Sarah had played in the forest since she was a child. There was a clearing with a waterfall that was her favourite place. She had spent many afternoons swimming in the spray or lazing on the sun-warmed rocks. The route to the clearing was different every time, but that had never seemed strange to her. Her feet always knew the way.

There were many animals in the forest, but she had never seen another human being under the trees. She felt a kinship with the animals. Sometimes a small deer would cross her path, or a fox, or a badger, and a look of recognition would pass between them. The Forest King watched.

The forest comes right up to the city wall to the south. People have tried to cut it back over the years, but no headway is ever made. No-one has ever seen them change, but the paths between the trunks and under the leaves never seem the same twice. Every year a few people go in and disappear. Some show up again weeks later, some never at all.

Thirty years ago, someone tried to burn back the trees. The flames cleared the undergrowth and the forest thrived, but the buildings caught fire and nearly a quarter of the city was damaged.

It is said that the Forest King stood beneath the boughs and watched.

Björn Hammerson was a dwarf. It was genetic, which is to say he was actually a Dwarf.

He worked construction in New York, and had always liked doing basements the best. Although he had no real fear of heights, when standing on a girder on the sixtieth floor of some new building frame there was something that popped its head up out of the primordial sludge of ancestral memory and said “Wouldn’t you much rather be underground?”.

At first glance most people assumed he was heavily into hip-hop, but the bling was again the influence of that ancestral voice, this time saying “Shiny!”. In actual fact he rather liked melodic death metal.

The lagoon was still and clear, protected from the ocean by a rock wall stacked loosely enough to let the tide through, but high enough to keep the waves out. The wall didn’t look man-made, though it was hard to imagine such a perfect spot occurring by chance.

The lagoon was perhaps fifteen metres across, in an almost-perfect circle. Half of it was sparkle and light and colourful little tropical fish that had run in with the tide playing in shoals. The other half was tucked under the cliff, a cool cave where the slap of water sounded almost wooden and bigger fish drifted lazily. There was a ledge at the back of the cave: just above the water line at high tide, and large enough for two. We could lay there and watch the light throw reflections on the roof, and hear the echo of our breathing and the muted sound of the waves beyond the rock wall.

The three men moved cautiously out into the street: Deacon leading, Silver and Casey watching the rear, all three with rifles at the ready. The static howls of the Scavengers echoed through the streets as they picked their way across the rubble blocking the intersection.
“They’re close,” whispered Silver. “I hope you’re good with that gun, Orbiter.”
“I do alright,” said Casey.

They made it across the intersection to the cross street, thankfully clear of rubble, when the first of the things came snuffling around the corner. Silver dropped it with a single shot that cracked and echoed across the town before Casey could even get a proper look. The next came at a run, all slavering teeth and deep-set eyes. Its four feet (or were they hands?) slapped on the cobblestones in an ungainly stride that still contrived to eat the distance between them at an alarming rate. Silver dropped that one too.
“Any time you feel like helping would be fine!” he yelled.
Casey swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of the things and opened fire as a pack of them came into view all at once. He dropped four of them with four shots in quick succession, tearing through the bodies in a spray of blood so dark as to be almost black, but there were dozens of them and still more came. He shifted his grip on his gun and flicked a latch on the stock, switching to full automatic. The barrel spewed forth a torrent of bullets and the Scavengers dropped like flies.

After a full minute there were no more of the things and Casey eased up on the trigger, silence descending into the space left by the deafening roar. The static howls had stopped, and Casey allowed himself a small smile.
“Come on,” said Deacon. “I don’t want to hang around and find out if all that noise caught the attention of something worse.”

Sally had heard of a boy in Omaha who could see through walls. There was a girl in Los Angeles who could fly, and one in London who could turn into a liquid.

Scientists were talking about ‘artificial evolution’, though nobody was sure of the cause. Sally knew that what they really were was mutants. Last week she had discovered that she was a mutant, too. It was less exciting than she had hoped.

Her power didn’t make her invincible; in fact, it was difficult to imagine any circumstance where it would help her fight crime. She could identify birds without ever having seen or even heard of them before. It was hard not to feel ripped off.

The rain had stopped for the moment, gathering strength for the night’s downpour as the setting sun flared briefly through the clouds. The damp brought out the smell of the earth, mixing with the mushrooms and leaf litter and the ever-present scent of pine. There was a faint tang of woodsmoke, too, bringing with it the promise of a warm, dry cabin when the night and the rain closed in. We sat, exhausted, covered in wet leaves and dirt, looking out over the lake as half the forest woke and the other half settled down to slumber. Loon calls gave way to the hooting of owls, and as the light faded the sky was threaded with bats streaming from somewhere on the western shore. Night fell around us.

A rogue quantum physicist is wanted in two states today, on charges of quantum tunneling into bank vaults. His getaway vehicle’s speed was measured in excess of 150 miles per hour, but his whereabouts are currently unknown. Mathematicians are presently working to determine a probability distribution to find his most likely location. Police ask that if a member of the public happens across the vehicle that they contact a local police department immediately, and do not under any circumstances open the trunk, as the money from the robberies may or may not be inside. For more details, turn to page eight.

She had been three rows behind him during the lecture, but Toby lost sight of Ashlyn in the press of bodies as people left the hall. He was a bit disappointed as he packed up his books and joined the back of the crowd.

“You took your time, didn’t you?” Ashlyn was sitting outside the lecture theatre, and stood as he emerged. “I was about to give up.”
“Waiting for me, hey?” he asked.
“Mm, I thought you might like to take me out for dinner.”

“I had a dream about you last night,” Ashlyn said over her noodles.
“Me too, strangely enough,” said Toby.
“Oh really?” she raised her eyebrows. “Should my modesty be offended?”
Toby blushed slightly. “No! Well… I can’t really remember, to be honest.”
“Shame,” she smiled, and went back to her noodles.

Deacon looked up suddenly, cocking his head slightly. “We’ll continue this later,” he said. “It’s time we were moving.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Casey shook his head. “Now that that… thing… is gone I have to get back to my ship and try to call for a pickup.”
“It’s your funeral,” Silver stood and shouldered his rifle. “I ain’t staying around to argue.”
“Son, it’s dangerous to move around while there’s a Mote on the loose, but it’s even more dangerous to stay still when it’s passed.” A howl in the distance that seemed half static punctuated Deacon’s words. “The Scavengers are on the move.”
Casey sensed the edge of panic in the others’ voices that hadn’t been present before, and it brought him to his feet. “What are these scavengers?” he asked.
“If you want to live to hear the answer to that question, I suggest you run.”