The wind ruffled the treetops, freeing a few leaves as it passed. Farmer Johnson glanced at the starry sky and decided to call it a night. He shouldered the hoe and turned, heading to check that the chicken coop was free of foxes before retiring for the evening. Fortunately, there were none. Satisfied, he began walking toward the house.

There was a voice, so faint as to be almost a whisper. ".....wait...please."

Johnson turned. He saw no one.

"Down here..."

There was a man laying in the dirt. No...several. At least six, though this seemed to be the only one conscious. Johnson stepped back - there was a gun in the man's hand. He raised the hoe, the only weapon he had. "What do you want?"

"Help...please..." He fell silent; the weapon fell from his hand.

Johnson lowered the hoe and sighed. He set down the tool and picked up the man - surprisingly light - to carry him inside.

His daughter opened the door and almost screamed. "Who-"

"Fetch the doctor, Mary."

She nodded, wide-eyed, and ran outside. Johnson set the man down in a chair and started. In the light, he could now see the man wore a prison uniform.

"What have I gotten myself into?"



Felix Ward turned the crank on the music box. After a moment, a quiet concerto began to play. He smiled and sat by the fire, gazing into the flames. It had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than to relax.

As if on cue, there was a knocking at the door. Irritation flashed across his face and vanished. It didn't pay to be surly to those seeking his help. He crossed the room.

A small girl stood at the door. Felix blinked. "Why hello, Miss Johnson. Is there something wrong?"

"HiDr.WardPasaidtofetchyouThere'ssomestrangemenhurt," she said in a rush.

Felix caught the gist of it. "Let me get my kit. I'll be a moment."

A few minutes later, Felix and Mary were in his car, driving toward the farm.

Clanks and pops echo deep down a dirt road in the night. An old round car, unrecognizable under the layers of rusted iron slabs, mismatched screws and battered copper sheets, runs on the dirt at an unreasonable speed on weary tires. Only one eye of the mechanical beetle is bright and wide open, as the second is flickering with a weak yellow light.

The ragged driver looks calmly at his passenger's seat for a moment, then smirks back at the dark road ahead.

"Yes yes my dear, we need a new light to clear the darkness. I will replace it as soon I find a bulb on our way." he says calmly as he drives with one hand and slides his sunglasses back up his nose with the other.

*THUMP*

He brakes and parks on the side of the road. The man takes a flashlight and exits his car. He walks to the bump he drove over and passes the light over it. It is the body of a man with a deep tire print and organs sticking out of the sides. He kneels and looks closer, finding maggots and various insects oozing from the body.

"I will not get trouble for this Wilma." the man says, with the same calm yet slightly irritated tone he would have had if he ran over a trash bag.

As another car zooms by on the other lane, he grabs the corpse by the collar of the striped suit and drags the dead rotten man to a ditch and drops him there.

He gets back in his car and drives away.

"A pity I didn't hit a fresh deer, I am rather peckish... yes dear, you never are."

He was a thin man. One might even consider the word frail appropriate; his stance was a slightly crooked one. He stood, slightly hunched per usual, staring out the window, his wisps of white hair illuminated in the lamplight. In essence, a harmless man.

The creaking of his office door triggered a scowl that showed the real reason why Neil Pratchett had been given the nickname of Stormy (he preferred to believe it was from the lightning rod he had erected near the edge of town). He did not turn. "What is it, Reynolds?"

Reynolds tugged nervously at his collar, regretting his ascent to Pratchett's right-hand-man. More often then not, it involved being smacked by said right hand. "Sir, I've received some news from the warden-"

"Yes?" The voice was calm, the tone level.

"Well..." Reynolds swallowed. "There has been an...an escape."

"Really. When?"

"Er, three days ago."

"And I'm just now hearing of it?"

"H-he wanted to be sure they weren't still within prison grounds."

" Am I incorrect in thinking he assured me that an escape was impossible?"

"Well-"

"Am I?"

Reynolds shook his head. "No, sir. The thing is....that's not all. It seems the prisoners, well, stole a few items."

"What?" Pratchett's hand clenched into a fist. There wasn't much of value there. That could only mean one thing. "No."

"I'm afraid so. It's gone." Reynolds sighed, knowing he'd regret saying this. "May I remind you, sir, that given their history, I did advise against using these people as labor for your proj-"

Pratchett whirled around, his eyes holding a manic gleam. "Do not question me. All that matters now is getting the prototype back. Tell van Doren to send one of his squads out immediately."

"Yessir." Reynolds nearly sprinted out, having long ago given up on any delusions of dignity.

Once the door had closed, Pratchett sank into the chair behind the desk and placed his hand beneath his chin. What to do, what to do. He picked up is fountain pen and idly twirled it. His plans couldn't move forward without the machine, and he was loathe to order another built. After all, if these few had escaped, who was to say no others would? No, the only course of action was to trust van Doren to do his job. Just to be on the safe side, a contingency plan was needed.

Pratchett sighed. No rest for the wicked, they said. So be it.

(Necro-posting? What's that?)

John Q. stood in a bathroom in a Jamestown inn, shaving. Usually it did not bother him that he couldn't remember his past, but presently something tugged at the edges of his mind: Two young men, both about his age, one wearing a cotton shirt and pants, the other with a smart-looking blue-coloured suit, talking about the Mechanised Singularity. As he watched their lips move wordlessly, John felt that one of them was him, but he could not recall who.

"My friend," a mouthless voice said, acting almost separately from the visual memory, "We are on the verge of a breakthrough. Just one test..."

"Do you mean the Singularity is at hand?" another voice asked.

"It is."

There was a feeling of static, that the memory was fading.

"To bring about improvement for... the race of Man, I will... gladly donate my body to the cause..."

... and then emptiness. Despite a strong sense of recognition, John could not for the life of him recall either man's name. Whichever man he was, he knew he owed the other man for this mechanical body, for making him more. He knew not where to find the other man, but he felt that he would have approved of his recent enlistment in the militia resisting a local tyrant, Neil Pratchett. It was another rich man of whom John professed no knowledge, but the name stirred in John's heart nameless emotions, long forgotten.

John splashed cold water on his face, wiping away leftover shaving soap with a towel. From the nightstand by his bed he took a scrap of paper, blank save for the name of a street intersection. Time to meet his recruiters.

Felix stopped the car at the farm's gate. A steamcloud escaped the hood as he killed the power. He barely had time to step out of the vehicle before the panicked Mary grabbed his arm and pulled him down the path. Clouds of dirt arose as they ran. Felix blinked as a chicken squawked at him, wondering how it had gotten out of the coop.

Mary opened the door and led him to the kitchen. "Here he is, Pa."

"Good. C'mere, Doc," Johnston said. Felix obliged. Before he could say a word, the farmer continued. "Found him out by the garden, him and his friends. Don't look to bad, but I'd rather not have any of 'em die on my land."

Felix nodded. "All right. I'll get started."

Mary spoke up. 'Doesn't the fact they're criminals bother you?"

"Nah. Body's a body, and there might be a reward for them if it comes to that."