Brecaccio spent his whole life looking up at the cosmos. He tracked the movements of the planets and charted the arrangements of the stars.

A life spent with his face pressed against a telescope left him with one puckered eye, no wife to warm his bed, and no child to inherit his vast knowledge of the sky.

Brecaccio blinked his rheumy eyes and looked past his yellowed beard at the thick horns of his toenails sticking out from under the blankets. His feet framed a table. Soft bread and pale, crumbly cheese lay under the glass cover of a wooden tray. Beside the tray stood a bottle of mellow wine. Beyond that, dusty brass orreries lined the top shelf of a vast bookcase. Star maps and volumes written by Brecaccio himself were shoved haphazardly into the shelves.

Above it all, on a folding ladder he’d rested against the ceiling beams, stood Melchick. “Magistero, I don’t see anything.” Melchick’s Buerbec accent stumbled along the rhythms of the Flerosi language, hardening the consonants and thickening the vowels.

“What are you looking for, boy?” Brecaccio asked.

“I was told we have an infestation of pixies.”

“Magistera Ofelia will be excited about that.”

Melchick squealed and scurried down the ladder. His face was clad in lacy, gray spider webs. He peeled them away, and wiped them on the yellow robe that marked him as a second year student. “It’s time for me to go.” The metal fittings on the ladder squeaked as he folded it. “I need to study for my mineralogy examination. Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so.”

“Ring the bell when you get hungry,” Melchick said, pointing to the pull cord that hung near the headboard, “and I’ll come back to help you.”

“I can get out of bed by myself!”

Melchick picked up the ladder and clutched it under his arm. “Please, Magistero. I don’t want you to fall again.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“Were you alone?”

Brecaccio sucked his mustache into his toothless mouth. “Yes.”

“Then who else is to blame?”

Brecaccio waved a hand. “Fine, fine, you win. Congratulations. You can go now.”

Melchick bowed. “Good day, Magistero Brecaccio.”

“Hurry along now, boy.”

Melchick spun, his yellow robes swirling, and carried the ladder down the stairs. Brecaccio liked Melchick well enough, but the boy never knew when it was time to leave. He was a poor boy, from a poor country. Taking care of aging instructors helped pay his way.

They say the world used to have only one moon.

I wonder if this is true, or whether it is just another of the old wives’ tales they tell you, one of the many myths which surround the past. I shake my head, staring into the night. It does not matter, I realize. It’s irrelevant. What matters is now. What matters is tonight, under the twin luminaries of Vox and Nox—the voice and the night. The sky appears angry.

I feel the grit beneath my boots and smell the urban stench that forever billows up from the undercity. I feel my perspiration as it clings to the heavy cloth of my garments and threatens to sting my eyes with salt. I feel the stagnancy of the air, so calm, so balmy; it is almost like oil, slicking all beneath the celestial sphere, which glows with a wan blue light almost as bright as the moons.

I draw one last breath. The time is now. It can be no other.

The first man goes down quiet, just a dull wet thud. No one notices.

The second man sees me. Recognition dawns upon his face. The briefest moment of knowing, and yet he will wear that expression into eternity. He is dead before he can even scream, before he can cry out for his gods, or against them, to rail against his fate. He is dead before he can warn his fellows, who still pace the grounds, who wear ruts into the ancient flagstones that betray their paths.

Two sentries remain.

My heart is a hammer stamping out the seconds in my ears. I grip the hilt of my sword and I swear to myself. I swear. And they fall.

The next man is dead before his face breaks upon the ground. But the last is alert, more so than these oblivious dolts who would not have caught a vagrant sneaking into their demesne. He goes for his blade, but that is all. He dies with honor, with his hand firmly gripping a weapon, even if it does remain in its scabbard. His head tumbles from his shoulders to roll into the gutter.

I open the gates and step forth.

With a gauntleted hand I signal the waiting soldiers. They creep forth from the shadows, pale and resplendent in their armor. Once they see I have won they rush past in rust-colored livery. It is almost purple in this light. Their armor clanks as they pass. The rest is up to them. My part has been played.

Once they are well within the gates I take care that I am not observed. I glance suspiciously over my shoulder before I withdraw my magic amulet, which governs the doors. I step into the passage and seal it shut behind me. The tunnels are long and dark as sleep, yet they are safe. None know them but me. So I sheathe my sword and make my way in blindness. I consider producing the witchlight from the folds of my cloak, but I refrain. It’s okay, for I have memorized the way. It isn’t far.

