gaze.

“You are lucky that you survived. Tell me, what happened in the woods?”

Mika recounted the details of her fight with the assassin as best she could but the details were fuzzy and she could not recall what had happened after he discarded his robe and they had sized each other up.

Zhou filled in the blanks. “Ma Xing and the other masters followed you into the woods although you had quite a head start on them. They recounted to me that they saw you fighting and as they drew near they saw him knock you down, disable you and then deliver a kick to your head. They thought you were dead and pursued the man but he escaped on a horse he had tied up nearby. I think he had every intention of killing you with that blow.” Zhou smiled faintly but his eyes glimmered with tears. “You are a tough one Mika, a real fighter. I am very proud of you.”

Mika could feel her eyes begin to burn with tears again and she reached out and closed her fingers around the old man’s one free hand. It was rough and dry, but powerful. She whispered thanks.

Zhou sat for a long time and his eyes, steel grey and alert beneath his bushy white eyebrows, were fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the dormitory. He inhaled deeply.

“I am leaving Mika.”

“What?” she cried in reply, momentarily losing her composure and squeezing his hand involuntarily. “You can’t leave here, you are this school!”

Zhou continued with an added sternness. “I am going to move to my old village and spend my time there gardening, drinking tea and practicing my forms.”

“Don’t leave,” she pleaded, her cracking voice barely audible. She knew trying to change his mind was useless but felt as though somehow an atrocity was being committed, and she had to try. “Your forms are perfect though, and… and, but hey, you don’t even like tea!”

“I know,” he said with a wry smile, “but that’s what old people do.”

Regaining his sagacious appearance, Zhou continued. “Mika, perfection is a goal that one never achieves, but must always pursue. I must leave. There are people in this world that would rather I were dead, and it is obvious now that they do not mind killing others to get to me. My students will be in danger as long as I stay here, so the time has finally come for me to leave this place.”

Mika nodded slowly, and she remembered how just the night before Zhou had told her that it was time she left the school and made her own way in the world. It seemed so long ago now, that conversation. She had been very upset and very hurt and had lain awake for hours last night, furious with Zhou and terrified of an uncertain future. Now, as she lay in bed and looked at her injured, venerable, vulnerable old teacher, she was suddenly ready to leave the school that had been her home since she was thirteen years old.

But she also reached another, more powerful decision. The candle stub sputtered momentarily in its dish and a shadow danced across Mika’s face. In that moment of flickering darkness, she vowed to herself that she would find that man and whoever was behind the attempt on Zhou’s life, and avenge Li and her wounded master. Mika’s steel-like resolve closed around her vow of vengeance and she buried it deep into her mind.

“Ma Xing and the other masters are more than capable of leading this school,” continued Zhou, drawing Mika back from her malevolent brooding.

There was a pause and an awkward tension seemed to rise between them.

Mika disliked and distrusted Ma Xing and Master Zhou was well aware of her feelings and the reasons behind them.

“I think when you go, it will be time for Little Sister to go too,” Zhou said. “Take her with you, look after her. Finish her training for me, please. You can consider her your first student!” he added with a smile.

Mika had been worried about leaving Little Sister, the school’s only other female student, behind with Ma Xing in charge. Little Sister was a beautiful, talented girl four years younger than Mika whom she had taken under her wing and Mika truly cared for her like a sister. She was relieved that Zhou’s insight saw this too, and the idea of having her own student, as well as Zhou’s trust in her abilities, made Mika smile.

“You can roam the world together, like two little Shi-jin,” Zhou said with a smile, not realising how prophetic his little joke would turn out to be.

Zhou paused for a moment.

“Of course there is no rush. We have to get you back on your fighting feet and I have some affairs to settle before leaving.”

He patted her hand gently as he stood up. “Before you leave though, I have a task to request of you. It will not be easy.”

“Of course, anything,” Mika replied earnestly.

“I will explain more tomorrow. Good night Mika, get some rest,” Zhou said as he moved slowly towards the door, “and thank you.”

All was blurs and light.

There was a background drone, just confused noise as if the sounds were blurry too. Cicadas in the summer heat, but dulled as if through water.

