---------------

The group walked in single file, the first marking the path while the others matched his footsteps. They wore plain brown robes, and each wore a glove displaying their faith as a Follower of Crahn. The robes were ill protection in the harsh weather of the Wastelands, but the monks didn’t seem to mind; their pace never faltered, and their chants echoed continuously through the barren landscape. The Pathmarker, leader of the group, bore the Mark of Crahn boldly, letting it guide them through the endless waste. He never hesitated, confident in his faith, and his followers saw only the Blinding Light as they tramped through the dust.

The Pathmarker chanted, “What do we seek?”

The followers answered in chorus: “Enlightenment, and the Blinding Light.”

A clear voice rose from the very back of the line: “A bath. And something very strong to drink. None of this ‘take what is given’ crap. Booze, and lots of it.”

The Pathmarker didn’t seem to hear the voice. “And what have we found?”

“The truth. Vision through sacrifice,” said the chorus.

“A whole bloody lot of sand,” said the voice in back. “Oh, and that nest of giant spiders; we found that too. Remember? The ones that ate Theodus and Markum?”

“And when will we return?” chanted the Pathmarker, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

“When we have seen. When we know. When the answers are before us, and we cannot turn away.”

“When every last one of us dies in this God forsaken dump. And when I say ‘us’, of course, I mean ‘you’. I’m hitting civilization the minute this job is done. You can all rot. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot—we’ve also ‘found’ three cases of radiation poisoning. That’s pretty neat.”

“We take our meditation now,” the Pathmarker said, even though it was an hour before they would normally do so. “All shall rest, and commune with the Waste. Remember the path that mighty Crahn followed in his exile, and be soothed.”

“Ha! Hard to forget, if you ask me. Crahn didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go after getting his ‘mighty’ ass kicked out of Neocron. I would have taken one look at the Wasteland and crept back to live in the sewers, but that’s only because I have an ounce of sense. A bloody rare commodity around here.”

“Be serene,” the Pathmarker growled as his followers began to meditate. Glaring at the last two monks, he added, “Welcome the Waste into your minds.”

“Too late,” said Reaver Gray, throwing back his hood. “These minds are about as wasted as it gets.”

“I would speak with you, brother Gray,” said the Pathmarker curtly. “And your companion.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” Gray glared back as the monk next to him bowed his head. “Well, let me check my schedule. Let’s see: ‘Walk through the Wastelands like a bloody lunatic.’ ‘Inhale several pounds of dust.’ ‘Run screaming from every monster with an appetite, because I let you convince me not to bring any weapons on your ‘holy trek’ through the most dangerous land on the earth.’ Check, check, and check. You’re in luck; it looks like I can fit you in. Step into my office.”

Spotting a monk who had happened to fall into meditation under the shade of a large boulder, Gray walked over and kicked him rather hard until he rolled into the sun. Deep in his trance, the monk didn’t even notice. Gray sat in his place, and gestured grandly to the open desert. “Pull up a chair, path guy, and help yourself to my fine selection of wines. I have dirt, sand, and gravel, three of Crahns personal favorites.”

The Pathmarker ignored him. He had been getting quite a bit of practice lately. A trial, he thought. A test of faith. Studying Gray, who was pretending to drink deeply from a rock and making comments on the vintage, he wondered if it was a test he would pass. He didn’t bother studying the man’s partner. Faith or no, the figure standing behind Gray was something he was trying very hard not to think about. He was thankful that the man was wearing robes so thick as to reveal no skin, and a hood so deep that his face had not been revealed in all of the days they had spent wandering the Waste. The heat never seemed to bother the man, and he never grew tired. His pace was as steady as any of the true faithful, but he was very out of place in the desert. The Pathmarker could feel him as he marched, a presence behind him that was very alien; it almost distorted the landscape in his mind. Which took a bit of doing, considering where they were.

