Harold the Suburban Magus

                Harold stirred in his bed, the morning sun being resisted but not defeated by his frankly vile brown curtains. He liked them, but by all objective measurements of beauty he was wrong to do so. With a groan he looked over at his digital alarm clock and saw that he still had twenty minutes until it would sound.
                ‘Typical. I’ll never get back to sleep before that goes off.’ He lamented to himself in the midst of his pillow stack. He rolled over, but his pyjamas didn’t follow suit, constricting themselves around his neck and pulling on him.
                ‘Ugh, blasted things.’ Harold cursed as he wriggled his shoulders and tried to shuffle the clothing back into place. The sounds of fabric rubbing against fabric seemed obnoxiously loud in his tired stupor. They also sounded a lot more wooden than he would have anticipated. Harold ceased his rustling and listened. The scratching sounds continued, albeit sounding like they were farther away.
                ‘What on Earth is th… oooohh’ the memory of the previous night came flooding back; he really had to stop putting off his problems and just going to bed. With embarrassment and annoyance, Harold remembered that he'd summoned an eldritch abomination the previous evening and was yet to get rid of it. Much like yesterday’s washing up, it was still roaming around the kitchen, waiting judgementally to be dealt with and probably racing towards decay. Sometimes, being a magus was more of a hassle than it was worth.

                In the ages of mythology, magic had been commonplace. The animal-headed Egyptian gods accepted sacrifices, the titans and men of Greece were victims to the whims of Mount Olympus and humble witchcraft was responsible for every bad crop in continental Europe. But as time went by and technology moved on, magic began to fade from the world. The great gods were stripped of their powers, fantastical beings disappeared from the face of the Earth, and of all the young women executed as witches, but a handful were truly capable of magic. The decline of magic happened almost in perfect harmony with the improvement of dental care, but in the modern world of industry, technology and affordable toothbrushes, one bastion of arcane power and crooked oral enamel remained. A causal relationship between oral hygiene and arcane powers is yet to be proved, but anecdotal evidence appears to be undeniable.
                Every one hundred years, a grand magus of great magical prowess is born onto the Earth by the will and whim of the otherworldly powers. This grand magus took a role of supreme authority, commanding and teaching other, lesser magic users and solving the problems that only the arcane arts could influence. For generations, none but the grand magus themselves could ever predict the identity of the next grand magus, but cabals of evil grew powerful over the years. They worked in shadows and conspired amongst themselves to learn the secrets of the grand magi. After generations of sabotage and conflict, a damning curse was finally laid upon the line of grand magi, stilling the hearts of the chosen in their infancy and leaving the world devoid of sorcery. So effective was the curse that there had been no mage in adulthood for over 400 years prior to the birth of Harold.
                The line of saboteurs had disappeared sometime during the great wars of the twentieth century, leaving none to continue the clandestine crusade against magic and maintain the curse. There were none in place even to detect Harold when he survived through his childhood, let alone have his assassinated. He was the first magus free to practice the magical arts in generations, but in the absence of magic the world had moved beyond any reliance on magi. Certainly, no-one in West Turnton had thought they needed a grand magus before Harold had been born. Once he became active, those suspicions were fully confirmed.
                The problem was that although Harold was grand, wasn't a particularly good magus; he wasn't even a particularly good person. He kept an immaculate garden though, which he insisted was the product of his own honest hard work, but was really a needless form of exchange magic. His neighbour Margery suspected as much, looking over at Harold's spotless lawn from her own untamed jungle of weeds. She'd long given up on trying to pull them out – she would spend hours meticulously un-rooting invasive plants from her lawn only to find that they had all reappeared the very next day. Whenever Margery mentioned this to Harold he magnanimously replied that he didn't mind at all. It wasn’t how he’d leave his own garden, of course, but it wasn’t affecting him so why should he be concerned? Margery’s business was her own, he said, and he wouldn’t interfere.