The light faded. The pain persisted though. She tried to move, to get away from it, but could not. Now fear came suddenly, numbing some of the pain, and Mika became aware of another presence, one beyond her misery. She tried to call out but could not open her mouth. Was someone actually there? She was unsure and her fear and the horror of paralysis began to smother her. Mika could no longer tell if she was breathing. Panic swelled to engulf her mind.

Relax.

Be still. Become aware of your breathing. Focus inwards, not on your surroundings. Feel your chi passing through your body. Mika slipped into meditation and brought her mind under control. There really was nothing else she could do anyway. Patiently, methodically, she found and then ignored her pain, one source at a time. Slowly she pushed her awareness into her limbs, reaching further into her body and regaining a sense of presence inch by inch. She still had her arms and thighs, hands and feet although she could not seem to move any of them.

She continued to focus on reconnecting her body and drew her mind in around the pain in the side of her neck. It was like a small ball of fire, bright and hot; slowly the tension and pain dissipated as she dwelled upon it with an enrobing, calming energy. As it dwindled to nothing, Mika suddenly found herself standing in the rain. She was cold and shaking, her wet clothes clinging to her small body. Water ran down her face in rivulets and clung to her lips. The rain was so heavy that the air itself seemed to be liquid and she could barely breathe. She was standing over something, it lay at her feet between the growing puddles in the dirt road, obscured in the splashing mist of the pounding rain. A choking knot rose in her throat and she began to panic.

With a start Mika sat up, gasping for breath and grabbing frantically at her shirt. Instantly sunlight dazzled her eyes – blinded, she couldn’t see who stumbled away from her but she heard him curse and the distinct clatter of wood on stone. It wasn’t raining – she was in a bed. Her clothes were soaked and heavy with sweat and her body ached all over. Shielding her eyes from the glare Mika looked around her. From the windows in the western wall, large shafts of warm sunlight sliced through the dust-filled air. Someone lay in the bed to her right and people were crowded around it, murmuring. Mika barely recognised the inside of the dormitory; familiar though it was, it seemed alien cleared of its usual tight rows of cots and bedrolls and the bustling throng of students. The stone floor had been swept clean and the shutters in the windows were all thrown wide open. The few beds that remained were stacked hastily against the far wall. One bed however remained in the far shaded corner with an occupant whom she couldn’t discern.

She sat for a moment watching dust particles glow into and out of existence as they drifted idly through the sunbeams. A young man seemed to materialise from the recesses of the room as he crossed into her pool of light and righted a wooden chair beside her bed. With a spreading smile he gently picked up her hand as he sat down.

“Hi,” said Mika softly.

“You scared the hell out of me when you woke up,” he replied, unkempt black hair falling about his face, framing his wide, clear smile. “How do you feel?”
Mika eased herself slowly back down onto her pillow, and massaged her temples with her free hand, trying to ease the vice that seemed to be grinding ever tighter on her skull. She gazed into the wooden timbers above her bed.

“Like I fell down the cliffs of Mount Yulong and landed on my neck,” she finally replied, “and then was abused by elephants.”

He laughed lightly and squeezed her hand in response, and Mika turned her head to look at him, ignoring the pain that shot through her neck. His soft, dark eyes held hers and she felt her face blush. He really was beautiful – with high, proud cheekbones, a dark complexion and that disarming smile, even his crooked nose, broken years ago in training, added to the look. It was a face worthy of marble, and even the greatest sculptors in the Empire would be challenged to render its likeness.

She looked away quickly but could think of nothing but his face. She stared again at the ceiling for a time, trying to gather her feelings. Finally, she looked back at him with a smile ready, but his face had changed, it was suddenly wooden and cold and he was staring distantly into her bedding.

“Li died,” he whispered, barely audible. Mika felt her insides twist into a knot.

“We couldn’t save him.”

Mika squeezed her hands into fists and tears welled in her eyes. She let go of Fong’s hand and turned away from him. She realised suddenly that Li’s body was what, not who, was in the bed to her right, the people gathered around it were mourning and praying. Tears poured from her eyes as her physical and emotional pain overcame her and those near her were courteous enough to pretend not to hear as she muffled her sobs in her soaking pillow.