He sat cross-legged next to Gray. “Brother,” he said softly, so as not to disturb the meditating monks. “I must confess that your presence here fills me with anxiety. We are two from different worlds; we are those who walk on separate paths. The Blinding Light leads me, where you are trapped in the web of technology. I say this not to preach; no, for I know that the First Follower is guided by a higher power, and his will is greater than mine, and rightly so. His reason is beyond my grasp, and when he says that you must join us on Crahn’s Trek, the words are falling from Crahn to his lips. Thus is wisdom imparted on the lowly. I also understand your discontent; the ways of the true faithful are not for all. But His will is absolute, and cannot be denied. The Waste was given to us as a blessing, that we may experience it and reform our minds. Can you not accept this, brother mine, that we may work in harmony?”

“Call me brother one more time, and I’ll work at ‘reforming’ your face,” said Gray. “And stop talking like you’re reading from a book. It’s getting on my nerves; you take four sentences to say, ‘I’m thirsty’.”

“Very well,” the Pathmarker said coldly. “I will speak frankly. I do not like you, Reaver Gray. I do not know why the First Follower allowed you to join us. I do not like your companion. There is something wrong with him; he never speaks, he does not eat or drink, and he seems not to sleep. What demon have you brought among us? You agitate the faithful, and contribute nothing. You have no respect, and your constant talk of ‘civilization’ reeks of sin. It usually revolves around alcohol; I think you may have a problem. You have taken the same vow as the rest of us—to abstain from any violent acts while on this holy trek—yet you speak of nothing else. You throw rocks at the wildlife. When there is none, you throw rocks at the faithful.”

“Keep talking. I’m waiting for you to get to the bad part.”

“You do not belong here. If you dislike the Waste so much, then why do you not simply return home?”

“Two reasons,” Gray said easily. “First, I’m getting paid a hell of a lot of money for this mission. With the take on this job, I won’t have to come back to the Wastelands for a long time, and that’s fine with me. Second, the mutants are everybodys problem. The First Follower knows the limits of his people; he knows that he needs our help. I don’t like monks, but I can’t stand mutants. You guide me and my friend through the Waste, and we look for the source of the increased mutation levels. Also, I get to throw rocks at Followers. It’s a win-win situation.”

“Never before has the walk been so tainted,” said the Pathmarker. “We have always overcome the trials of the Waste; we can overcome now. We do not need you, Reaver Gray. You should not be here.”

“Oh, now you’re contradicting the holy words of your revered leader? You don’t need us, eh? I’m sure the last two Long Walks you monks took felt the same. It’s a shame none of them came back alive; I’m sure they had a jolly time trying to convert the mutants as they were carried back to camp. To be eaten, as I recall.”

The Pathmarker suddenly stood. “Very well. I see that your mind has been twisted by the path of technology; there is no reaching you now. We will work together, Reaver Gray, but only as long as the First Follower dictates. I suspect it will not be long; I do not think that you can survive the Wastes.”

“I can’t do much worse than you guys.” Gray stood as well, waving the Pathmarker away. “Fine, fine; I’m too thirsty to talk much more anyway. Let’s just get this over with. How much further until we reach the edge of mutant territory?”

“Less than a day. And may Crahn be merciful when we find them.”

“Yeah, Crahn seems to be the merciful type. Lead away, path guy. Let’s get this over with.”

The Pathmarker moved among his faithful, raising them from meditation with light brushes against their minds. Gray studied him for a while, then shook his head and glanced at his partner. He had not moved an inch since the Pathmarker had called a halt; now he stood facing the east, where the mutants were said to be. Gray had somewhat mixed feeling about the man; truly, he was no more comfortable with him than the Pathmarker, but he was glad the man was here. Whatever the monks said, you had to bring some weapons into the Waste. It was crazy not to. Then again, the Followers weren’t known for their mental stability. Hmm.

“Right then,” he said out loud. “Let’s get moving.” He eyed his partner for another moment, and added, “And try not to clank so much. It’s creeping me out.” Turning away, he started after the Pathmarker.