                Harold’s magical education and instruction had been severely hindered by the lack of any other magic users in existence for the last 4 centuries. With so little expertise around, he hadn’t even realised his own status as a grand magus until his late teens, by which point he’d already got a job in the local shop, and had no real time for arcane studies alongside his college work.
                Once he had achieved his qualifications, Harold gave a cursory look to magical education. In his spare time, he began to consult library books on famous wizards and attempted to trace their writing. With no wizards actively practicing magic in recent history, let alone writing anything they were doing down, reference texts were both patchy and outdated. As such, Harold’s methods and approach to problem solving were often somewhat archaic; Merlin’s teachings featured heavily, which is tremendous for a court wizard protecting a glorious monarch, but less appropriate for life in a suburb of Surrey.
                Given the relative dearth of reference texts, Harold took a parallel path of forging his own magical styles in order to increase his repertoire. After many years of hard study, alchemical experimentation and blind trials, Harold became a master and a pioneer of beeomancy – the sorcery of bee manipulation. Harold singlehandedly put the honey makers of West Turnton out of business and indirectly led to over a thousand stingings in his first year alone. He considered this to be his greatest personal achievement in the field of magic.

                Harold lurched out of bed and pulled his dressing gown around himself. He’d bought one with a hood so it felt more like a wizard’s robe, but he rarely put it up; it just felt silly. After slipping his feet into the pair of slippers neatly placed next to the bed, he shambled down the stairs to deal with his abomination.
                Waiting in the kitchen was the grim result of yesterday’s work. It looked like a man-sized chicken drawn by a three-year old, with the legs of a donkey to add flair and stuffed full with the bones of a rhino. Harold looked upon it with a quiet mixture of regret and sadness; he’d never really got the hang of summoning spells, which is why he favoured the training-wheels of exchange magic in most cases. Cleaning up the mess of a bad summon was enough to make Harold practice it infrequently, so he hadn’t improved in the last few decades. For someone without tuition though, he told himself, he was doing a jolly fine job. Merlin would have been spinning in his grave.
                “OK, bugger off. Get out of my house.” Harold told the abomination, making shooing motions with his arms and directing it towards the front door. “Go on.” Harold’s banishment spells had also been a non-starter.
                The abomination regarded Harold and recognised him as its summoner. Under normal circumstances it would have been bound to follow his every instruction, but this summoning had been poor at best. The runes painted onto the kitchen floor appeared not to be blood but a strange mix of beef-dripping and tomato puree, the lines of salt were a low sodium alternative, and the skulls on display had been salvaged from a nearby mousetrap. It was an embarrassing show and did not lend itself to commanding respect and dominance.
                The summoned body was too poor to be capable of true speech, so the abomination articulated its thoughts by tipping its head slowly to one side, continuing past the point of broken bones until it was completely upside down.
                “Don’t give me that look! You know what I mean, now get out.” Harold told it indignantly, folding his arms over his middle-aged paunch and fixing the beast with a stern glare through his spectacles. The abomination completed the rotation of its head in a chorus of crunching and grinding bones. The skin had already been stretched over the rhino bones, but on top of that it was now horribly twisted and taut. This was exactly the sort of thing that Harold hadn’t wanted next to the fruit bowl.
                “No amount of head twisting is going to make you welcome. Shoo!” Harold grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and swept aggressively. The abomination wasn’t going to tangle with cleaning equipment wielded in anger, so it span on its hind legs and lopsidedly hobbled away, rocking violently as each leg came down at a different height. Its distended shoulder knocked a painting off the wall of the hallway, spilling broken glass onto the floor, and despite having already deployed the broom, Harold was still aggravated. When the abomination reached the front door it found that it didn’t have the necessary appendages to operate the door, and its efforts to peck the handle down proved futile.
                Harold shimmied past the grotesque horror and opened the door for it.
                “There you go.” He said passive-aggressively, as if the creature had been deliberately stalling. The abomination looked at him with an upside down head again, as if contemplating that its freedom was no longer so appealing. Harold shimmied back and grabbed the broom again.