“Lie down!” she screamed into the old man’s ears, but Zhou cried out in pain as he rolled and the arrow shaft, still embedded in his shoulder, snapped under him. In the same instant Mika again heard the whine of an arrow as it passed over her, cutting the back of her shirt as it went. For a moment she was relieved, but then heard a cry and only a few feet away a friend of hers was lying on his back, hands clutching feebly at the feathered shaft protruding from the center of his chest.

Anger gave way to pain and rage and Mika leapt up and charged into the woods, the cries of her school following her. Blood pounded in her head and she felt like a tiger as she sprinted amongst the trees, feet barely touching the ground, eyes scanning furiously for a victim.

There! Behind a large oak twenty metres away, a hooded figure with a bow drawn and dark eyes fixed on hers. Mika dodged reflexively, cutting to the left, and heard the arrow whine past her right shoulder. She closed the gap as the man rushed to notch another arrow. As he drew the bowstring back Mika ducked around the tree and rounding on him, drove her shoulder into his gut with a satisfying ‘Unngh!’ as the air was forced from his lungs. As he stepped back she leapt into the air, coiled, and then unleashed a savage kick to his chest. The force of the blow sent the man reeling. He tripped on a root and fell backwards several feet into a ravine, rolling to a stop at the bottom of a dry creek bed.

Landing nimbly amongst the green shoots and small flowers that covered the forest floor, Mika rushed after her opponent, her fury and the excitement of fighting coursing through her like the strongest of stimulants. The hooded man rolled over his shoulders and sprang to his feet with surprising nimbleness. Pulling back his hood he threw his cloak to the ground in one swift, vicious motion. For a moment, only a few feet apart, they looked at each other. At five and a half feet tall Mika was shorter than her opponent, he was also stockier and obviously older. She surveyed the man. His head was shaved, his dark eyes were set beneath a deep, pensive brow and his face was relaxed and clean shaven. The man’s shoulders and chest were broad and despite his long-sleeved linen undershirt Mika could tell his arms were strong and defined. She thought he resembled some sort of gymnast scholar, or a philosopher with a penchant for heavy lifting. Only his eyes betrayed his erudite appearance as they flitted about, assessing Mika and their surroundings. A faded yellow sash was tied about the man’s waist and when Mika’s eyes fell upon it violence surged inside her.

Pushing off hard she lunged forward, launching a vicious fist at the man’s placid face, wanting to smash it into Oblivion. He dodged by millimetres and stepped out of the way of Mika’s second fist while delivering a rapid kick to her forward leg. Ignoring the blow to her shin, Mika pivoted hard and swung her left leg around at head height as the man raised both hands in defense. The power of Mika’s kick drove him backwards and she leapt after him, kicking twice while in the air, clipping him in the jaw. They exchanged a rapid series of strikes and parries with their fists, and the man slipped to her left and attempted to lock her wrist. Spinning quickly, Mika was able to slip from his grasp and followed through with a roundhouse kick aimed for his head. In an instant however he ducked Mika’s leg and lunged forward, slamming both palms into her chest and launching her backward off her feet. Stunned, Mika was unable to break her fall and she slammed to the earth, the air driven from her lungs.

Trying to suck in air and ignoring the pain in her chest, Mika rolled over and leapt up as he closed on her. Two palm strikes missed her by inches as Mika dodged and then returned a hard punch to his gut. She could feel the strength of his abdominal muscles as the force rebounded through her own arm but she knew he felt her strike. A punch like that would have doubled up any of the other students at her school. Instead, however, she exhaled in pain as he replied instantly with a chopping fist to where her shoulder met her neck. The force of the blow drove her to her knees and a second, more precise strike to the side of her neck suddenly made her arms fall limp at her sides. Suddenly defenceless, terror gripped Mika’s heart and she looked up, her brown eyes wide with fear, just in time to see the man’s torso turn toward her and then his left leg swung into view as he uncoiled a roundhouse kick. Somewhere in the sky above the trees she heard the raucous call of a raven and then Mika felt, and heard, several of the vertebrae in her neck crack as his heel crashed into her cheek.