I come to the proper hatch and I open it with caution, peering about to make sure no one has seen. I have had enough killing for one night.

All is clear. I emerge, sealing the passage behind me. I must always seal it, lest another might discover the way. The way is my edge. And a sword is only as valuable as its edge.

I am in a great hall. Columns climb into the gloom of a great, vaulted ceiling high above. Pilasters stand like stone ribs against the wall. All is distorted by writhing shadow. I walk into this grand chamber and notice the row of barred windows high up the far wall. Lightning flickers there. Perhaps the gods are angry. I would not know; I do not speak with them.

Each flash throws bars of purple light upon the columns, for the windows are glazed with a roseate hue. It is by this intermittent radiance that I navigate, until I reach the chamber’s end. There Gustabbian Ward sits alone at his desk. It is a lonely escritoire, with a single candle placed upon it to banish the darkness in fits of quivering light.

For a few moments I watch my friend from the privacy of the relative gloom, outside the narrow circle of light offered by his candle. He writes upon a long scroll, occasionally dipping the point of his quill into a jar of ink. Every so often he sprinkles sand upon his work. I decide to interrupt him.

I call his name and he looks up, startled. “Who’s there?” he calls, groping for a dagger that rests upon his desk.

“It is done,” I tell him.

“How did you get in here?”

“I have my methods. You know that, Gus. That is why you hire me, is it not?”

Gustabbian neglects to answer. “My men have entered the demesne?”

“Yes. They are there now. I had no need to wait, did I? I have no interest vested in their success.”

Gustabbian pauses for several moments, not moving, not speaking. He is occupied with thought. Then he moves as if to stand, but stops himself, saying, “Why do you not step forward, into the light?”

It is a suggestion.

As he speaks another charge of lightning throws a bright velvet cast upon the cavernous room, lining my helmet with vivid color. He sees this. His eyes play over the dusky impression of the colossal column against which I stand. “Why don’t you come out?” he says.

“Very well,” I say, stepping into the candlelight. “Where is my pay?”

“I may have another job for you.” Gustabbian rises to his feet, gripping his quill pen with a firm but delicate grip. He peers within the shade of my helmet, where he knows my eyes to be, though they are veiled in darkness to be revealed only in the lightning flashes. I prefer to keep it that way.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Oh, pretty much along the usual lines for you, Castor.”

“Specifically?”

“Well, now.” He spreads his arms wide in a gesture of inclusion. “I would prefer some guarantee, my friend, before I put forward such elements as are vital to my plans.”

“You have been in this basement too long, Gus. I will offer no guarantee. Tell me the job and I will consider it, or simply pay me and I will leave.”

“You know I am hesitant in my dealings with Heretics.”

“I know you are hesitant in your dealings with those you do not control.”

“Is pay not a form of control?”

“It’s not if I do not accept the job.”

“Touché.”

“Let’s play hooky.”

Jessie’s fingers tiptoe down my chest, sending tremors across my naked body. Her heart pumps hard against my side.

I grab her hand and bring it to my lips. “Wish I could.”

She juts out her lower lip. The morning sunlight filters through the blinds, casting patterns across her skin. A Stellar’s jay whines from the oak tree.

“If you drop Cat off at school,” she says. “I promise I’ll still be in bed when you get back.”

I scratch my head. “Big day at the office, today. The neural processors are ready. Another week and we’ll be cleared for our first human subject.”

Jessie rolls her eyes, then drops into a radio announcer drawl. “Topping the charts of inappropriate pillow talk for twelve consecutive months: brain transplants.”

I start to laugh, when a rumble shakes the room. The window goes dark. A knot forms in my stomach.

A voice, throaty and thick, rolls in. “Resuming cerebral scans.”

I blink. The darkness evaporates. Jessie’s looking at me, expectant.

“You’re not even listening,” she says. “Your head’s already at the lab.”

I shoot a suspicious glance at the window. Sunlight floods in. The Stellar’s jay whines.

“Sorry, babe–”

Jessie stuffs a pillow on my face. I flail my arms around like I’m suffocating, then go limp. She prods my side with a finger, but I don’t move.

“Oh my god, are you ok?”