                “I’m warning you.” he threatened, with bristles aimed directly at the beast. It pecked towards Harold in a show of displeasure at being shown the business end of the implement. Harold wasn’t going to balk at a fight for his own home however, and he whacked the abomination squarely where the rhino pelvis seemed to be resting, which was somewhere in the chest region. With a yelp and a peck, the abomination ran out of the front door and along the driveway, crashing into Harold’s wheelie bin as it did so. Rubbish bags tumbled onto the pavement, promptly getting torn open as the abomination struggled to walk over them. It bucked in annoyance before regaining its footing, and then scampered its way down the street and out of sight.
                “Oh for goodness sakes! Bloody vandal.” Harold shouted at the beast as he looked at the liberally spread rubbish on the driveway and the road. “I ought to grab him by the scruff of his neck and make him clean the lot up!” he told no-one in particular. Even if someone had been around to hear him they wouldn’t have believed that he’d do it.
                As if his own bin being toppled wasn’t enough, Harold was incensed to see that Margery's bin was overhanging his driveway YET AGAIN. The thin wall which separated the two driveways was narrower than a single wheelie bin, meaning that there was always overhang if a bin was placed in front of it. Margery always made sure that her own driveway was clear, the hag.
                Harold had enchanted his wheelie bins to put themselves on the kerb every week, avoiding the hassle of doing it himself. As if to spite his good idea, Margery’s actions forced him to go out and manually move a bin anyway. Too many times he had been forced to shift it back over her driveway; too many times had he seen the aftermath of a badger knocking it over onto his petunias; the time for retribution was at hand.
                He stomped his way out to the drive and grabbed the devil's wheelie bin roughly by the handle. The lid flapped open as he yanked the bin, slapping his knuckles and further earning his ire. Whilst it was open though, he took the opportunity to put his own spilled rubbish inside – a fitting punishment for Margery using his space. He wheeled the bin away and left it squarely in the centre of Margery’s drive, ensuring that if she tried to drive around it she’d have to either scrape against the wall or crush her magnolias.
                Margery appeared almost immediately at her front door; Harold supposed that she wasn’t bat-like in appearance alone, having clearly heard the rumble of wheels from inside the house. He didn’t acknowledge her though, as he was deep in incantation. A wind emanated from the wheelie bin, causing his loose dressing gown to flap and dead leaves to dance elegantly around him.
                “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BIN!?” Margery shouted over the eldritch commotion. Harold ignored her, continuing with his spell-craft.
                “PUT THAT BACK! IT’S BLOCKING MY DRIVEWAY!” she continued. The wind died sharply, not dissipating gradually but suddenly disappearing outright.
                “Good! It’s your own bloody bin, and I told you to keep it on your own side, but you still insisted on blocking my access. Only a true king may pull this bin from your driveway now, Margery.” Harold told her smugly. “I hope it was worth it!” Monarch anchoring spells were one of the few things he'd managed to learn from Merlin.
                “You petty oaf!” Margery shouted back him, but he ignored her with his held high and re-entered his own home. She immediately rushed out and attempted to put her bin in front of the wall, but found that it was impossible to move. She swore under her breath, cursing her non-regal lineage, and went back inside.

                Harold sat at his kitchen table for breakfast whilst his enchanted broom swept up the broken glass in the hallway. In days gone by Harold had cast spells on the broom so that it would not only pile up the sweepings but dispose of them entirely. Where the broom had been putting all the sweepings had been a mystery to Harold for many years, but all became clear when his gutters started to overflow despite the lack of any moss or leaves nearby to his roof. A simple modification to the enchantment solved that problem, with the added bonus of clogging Margery’s gutters instead.