…65… …66…

At the front of the class, counting the loudest, was Mika. Her back rose and fell steadily, unwavering like a plank on pistons.

…132… …133…

With every push muscles flexed and writhed like snakes beneath her tanned skin.

…196… …197…

Through gritted teeth the numbers came yet. Mika’s brown eyes smouldered with determination as drips of sweat fell from the tip of her nose.

…228… unhhh …229…

The rags wrapped around her fists were dirty and soaked with sweat, but they cushioned the earth from the wrath of her knuckles.

…three…oh…threeee…

Mika’s body slammed to the ground as her arms abruptly failed. All the other students stopped as well, slumping to the ground surprised and confused. No one had done more push-ups than Mika in at least eight years.

Mika got to her feet, anger surging in her chest. Pulling on her linen overshirt and trying to regain her breath, she walked to the edge of the courtyard and leaned against the stone wall of the dining hall. The rough surface bit her skin and caught her coarse hands. She resisted punching it. Soon the other students were standing, stretching out their arms and moving into the low, long building. A few asked her if she was okay, if she was feeling alright. She ignored them and ignored the murmurings of the crowd as they filed past her on their way inside.

Mika looked to the east; past the crowd of students moving slowly by her, beyond the hard packed dirt and paving stones of the training yard and the crumbling stone gateway which marked the boundary between the school and the real world, further still she fixed her gaze and from the far end of the valley, down where the river emptied into the ocean and the sea birds wheeled in the breeze, the sun broke above the horizon in hues of fire and roses. Mika sighed and stepped into the dining hall. It was time to eat.

Mika ate in silence, staring blankly at the wooden table as though in a trance. No one bothered her. The words her master had spoken to her the evening before were still resonating through her mind. She washed her bowl like an automaton and walked into the courtyard to warm herself in the weak rays of the rising sun before sitting down for the morning’s meditation.

The last of the mist lifted from the thickets and shaded crags as the sun rose unobstructed into the sky and threw its splendour across the mountainside. Little human statues sat silently in rows in the dirt; 117 human shadows moved more than their respective owners as they slowly turned and shrank before the climbing sun.

Mika could not focus. By now she should be drawing slow, unconscious breaths and lost inside her body and mind, relaxing, reflecting and realizing. The outside world would fade beyond concern as she looked steadily inwards. But this morning her thoughts kept her pinned to the real world and locked in her head. Her mind seethed, roiling like the sea beneath the black sky of a tai-fun. Suddenly she was facing an uncertain future again for the first time in nearly a decade and old fears that she had thought long since buried were rising once more. She could not block them from her mind despite her training and this lack of self-control was a further source of frustration.

Unable to focus, Mika was painfully aware of all that was going on around her. The slow breathing of the young student on her left, the whistles and chatter of songbirds, the whine of mosquitoes and buzz of the blue-bottle flies, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the snapping of a twig as someone approached in the trees…

Mika’s eyes flashed open, scanning for the source of the sound.  Nothing was moving but the sudden silence of the songbirds heightened her concern. Past the row of shaved heads and robed backs before her the five teachers of the school sat with their backs to the forest. Their upright posture, closed eyes and utterly calm faces indicated that they had heard nothing. Perhaps Mika’s agitated mind was playing tricks on her. After a few vigilant minutes she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes once more.

Then with unmistakeable clarity, Mika heard the creak of bending wood. Against all the rules of meditation, she leapt up running. Some students looked up in surprise, blinking in the sunlight, and the masters were all looking at her now, anger obvious on their faces. Before she cleared the last row of students Mika heard the twang of a bow and in the same second the ‘zittt’ of an arrow as it flashed from the trees and punched into the shoulder of Master Zhou! With a cry he fell forwards into the dirt, the arrow lodged in his back.

Turning back outside, Clayton saw Lyle doubled up, vomiting into the gravel at his feet as one of the zombies rushed, jabbering towards him.

Clayton cursed loudly and ran out to him. Lyle was still staring dumbly at his oncoming assailant and Clayton hollered, “Move, stupid!” as he roughly grabbed Lyle’s shirt and threw him most of the way towards the doors. A moment later the zombie reached him and Clayton met it with a right hook that lifted it clean off its infected feet and sent it flipping backwards through the air as its momentum carried it past him.