I hold my breath. She can be so gullible.

After a pause, she prods a bit lower. I flinch, and she cackles. I toss the pillow aside and draw her body to my own. I can afford to be a little late.

---

Downstairs, Cat’s shoveling giant spoonfuls of granola into her mouth, sloshing milk everywhere.

“Easy,” I say. “Remember to breathe.”

She pauses between bites to push her glasses up her nose. The frames are black with tiny skulls. She says they’re “counter culture,” one of the many phrases I never expected to hear from an eight-year-old.

Cat scrutinizes me as I pack up my briefcase. “Aliya gets Fruit Loops every day.”

“Well then, Aliya will be learning about diabetes very soon.”

“Hey,” Jessie says on the way to the table. “Aliya’s a good kid.”

Jessie’s eyes close as she savors her first sip of coffee. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing her red shirt that plunges tantalizingly deep. Tight pinstripe slacks. A hint of perfume drifting in her wake, as if whispering: “Should’ve played hooky.”

I look away. “You about ready, Kiddo?”

Cat drops her bowl into the sink. “Born ready, Daddo.”

Outside, Cat hops into the backseat. Jessie slides in at my side. My phone buzzes as I’m backing out of the driveway. It’s work. At this hour, that’s either very good news or very bad news.

Cat’s messing around with her seatbelt. “Can we go swimming this weekend?”

I fumble with my phone, manage to get the speaker engaged.

“Hello?”

Rustling on the other end.

“Sure, kiddo,” Jessie says. “As long as–”

Brakes scream against asphalt. I look over in time to see the grill of the truck. Both side windows explode. I can’t hear my own yelling over the crunching of metal and glass. Ribbons of blood stream through the air, and–

The glass freezes. The blood lifts up, like rain moving in reverse. Metal and flesh fade into blurred patterns, then into distinct shapes. Faces. Dr. Roberts, from the lab. Dr. Stephens, behind her. The intern, Harry.

“Did you see that?” Stephens’ big gray mustache bobs up and down as he talks. “The neural activity.”

They’re poring over machines. My machines.

“He’s accessing episodic memories.” Roberts chews on her pencil. “But his cognitive functions are all over the charts.”

Then I see it. Past the doctors and the machines and the blinding fluorescent lights. Against the far wall, a mirror. In the mirror, myself. Or the thing that stands where I should be. I’m strapped to an upright medical bed, facing forward. I’m wearing another man’s body. Hairier, thinner. Knobby knees. Small, sagging gut. My head’s shaved, and framed with surgical scars. My eyes are brown, instead of blue.

I try to move, but only my eyes respond. I can’t speak.

“The neural processor isn’t reacting properly,” Roberts says. “It’s having trouble bridging the gap between perceptual awareness and residual memory.”

“Could be a result of the trauma.” Stephens drops his voice and leans closer to Roberts. “Emotional, I mean. Do you think he was conscious, when his family died? It took the EMTs twenty minutes to get there.”

A coldness slips across my new skin. I want to close my ears, forget what I’ve heard, what I’ve done. I need to get out of this place. My heart beats faster, and my fingers twitch.

“Look.” Roberts walks closer. “We’ve got progress.”

I want to tell Roberts that she’s wrong. This isn’t progress. But my lips won’t move.

The weight of the neural processor presses against my skull. Having trouble bridging the gap, they said. I focus on my reflection, the false brown eyes and the hairy chest. I know this technology. It has flaws. I can exploit them.

“Something’s happening.” Stephens’ voice edges up a notch. “He’s slipping back into episodic memory.”

“Keep monitoring,” Roberts says, but her voice comes from underwater. Their faces, the machines, the room all fade to white.

I blink through the sunlight. My heartbeat slows.

“Let’s play hooky.”

Jessie’s fingers are like tiny ballerinas against my skin. Outside, a Stellar’s Jay sings a quiet song. I grab Jessie’s hand and hold it against my face, soak in her warmth and her strength. Her aliveness.

I open my mouth to respond, when the room trembles. A fissure forms across the ceiling, revealing an impenetrable abyss.

“Resuming cerebral scans,” a voice says. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

I blink. The fissure is gone. I look back at Jessie, draw her body closer.

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s play hooky.”

Derrick Boden is a recovering software developer that has taken up writing to kick the habit.