                The kettle was busily boiling water for a cup of coffee, eyeing the dishcloth with an air of suspicion. It was a replacement of the previous, worn out cloth and the kettle couldn’t help but feel resentful. Most dishcloths ignored the kettle’s need for cleaning, treating it as an eternally clean surface rather than another critical utensil for washing. Months could go by, grime building gradually, without even so much as a wipe over. The previous dishcloth had been different, though. It had taken time to clean the kettle inside and out on at least a weekly basis with suds and everything! The new cloth would have an awful lot to live up to, although if the kettle forced itself to be fair, it supposed that Harold’s enchantment was the primary factor involved here, rather than the dishcloths work ethic.
                The cupboards didn’t know why the kettle was so riled up. They too were relative strangers to the touch of the cloth but they didn’t complain all day. After all, neither they nor the kettle were put inside Harold’s mouth, and therefore they didn’t need such regular attention. Being cleaned too often would lead to a greater chance of developing allergies anyway, the cupboards had heard, so perhaps their low-frequency cleaning schedule was for the best.
                Little did either of them know, but the new dishcloth was under the same enchantment as all of its predecessors. Harold didn’t enchant all of them separately, he just transferred the magic over. The dishcloth kept this as its most closely guarded secret, adopting a new personality with every new body to keep the rest of the kitchen guessing. It was probably a sociopath.

                Harold was ignorant to the politics of his kitchen as one of his spoons served him breakfast. A shirt and trousers were attempting to covertly slip themselves on the magus’ body while he sat and ate, but because Harold was seated they were destined to struggle. When he felt a shirt crumpling itself between his back and the chair he stood up to give it some access, stumbling on the trousers which were tangled around his ankles. He span to one side and fell face down onto the ground, an opportunity that both shirt and trousers seized to ambush him.
                “Blasted clothes sneaking up on me.” Harold grizzled as he stood himself back up. He’d long ago cast a softening spell on his floors so that falling down would not hurt as much, but it did mean that heavy furniture had a tendency to sink. His fridge-freezer was half a foot below the floor level, so the lower door was completely useless.
                Once his breakfast was eaten, his clothes were put on and his work bag had presented itself to him, Harold stepped into his shoes and exited the house. As he opened the garage door he was pleased to overhear Margery arguing with the binmen.
                “How many roaming monarchs do you think there are in West Turnton?" She shouted, clearly agitated. “Why can’t you just take the bags out?”
                “Health and safety. Can’t lift heavy bags out of the bin like that because it might hurt my back.”
                “It’s not full of gravel for Christ’s sake! It’s wrappers and empty yoghurt pots.”
                “Yoghurt pots and wrappers should be in separate bags. Are you mixing your recycling and waste?” The binman said interrogatively. He opened the lid of the wheelie bin and gasped.
                “You are! And these bags are torn open as well, everything would fall out if I tried to lift it. What are you trying to pull here?”
                “They weren’t when I put them in! They… this isn’t even my rubbish. Who… Harold!”
                Harold laughed to himself as he got in the car. The day might hold something worthwhile after all.

                The ancient texts all suggested that Harold should earn his gold by solving magical problems, taking quests, and providing remedies. Better still would be to claim an income as a royal advisor of course, but such vocations can be dangerous depending on the monarch. Harold didn't really feel like he could make a living from selling potions and medicines; not only did he know very few formulae, but there was already a Boots store in West Turnton and it was much closer to the bus stop than his house. Besides, no-one wanted a deer's blood tincture when paracetamol only cost 30p. In lieu of any royal advisory positions being open, Harold was forced to find work as project scheduler in order to pay his mortgage - fulfilling magical contracts freelance wasn't seen as a reliable source of income by any of the major banks.
                Harold pulled into the busy car park outside the office. Parking had been getting steadily more challenging as the company grew, but nowadays if you wanted a space you had to arrive at approximately sunset the previous day. Crawling through the car park in vain hopes of finding a free space, Harold saw something which made his blood boil - a sporty looking vehicle parked neatly on the line between two spaces by what could only have been an anthropomorphised buttock. Here Harold was, just trying to get himself to his poxy job, and he was being prevented from doing so by the selfishness of a carrier-bag full of old shower-water masquerading as a human being.