The other zombies leapt up and Clayton made it back to the doors just in time.

“What is wrong with you?” Clayton yelled at Lyle over the sounds of pounding and slapping on the metal doors.

“Did you see that? Oh my God. They were like, eating that guy…” Lyle was speaking to no one in particular in a quiet, distant voice. After a few moments he snapped back to reality, blinking. He seemed not to have noticed Clayton.

“Alicia! Incredible! Those reflexes, we owe you our lives!” he said excitedly.

Clayton voiced his consent and grunted, “And you owe me yours, nerd.”

Ignoring Clayton, Lyle continued, “Oh hey, you’re bleeding by the way. And I think you’ve got some gravel in your skin,” he offered, pointing at her legs. “Ugh, my throat hurts,” he added.

Suddenly Clayton grabbed the front of Lyle’s shirt and pulled him towards him.

“You almost got us killed, Pointdexter,” he growled menacingly. “I think you’d better thank Alicia right now, buddy.”

“I just did, let go of me,” said Lyle quietly, but Alicia spoke over him. “Clayton let him go, its okay, its not his fault. We all ran out there without looking first.” She paused for a moment and looked down at her bleeding legs, “Holy Hell this stings.”

Abruptly Clayton looked up, and his eyes widened and pushing Lyle aside he rushed at Alicia yelling, “No!”

Clayton had clearly lost his mind and Alicia only had time to cringe as he closed on her. To her confused relief he barreled right by her and she unclenched her eyes in time to see him reach the doors. A young boy with dark hair and a torn t-shirt was trying to push the doors open and was screaming for Clayton to let him in. After a moment’s hesitation Clayton obliged and pulled the boy in before slamming the doors just as a slavering mob of cloudy-eyed and blood-soaked students and teachers crashed against them.

Clayton roared and threw his back against the doors, fighting to hold them both shut. The boy screamed hysterically and ran for the doors that led outside. Alicia and Lyle both stepped into his path and struggled to hold him, trying vainly to tell him that it wasn’t safe outside either.

The groaning mob was slamming against the doors, jolting Clayton’s 200 pound frame. His feet began slipping. He twisted around quickly and with one hand on each, leaned into the doors with all of his strength and weight. His feet slipped further on the carpet and as he struggled to hold back his own death he thought of how similar this was to some of the drills they did at football practice.

“I… can’t… hold this alone!” he growled through gritted teeth.

Just a few metres away Alicia and Lyle were both struggling to hold the young boy and trying desperately to calm him down, just as he was desperately trying to fight his way through them to the back doors. The pounding and scratching coming from those outer doors had only intensified and the combined noise coming from both entrances to their safe haven was more terrifying and depressing than any sight could have been.

Alicia was fighting as hard as she could to hold the dark-haired boy back. She recalled seeing him before in the school but didn’t know who he was. He was surely in ninth grade, but still he was strong and he was slowly dragging her and Lyle towards the doors. She knew that if he reached them they would all die, but still she could not halt his advance. Lyle was bleeding from the mouth where the boy had hit him and he too was straining as hard as he could to control the younger boy, but his slim body was being thrown about with surprising ferocity. Alicia cried out as she saw Lyle stumble and fall against the wall, his glasses knocked ajar on his face, and the boy pushed hard, driving her back quickly. Tears were streaming down her face now from the effort and the fear that gripped her whole body. She was exhausted and her arms were shaking. The boy too was crying and yelling and over his hysterics she could hear Clayton groaning as the far doors bulged open for a second and she distinctly heard him yell and slam them shut again. Her back foot slid into the middle post of the door frame behind her. She pushed against it hard and the boys straining fingers were now inches from the handles that would open their metal shields.

“Help… meeee!” she screamed as Clayton roared the same plea from the other side of the stairwell. Lyle stood horror-struck, his eyes twitching back and forth between both struggles. He was frozen in indecision again. The doors jolted open once more despite Clayton’s weight and Lyle knew then that they were about to die.