The man stood silent for a moment, seeming to study the horizon. He turned his head slightly, and then raised his hood to reveal two blood red eyes. They glowed briefly as he scanned the area; then they dimmed, and he lowered the hood again. Gray was right: the group had at least one weapon against the Wastes. The man followed, and it sensed Gray’s scowl as the soft noise of metal against metal reached the Hacker through the thick robes.

A weapon, indeed. It was time to eliminate the mutant threat—in more ways than one—once and for all.

-------------------------

The next day, they reached the Living Statues.

The source of all mutants was a mysterious one, and the Living Statues were an enigma wrapped inside the puzzle. Once upon a time they had been like any other mutants—as much as any mutation can resemble another—wandering the wastes, feeding and moving and…well…just living. But then something changed; whether they mutated further, or simply decided to wash their hands of the whole mutant affair, nobody knew. One by one they walked from their Wasteland village. They were obviously searching for something; satellite surveillance showed them criss-crossing through the Wastelands, sometimes stopping to examine a specific location, and then moving on. They did not eat, and they did not rest. They seemed beyond exhaustion; they ran across the Waste for days, slowing only to search an area for something Neocron scientists never discovered. The mutants discovered what they were looking for, though—at least presumably. Each finally stopped, sat down in the middle of the Waste, and…froze. Their entire body structure changed, until each mutant was as dense as the strongest laboratory produced titanium; their limbs burrowed deep into the earth, resisting all movement from their chosen location. Tangent scientists had removed one, digging into the earth to take it intact. The Statue had not resisted; no Statue moved, not after choosing its lonely post. No reports had been released of their findings, but rumor had it that the Living Statue had died immediately after being removed from the Wastelands, its body reverting to a more normal mutant form. Frustrated, the scientists supposedly went to throw the body back to the Wastes—only to discover that another mutant had arrived to take the place of the first.

And so it went. The Living Statues lived on, oblivious to the world around them. Runners would take potshots at them, using them for targeting practice, but conventional weapons had little effect on the creatures. To Gray’s knowledge, nobody had actually managed to kill one; bullets and plasma simply ricocheted off, and even the sharpest diamond edged blades eventually broke on their rocklike skin. They couldn’t be moved, unless you wanted to move several tons of earth with them, and most Runners couldn’t be bothered.

Gray sure as hell couldn’t. The Followers stood on a ledge overlooking the barren plain, each silent in thought and introspection. Gray himself had out a pair of binoculars, and was silent only because he was too thirsty to talk anymore. He saw the Living Statues dotting the landscape, as silent as the monks and a damn sight more intimidating. They had not moved, but they had grown over time; if one were to stand, it would reach at least twenty feet in height. Of course, that was if they could stand. Gray decided that their days of movement were over, if only because the alternative made him edgy. The group would have to go through these plains to reach the mutant villages, walking between the countless Statues in a test of faith and dedication. Gray would rather have put his faith in a plasma rifle instead of the Blinding Light, but nobody said the Followers had a shred of common sense about the issue.

Gray glanced at his companion, and wondered what it thought of the Statues. Probably went something along the lines of Target acquired. He hoped it did, anyway; throwing rocks at the wildlife was all well and good, but now that they were reaching the mutants Gray was regretting even more that he had agreed to leave his weapons behind. The thing next to him was silent, as ever; in its dusty robes it could have passed as a Statue itself. Of course, Gray would have paid money to watch someone try and move it.

The Pathmarker came to stand next to Gray, his face shadowed beneath his hood. “Behold the mystery of the Waste,” he said softly. “Their minds burn like beacons in the night, though their bodies have hardened away from the mundane.” He nodded his head in what might have been approval. “Would that we faithful could maintain such a vigilance. The mutants are an abomination, but these creatures transcend what they once were. See what lessons can be gained from the Waste.”