                Pulling up behind the offending vehicle, Harold closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Any observer might have thought he was attempting to cool his temper, but they would have been wrong. Deeply wrong. In moments, a quiet hum emanated from the surrounding air, which grew to a deafening buzz as a legion of bees descended onto the sports car. They swarmed its wing mirrors, clustered around the wheel arches and formed elegant patterns atop the roof, all at Harold’s command. Working as a single super-hive with the magus at its head, the bees worked quickly and efficiently around the car, encasing it in a honeycomb of poor parking decisions and actual honeycomb. The hive structure bulged from all orifices and crevices of the vehicle, as if someone had gone mad with a particularly rustic tube of decorators caulk, and distorted the car into a surrealist nightmare carriage. It was some of Harold’s finest work.
                Viscerally and vindictively pleased by his masterpiece, Harold followed it up by bringing the bees all to one side of the car. Acting as a team, they pushed it along the ground until it was within the bounds of one space only, a feat which was easy enough for the bees but apparently terribly difficult for the ‘human’ driver. Dark smears of rubber remained on the ground to mark the car’s path, and Harold drove happily over them to park in his rightfully won space. Their work done, the bees dispersed back to their daily activities, feeling as if they’d all taken part in something much larger than themselves, and an improved sense of community.

                Without acknowledging any of his colleagues, Harold slumped down onto his chair in the office. He grumpily switched on his computer, awaiting whatever bad news the monkeys he tried to arrange and organise would surely have left for him.
                Harold was not an adept computer user, being of that age to distrust them implicitly rather than learn about them. He had, however, decided to speed things up by enchanting his keyboard and mouse to do his bidding without contact. This tended to unnerve some of the other support staff and was the subject of a number of 'betterment chats' with the group formerly known as the disciplinary board. As his emails opened in front of him, he breathed a heavy, defeated sigh at the list of names and panicked subjects awaiting his attention. It was back to the daily hell.
                Harold’s day, as with all work days, passed at half the rate of normal time. He’d repeatedly tried to cast a spell to speed up the passage of time inside the office, thereby allowing him to whip through his work day more quickly, but all he’d manged to achieve was an acceleration of deadlines. If anything, he’d made life much harder for himself.
                After what Harold assessed to have been at least 6 hours, it was in fact mid-morning, and he noticed some commotion in the tea area to the side of the office. It seemed that Gary, one of the salespeople with a large mouth and an even larger need to be hit there, was setting out some cake, sweets, cheeses and fruit. It could mean only one thing - a birthday.
                Harold had no time for office birthdays. He didn't understand why anyone should be forced to bring in treats just for being born, he didn't understand why anyone else in the office should be expected to care, and he certainly didn't understand why no-one ever invited him out to the drinks afterwards. He would have categorically declined every invitation anyway, but he still felt robbed of every opportunity to say no.
                At 11 O’clock the tea area was plagued with milling employees all pretending to like Gary and wish him well, entirely as an excuse to eat cake and not do any work. They were clogging the small room, blocking any access Harold should have had to the kettle despite it clearly being time for his mid-morning tea top up.
                Grumpily, Harold pushed away from his desk, grasped his mug by the handle (to grasp it elsewhere would have been foolish) and ambled towards the overly busy tea area. Entering the cloud of false sincerity and empty compliments, Harold was forced to huff and grunt requests at several people to excuse him, as if he was the one who should need to be excused. It was his right to get to the kettle, but these human obstacles were standing in a stupid place and getting in the way.

                Harold stood at his final destination by the kettle and waited for it to boil, teabag already in the mug and ready for a quick escape from this over-populated hellscape. Before the kettle made it to boiling point, however, Gary called out.
                “Harold! Here to do some magic tricks for me? Make it a party? Gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat?” He said with smug self-confidence, buoyed by the grinning buffoons around him. He got a few laughs as payment for the cake.
                Harold replied devastatingly with a heavy sigh, which should surely have been enough to put the loud-mouth into his place.