“I can’t count the number of things wrong with what you just said,” Gray replied. “And I can count awfully high. All I get from looking at those things is a cold chill down my spine. Who knows what they’re thinking?” He paused, struck by a thought. “I guess if anybody knows, it would be the Followers. Have you ever made contact?”

The Pathmarker shook his head. “We have tried. Their defenses are twofold; first, they have mental shields beyond that of the strongest defensive monk. It takes a full circle of faithful to even penetrate the first layer. Then, when we do make contact, we find something…alien. Evolved, perhaps, beyond what we can comprehend. There are thoughts and colors from the ether; numbers that have nothing to do with rational meaning, and sounds that have echoed through the vastness of otherspace to reach their ears. More than one faithful has lost his mind to the chaos; but perhaps they have only seen the Light, and can no longer turn away.”

“Wow, you would make one hell of a salesman,” said Gray dryly. “I already want to go down there and make some friends.”

“I would not expect you to understand,” the Pathmarker said coldly. “In truth, I simply came to remind you of your vow. Nowhere is it more important to refrain from acts of violence than here. The Statues slumber, unaware of our Trek; we would have it remain as such. I do not believe that you could awake them—that would be beyond any mortal—but there is no reason to disturb this holy plateau. We do not know what the Living Statues search for—”

“But you would rather be far away when they find it,” Gray finished. “Don’t worry, o glorious leader. I have no intention of disturbing these sleeping beauties. Not without an army to back me up, and even then I wouldn’t be placing any bets.”

“Do not speak of such sacrilege,” the Pathmarker said, for perhaps the thousandth time since beginning this Trek. He gave Gray and his companion a cold bow, and tried as hard as he could not to stalk away.

“Stuffy bastard,” Gray muttered. “I suppose you can’t expect much better from a Follower of Crahn.” He started to nudge his companion, and then quickly thought the better of it. “What do you think of all this?”

“I think that you tread dangerous waters,” came a soft voice from behind.

Gray spun around, reaching for weapons that weren’t there. A monk stood before him, his head bowed. When he looked up Gray saw that he wore a small, cynical smile; his eyes quickly darted from Gray to his companion, to the plains below and back again. Gray couldn’t tell which monk he was; they all looked the same to him.

“What I wouldn’t give for a little water right now,” he said, swearing inwardly at his lack of weapons (again).

To his surprise, the monk reached into his robes and brought out a canteen. “Drink sparingly,” he warned. “Your body has become accustom to a lack of fluids.” Gray took a small sip, then a bigger one. He handed the canteen back with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you monks weren’t supposed to bring things like that on the Long Walk.”

The monk shrugged. “There are many things that are forbidden. Most are simply for form. Some of us have moved…beyond such things.”

“Yourself, for example?” The monk simply shrugged. “Fine; at least one of you is showing a little sense. What do you mean, I’m treading dangerous waters?”

The monk nodded toward the plains below. “You are not taking this trek seriously.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous,” Gray said, rather tactfully as far as he was concerned. “A bunch of monks run around in the Wastelands until they pass out, have ‘visions’, and then stagger back to tell everybody about how radiation and having your liver pecked out by a mutated vulture purifies the soul. Give me a bottle of sin soda and I’ll give you some visions; and they’ll be a lot nicer than the ones you supposedly see out here. Most of them won’t even be wearing clothes.”

The monk shook his head, but did not seem discomfited by Gray’s words. His slight smile remained; he regarded Gray as though studying a small but potentially dangerous animal. “The trek is not for everybody,” he admitted, “but it is the dangers that you need to acknowledge. More than just the danger of the mutants; have you given any thought to those you work for? And to what exactly they look to gain from all of this?”

Gray returned the man’s penetrating look. This was more than he had heard any monk speak, aside from the Pathmarker, and he wasn’t speaking like a normal Follower. Also, what did he know about Gray’s employers? Even the Pathmarker didn’t know everything, and that was a damned sight more than Gray would have liked. Gray glanced at his companion; the thing in monk robes was still staring to the east, its face unseen beneath its cowl. No help there. Not that he had expected any.