                “Turn me into a frog?” Gary followed up, clearly a glutton for punishment in inviting a second sigh and even a shake of the head.
                “Unleash flying monkeys?”
                Harold slowly turned to face the grinning git. Comparing a grand magus to a common magician was insulting enough, but to be compared to a witch? A wicked witch? That was too much.
                “Right, that's it you waste of skin.” Harold snapped at Gary, frowning and raising his arms. He’d been working on a new spell and this was the perfect opportunity to try it out.
                “AGGLOMERATE!” he shouted, pointing towards the table of treats.
                The large birthday cake on the table vibrated and began to drift rightwards, and simultaneously a large block of Stilton drifted leftwards. The gaggle of vultures looked on, some in innocent confusion and others with the horror of realisation as the two mismatched food items approached one another across the surface of the table. When the Stilton met the edge of the cake it started to get absorbed, not puncturing the surface at all but soaking into it like water. As the cheese disappeared, it left a Stilton-coloured stain which spread outwards like the sun rising across an unusually flat and heavily iced plateau. In a few short seconds the whole cake had adopted the grey-white and blue-veined pallor of Stilton, with a layer of unpleasant looking icing oozing down the sides. The faint click of the kettle finishing its work was the only sound in the room.
                In the shocked silence, Harold calmly filled his mug with hot water and walked back to his desk, leaving Gary and his cronies with their newfound baker’s nightmare.

                A disciplinary hearing for disruption to Gary’s celebration was called and then immediately suspended. Harold presumed that he had successfully managed to convince everyone it had been a cheesecake all along, but HR’s realisation that spontaneous snack transmutation wasn't covered by dignity at work guidelines was a much larger factor.  Powerless though they were to punish him for agglomeration, they did still reprimand him for breaching internal rules on the inappropriate use of magic in general; those rules had been added shortly before Harold’s employment at the office, as a result of a Wiccan with a bad attitude and even worse self-control. Gary wasn't terribly pleased with the lack of affirmative action against the magus, but kept his silence lest he find his shirt agglomerated with a roaring fire.

                Open grievances with HR be damned, at 5pm on the dot Harold stood up and walked out of the office. His various garments dressed themselves onto him and his equipment switched itself under their respective enchantments as he went, drawing yet more suspicious and envious looks from his colleagues. When Harold arrived back at home however, things took a turn for the worse.

                A parcel had been delivered for Harold whilst he was out, which must have been the new socks he’d ordered. It turned out that, for reasons Harold was insufficiently educated to understand, a large amount of the magical power used for spellcasting was charged and discharged through the feet. When casting minor enchantments and hexes this wasn’t a big deal, but the powerful magics wielded by a grand magus were another matter entirely. The intense flux of power wreaked a terrible toll on the sock, fraying the fabric and wearing it down in a few short weeks of use.
                This sock parcel had been left with Margery, despite the clear "Don't leave it with that harpy at number 45" instruction Harold had added to the packing slip. The box had been opened already and then left in the rain on his doorstep, almost certainly spitefully. There was an outside chance that Margery had read the packing slip and been offended by the wording, Harold supposed, but if she was too childish to accept her true nature than that was her problem, not his. It was no excuse to give someone a serious case of the rainy socks.
                Injustices to innocent clothing reinforced Harold’s opinion that Margery needed to be exorcised for the good of the world, but as ever he stayed his hand. He couldn’t banish her without a proper council of mages present to agree with the ruling and aid in the spellcasting, and no council of mages had existed for hundreds of years. The West Turnton district council was a poor substitute. Revenge was still necessary, however. By the light of every full moon thereafter, Margery's front garden was filled with legions of rats from all around the greater Surrey area. They never really did much, because they were all thoroughly confused as to why they'd gathered on the surface so suddenly, but it was an intimidating and unpleasant sight none the less.