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” he said finally. “And even if I did, it sounds like something pretty dangerous to discuss. It sure as hell isn’t safe to ask about—in my opinion, at least, which I would measure as worth about twice yours.”

The monk bowed his head, unperturbed by the response. “As you say. However, if things should…change…then I encourage you to take advantage of my confidence. You will need friends soon, Reaver Gray—allies, at the very least, and I promise you that you will find very few of either in the Wastes.”

“You know about a hundred ways to say, ‘Please hit me’, don’t you?” Gray said, only half jokingly.

The monk bowed again, hiding his slight smile. “Are we forgetting our vow?”

“The specifics are a little hazy,” Gray admitted. “Who are you, anyway?”

The man waved the question away. “Unimportant. For the moment, my name is Malek Elicrahn. You should have little difficulty locating me when the time is right.”

“Trust me, that time will never come.” Gray didn’t know whether he should be worried or amused. He had never heard the name Malek Elicrahn, but that was to be expected—he didn’t make a habit of memorizing monk’s names. But something about the man was…odd. Even aside from his blunt—by Follower standards, at least—speech, his attitude toward the trek felt almost like disdain. He was carrying a canteen, a forbidden item on the trek, and he didn’t seem to care who knew. And he thought the Gray would come to him for help…

“As you say,” Malek Elicrahn repeated. “Be prepared, Reaver Gray. We move through the Statues tomorrow morning.”

“After you,” said Gray. “After all of you, in fact. I still can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Belief is crucial when making the Long Walk,” said the monk. “Remember that.” Malek abruptly turned away, leaving Gray and his companion alone on the ledge. Gray stared at his retreating back for a moment, and then turned back to study the Living Statues.

“Belief,” he said to himself. “Just like a monk. Well, we’ll see about that.”

* * *

Dawn came, and the plains were still. The Statues had, of course, not moved, and Gray had spent the night certain that they were staring at him. Sleep was a remote option at best, so Gray had spent the night wondering if he could sharpen a few rocks just in case. Not that it would do any good.

The monks spent the night in meditation, and none showed any sign of trepidation. The Pathmarker studied his Followers with something akin to pride; he found it difficult to fight the sinful emotion down. He had led many monks into the Wastes, and in this group he saw no fear or hesitation—only faith and determination. They would not falter no matter what the mutants did; their belief was absolute. The Pathmarker could not help but feel that they would persevere where the others had failed. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, ordering the monks into strict ranks, lightly probing at their minds to detect any crack in their mental defenses. He found none.

And so they walked. Gray and his companion fell in at the end of the line, and nobody complained. He had meant it when he said that the monks could all go first; he wanted plenty of warning if the Statues decided that they had sat around for long enough. The monks filed silently through the first ranks of the Statues, and Gray couldn’t help but try to look in every direction at once. The Living Statues didn’t move…but they were watching. He could tell—but whenever he looked they were just sitting there, staring at the horizon.

His companion didn’t seem bothered at all. But then, he wouldn’t.

Finally they were through the ranks. The Living Statues slowly fell behind, and the monks acted for all the world as though this did not surprise them. Gray could almost feel a smug aura radiating from the Pathmarker, so when he took one last glance and saw what was behind them his satisfaction almost outweighed the stark terror that suddenly stabbed into his heart. He took a deep breath, and then started pushing his way through the ranks of Followers. A monk that might have been Malek Elicrahn glanced sideways at him; Gray ignored him almost aggressively.

He reached the front of the line, tapped the Pathmarker on the shoulder, and said, “You may want to rethink that vow of yours. The Statues are apparently feeling frisky today.” He hiked a thumb over his shoulder as the Pathmarker turned. “It seems as though they’re following us.”

* * *

Time passed, and now there was a new feeling in the air. The monks radiated…not anticipation, as such. Resignation. They did not falter as, and strode the Wasteland with the same determined steps, but they were obviously waiting for the inevitable to drop rather heavily on them, ending what may be the last Long Walk taken by the Followers. A trial, the Pathmarker had said. A test of our faith.

“What if we don’t have any?” Gray had asked.

“I’ll watch and take notes,” the monk replied, “and read them aloud as a warning to others.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the Pathmarker hadn’t sounded so smug about it. Well, truthfully it probably would have, but Gray was taking small comfort by composing a spiteful list of reasons to hit the monk, and too bloody smug for his own good was right on top. Too smug for Gray’s own good as well, for dragging him out here in the first place. The Pathmarker would probably point out that Gray was getting paid, and that he hadn’t wanted the Hacker on the Trek in the first place, but that was just another reason to hit him. Too logical, when he should be scared out of his mind. Bastard.

Now Gray took another look over his shoulder, even though he knew what he would see. And there they were: the Living Statues, flagrantly ignoring the fact that statues were known—renowned, really—for not moving. They matched the group’s speed exactly, moving ponderously over the Waste even though their massive limbs could easily cover the distance between them in a matter of minutes. Their movement was awkward, as though they had forgotten the trick of it, and Gray found that if he stared to long he started stiffening up in sympathy. ‘Dangerous’ was not the word that came to mind when he studied them; he didn’t know if it was the way that they moved, or some psychic emanation, but he didn’t sense violence in them. Yet. Other words did come to mind, however, such as, ‘Unstoppable’, ‘Powerful’, and ‘Bloody Huge, And Did I Mention They’re Made Of Stone?’. Passive aura or no, these words were more than enough to ruin Gray’s day, whatever the Pathmarker said about trials and tests. Gray had always been suspicious of tests at school, and found ways to dodge them at every opportunity; at this point, it was almost a matter or principle.

And so the group walked on, shadowed by creatures none of them understood. Gray had spent some time walking at the front of the column, on the principle that if the Living Statues changed their attitudes about the situation then at least there would be a group of monks to entertain them first as Gray ran screaming into the desert. However, that had entailed a sudden divinely inspired sermon from the Pathmarker, who claimed to have been working on it for Gray personally. It had involved a lot of ‘the sins of technology,’ and ‘alcohol tainting the mind as well as the flesh’ and ‘just what exactly were you doing in the ladies sleeping chambers at the monastery anyway?’ All of that was in the first minute and a half of the lecture, which was all the time it took for Gray to decide he would rather take his chances with the Statues.

Gray wasn’t particularly sensitive in the fashion of monks, but even his untrained mind could pick up the feeling in the air. Whatever the Pathmarker said, this Trek was simply waiting for the inevitable. The last two Long Walks had ended rather horribly, and they hadn’t even involved the Living Statues. The mutants had never been considered friendly, but until recently they and the Followers of Crahn had worked out a tenuous truce. Certainly it involved killing each other on sight—on some issues, there simply was no middle ground—but they both made efforts to avoid each other. For various reasons, nobody really wanted to claim mutant territory, not the least of which because living there for too long tended to repopulate it with mutants anyway. The occasional Runner made his or her way out there for some battle experience, or to make a few credits on bounties, or to collect mutant body parts for reasons Gray quite frankly did not want to think of—but nobody really threatened them. And for the most part, the mutants didn’t threaten anybody. Unless they got too close, in which case they had only themselves to blame. Having claimed the Wastelands as their holy ground—in a manner of speaking; Gray had always been a little hazy about the monk’s relation to the Waste, and had no intention of learning any more about it—the Followers of Crahn had become especially adept at avoiding all mutant contact. They knew the areas of mutant habitation better than any other group, and aside from posting a handful of guards around the larger settlements they generally had nothing to do with the creatures. It seemed to work out well; the Followers used the Waste for…whatever they used it for, and the mutants ignored the guards unless they got too close. Then they ate them.