                Harold took his new, wet socks indoors and hung them up to dry before setting out again. Despite the hardships of the day, he still needed to get the shopping, awful as that experience always was. Over the years Harold’s attempts at conjuring his own produce in order to avoid the hassle of grocery shopping had been of poor quality. The majority of vegetables tasted of ash, looked like ash, and emerged in a ball of flame – much like ash does – and his meat usually turned out like the abomination which had haunted his kitchen that morning. Shopping was quite literally the lesser of two evils.

                Despite the track record of failure, Harold couldn’t help considering one more attempt at a grocery summoning as he navigated the human wreckage in the dairy aisle. He always thought that it was fitting that the other customers shuffled along for their milk like human cattle, but assured himself that he was special for noticing it and thereby exempt.
                Once the grand magus had been allowed to shuffle through the traffic of trolleys and bovine customers he was presented with what their slow stampede had wrought – the yoghurts on their high shelf were dented, crushed, split and, in one case, lidless and inverted. Harold puffed his cheeks out in displeasure, like an irate, balding hamster, and stared at the yoghurt mayhem. There was an awful lot of dripping dairy, with appreciable chunks of fruit resting on the mousses and fromage frais below. Peering past the superficial chaos, Harold noticed that there were still a few tubs left intact at the back of the shelf, but he would need to plunge his hand into the disgusting realm of spilled desserts in order to reach them. That wouldn’t do at all; he’d get yoghurt all over his shirt. Another method was required.
                Carefully thinking about which tub he wished to reach, Harold murmured some words of power and a small but violent wind billowed around the aisle. With a sound like water being torn and sand rushing along an exhaust pipe, a rift in reality opened up behind the shelf of Low Fat Strawberry and Lime Greek-Inspired Yoghurt-Style Dessert. Three tubs toppled through the rift and landed neatly in Harold’s trolley just next to the aubergine; this wasn’t the ideal arrangement due to the temperature difference between the vegetable and yoghurt, but it would do for now.
                His business in refrigerated dairy concluded, Harold rounded the aisle and groaned audibly when he saw a certified Margery looking at the very choc ices that he wished to browse. Now he would be forced to mill awkwardly nearby until she was finished, the selfish cow.
                Margery seemed to be finding the answers to life’s great mysteries among the frozen goods, spending what felt like hours examining each box in fine detail before placing it back into the freezer. If anyone else had been doing this then Harold would have feared for their fingers, but Margery’s heart of ice safeguarded her against any dangers of the cold.
                When Margery had finally finished doing her profane reading she lifted a single box and dropped it into her trolley. Once she’d moved along slightly, Harold peered into the freezer which had held her attention for so long and was struck the deathblow; she had taken the last box of choc-ices. The demonic harlot had delayed him purposefully and then deprived him of his rightful treats, yet another crime in a long list of evil deviancy. Grumbling to himself over the injustice, Harold continued along the aisle, his gaze resting on the stolen choc-ices in Margery’s trolley.
                “Harold.” She said tersely as they passed, with an almost imperceptible smugness that told Harold she had meant to make him suffer.
                “Oh. Margery, isn't it?” He replied. Mind games could be the greatest magic of all.
                “Why are you pretending not to know me? We've been neighbours for 15 years you pathetic oaf.” She asked, annoyed.
                ‘How dare she not be humiliated!’ Harold thought to himself. War had been declared.
                “In fairness, so-called Margery, you're a forgettable bunion on the foot of life.” It was a real zinger that promised him victory, but Margery didn’t break down in tears; such was the way when one battled demons. She simply ignored him and looked down at her shopping list.
                Harold could see the choc-ices right there, resting on the other frozen goods in Margery’s trolley, and heard them calling to him. They were his by right and Margery had usurped them from him knowingly. She must have seen the wrappers in the torn rubbish bags that morning and laid her evil plans out to the letter. How exactly she had known there would be only one box left in the store by the time she went shopping Harold couldn’t say, but he suspected she may have made several trips today. She must have had to ship out dozens of boxes of choc-ices every time and then lay in wait for him here all afternoon, the sadistic banshee.