A good arrangement. Until the mutants had appeared in much larger numbers than had ever been recorded, carrying off two Long Walks into the center of what had previously been thought to be a small mutant outpost. The monks did not know where the mutants had come from, or how they had so easily overpowered the Long Walkers—and Gray didn’t believe for a moment that they would passively let themselves be carried away, whatever peaceful vows they had taken. The Followers had badgered, threatened, and sermonized until someone had given them access to satellite surveillance, but it hadn’t done them any good. Getting images out of the Waste was tricky to begin with, but both of the mutant incidents had been accompanied by unusually powerful surges of radioactive interference, ruining the footage completely. The same went for the mutant outpost; radioactive interference fluctuated wildly in the area, and most of the information they could gather made no sense anyway. In fact, almost every concentration of mutants had become unstable, blinding all recording gear and irritating techies all over Neocron.

Supposedly the Followers had sent a mental probe of their own, but Gray didn’t know what had come of it. He got the impression that the monks were trying very, very hard not to think about it.

But neither of the previous Treks had gone through the fields of the Living Statues. This one was going directly to the outpost in the center of it all, and the monks hadn’t been certain of how the mutants would react. Gray had tried telling them, loudly, but nobody listened to him. And now here they were, followed by creatures nobody knew how to kill, and still looking forward to enough mutants to make a squad of City Admin shock troopers blink. Twice. And Gray was feeling more the fool with every step.

“You look thirsty.”

Gray turned back forward, not surprised. “Elicrahn. I thought you took vows of silence when Walking.”

“You think too much. Or not enough. I’m still debating.” The monk passed his canteen to Gray.

Gray took a deep drink, and only long experience kept him from coughing, or ripping off his clothes to do cartwheels through the desert. Instead he raised an eyebrow, and then tipped the canteen back even further.

Malek Elicrahn looked faintly impressed. “That’s not water, you know.”

“Really?” said Gray. “Let me check again.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” said Elicrahn, grabbing the canteen with a quickness Gray easily could have matched two drinks ago. “I’m not here to leave you unconscious on the ground.”

“Maybe you should be. I thought that alcohol—”

“—was forbidden on Crahn’s Trek, yes, yes. Sometimes I despair, Reaver Gray. I truly do. I thought that they sent you here because you knew how to think.”

Gray glanced over his shoulder again. “I’m a little distracted right now.”

“Get over it. There are important things going on right now, and you can’t afford to lose focus.”

Gray sighed. “All right, mysterious-monk-who-breaks-all-of-the-rules-and-apparently-knows-my-job-better-than-I-do. What’s so important that I don’t already know about?”

Elicrahn studied Gray for a moment, and then seemed to shrug. “More than I could conveniently disclose. Right now all you need to know is that things are not going to be as you expect.”

They walked in silence for a while, and Gray finally said: “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Elicrahn gestured forward. “Things ahead. And things behind. It was not expected that the Living Statues would take an interest, but it does not really come as a surprise. The outpost is no longer inhabited by a small community of mutants. Things are moving in the Wastelands, Reaver Gray. Large things. And not all of it is as it seems.”

“Wow,” said Gray dryly. “I sure am impressed by the magnitude of all this. No; wait. You just spent seven sentences explaining absolutely nothing. I’m not impressed after all. Maybe a little drunk, but not enough.”

“Is it ever enough?” said Elicrahn philosophically, although Gray didn’t know why. After a moment he decided that it was a rhetorical question. “Very well. Perhaps they were wise to send you after all. The outpost is more than just a community now, Gray. It is…larger, both physically and mentally. There is a presence there, one not felt for many long ages. Something is moving in ether-space, and we do not know if it is friendly. Hungry, perhaps, though that is not unusual. But for what?” Elicrahn studied the horizon thoughtfully for a moment, and then continued, “I would prefer not to find out. At least not personally.”

“Sage advice,” said Gray.

“There are some mutants who see things differently. Mutants with names; mutants that may be sympathetic to our cause.”

“We have a cause? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“You’ll discover it as you go along, I expect. Listen: I may not be around to consult with later. I’m sure that crushes you, both spiritually and emotionally, but you must move on. Memorize these names: Jonathan Finn. Helen Angilley. The Ripper—although some call him Jack. I daresay I don’t know why. And most importantly, Regent Dowell.”

“Dowell? But that’s—”

“Yes,” interrupted Elicrahn. “Good. You do pay attention. But it’s best not to speak of such things. Simply remember the names. When the time comes, you will know to seek them.”

“Yeah, well, earlier you said that when the time came, you would be easy enough to find.”

“That was before the Statues. Now…things are not so certain.”

“Can you tell me anything about these people? Er…mutants?”

Elicrahn shrugged. “Jonathan Finn is—or was—a psi, from a powerful family of psis. The Finns are supposedly descended from the original monks. Their gene pattern has always been a bit unstable, and it finally turned when Jonathan was born. They handed him off to the mutants—out of shame or mercy, I don’t know—but he’s always maintained strong Guardian contacts. Helen Angilley, also a Guardian by birth. Born human, but spent a little too much time in the Wastes. She’s got an odd view of the world, but that’s what happens when your eyes see two separate realities. The Ripper…well. I don’t know how to describe the Ripper. You’ll have to judge for yourself. Same goes for Regent Dowell. It’s better not to talk about him.”

“It sounds to me like it’s better not to talk about any of them. Listen, you’re not the only one who may have a contact. This quiet fellow next to me isn’t the only friend I’ve got—”

Gray fell silent as the Pathmarker raised a hand. The column came to a halt, the monks stirring restlessly at the unexpected stop. The Pathmarker slowly turned his head, and Gray followed his gaze. He saw nothing at first. Then the air rippled, and mutants appeared all around them. Gray, his mind honed on Hacking, quickly counted one hundred before he gave it up as pointless. The mutants were armed, but none had drawn their weapons. Gray took that as a good sign, as it was the only one he could find. Hostility roiled off of the creatures in waves, and Gray couldn’t help but notice many of them grinning.

And then one stepped forward. He was tall, broad shouldered, and looked more human than average. Except for the third eye. It was planted solidly in his forehead, and it blinked with the other two. He strode forward unconcernedly, seemingly at ease, and he was smiling in a way that Gray could only call dashing, much as he tried not to. He was unarmed, and he had his hands spread wide to show no threat. He radiated goodwill, and a calm authority came from him so strongly it could nearly knock you down. But for the third eye, he would be considered handsome, and perfectly human.

Gray instantly decided that he didn’t trust him. Nobody’s teeth should be that white.

Malek Elicrahn hissed. “Dowell! Too soon! How would he know…?”

Gray glanced at him. “I thought you said that Dowell was a contact—”

But Elicrahn was gone, blending into the crowd of increasingly nervous monks. Gray himself moved closer to his companion; the large, quiet figure was slowly turning its head, scanning the surrounding ranks of mutants.

Dowell stopped in front of the Pathmarker. He bowed, every motion balanced and graceful. The Pathmarker, suddenly looking uncertain, nodded in return. Dowell said, “Welcome, faithful. Forgive the sudden arrival, and the numbers. I know you must feel threatened. Rest assured, it is for your own protection. There are things moving in the Waste. It is best to be prepared.”

The Pathmarker looked about as reassured as Gray felt, and Gray was currently wishing that he had brought a nuclear warhead with him. Still, nobody had drawn a weapon. The Pathmarker said, “We are…startled. We did not expect this. What do you want with us?”

Dowell smiled again. “Why, only to welcome you. You were headed to our city, yes? It’s only fitting that you should receive an escort to the New Kingdom of Mutants.”