                Harold saw a store assistant at the other end of the aisle fussing over the price of some cordial bottles and recognised him as just the distraction required to liberate the imprisoned treats. Whilst Margery was consulting her list, likely populated with the souls of newborns, Harold levitated a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer next to her. Naturally, the sight of floating dessert caught Margery’s attention, doubly so when the tub pressed itself into her hands. She peered at the frozen lid which boasted a soft-scoop and creamy experience but saw no mention of any flying abilities; of all the selling points this ice cream could have prioritised, that would surely have been the best. In much the same way as a dog pleading for an additional few hours of scratches, the tub pushed against Margery’s hand, lifting it upwards until it appeared that she was holding the tub at chest height. Then, unlike most dogs requesting a scratch, the ice cream was forcefully propelled down the aisle by Harold’s magic.
                The tub shattered when it hit the back wall, spraying frozen dairy across the neat shelves of cordial on the back wall and showering the store assistant. He snapped up sharply with surprise and betrayal in his eyes, and saw Margery looking aghast next to the ammunition freezer. A crowd of junior managers, sub-junior managers and envoys to the sub-junior managers gathered at the scene, pointing fingers at Margery and muttering in tones of tenuous authority to one another. As they assembled a task force of lesser employees to harangue Margery, Harold used the chaos to levitate the choc-ices from Margery's trolley unnoticed and make a break for freedom. It was a triumph for the forces of light.

                Once he had returned home and had his shopping unpack itself, Harold wandered into the living room and switched the television on. A news broadcast showed horrified local people complaining about some kind of wild beast rampaging around West Turnton, knocking over bins, digging up gardens, and scattering large quantities of human teeth all around the neighbourhood. Blurry amateur video footage, which appeared to have been taken using a ham sandwich in lieu of a traditional camera, showed a huge, vaguely chicken shaped horror ambling around a corner and shrieking.
                Seeing that no good would come from watching that broadcast, Harold switched the television back off and plonked himself down on the armchair, which had scampered around behind him for the occasion. Unfortunately, when Harold had cast his animation spell on the armchair he’d also given it an addictive personality, and now it was completely dependent on Harold sitting down to be able to function. Seeing as allowing Harold to sit down was its sole function in the first place, this raised all sorts of deep philosophical questions to which Harold was entirely oblivious. This obliviousness did not extend, however, to the strange dark shapes covering his garden all of a sudden. Harold stood, much to his armchair’s dismay, and looked out of his patio window to see that Margery had thrown a not insubstantial quantity of dog's mess onto his otherwise pristine lawn. It was an outrage to say the least, and probably some kind of vengeance for the wheelie bin this morning, despite the fact she had already wrought soggy havoc with the sock delivery. This never-ending war of discourtesy followed by arcane curse followed by discourtesy was a vicious cycle to be sure, but Harold couldn't back down now; they’d come too far. With a grimace and a poorly executed fire spell, Harold vaporised the stinky projectiles and created himself an even more unpleasant smog. Panicking, he quickly summoned a wind and wafted the aroma into Margery's house via the extractor fan.
                "HAROLD! WHY DOES MY KITCHEN SMELL LIKE AN ABANDONED KENNEL?" It had taken only a minute for Margery to conclude that Harold was the cause of her kitchen’s new blight and start screaming at him through his front door.
                "The same reason my lawn was...was…was defiled by your dog's filth." Harold replied angrily.
                "That was retaliation for vandalising my wheelie bin and putting your rubbish in it."
                "And what of the sock delivery, hmm?" His trump card had been played, evidence that Margery had made two moves against him since this morning, three if he included the attempt choc-ice rustling.
                "That was an accident! I didn't read the address until after I'd opened it."
                "A likely story. I suppose you accidentally left it exposed to the rain too, you old hag."
                "Hag!? It WAS unintentional for your information, but now I'm glad it happened. You deserve wet socks every day you petty illusionist.”
                “Illusionist is it?! Well, a thousand days of locusts on your window boxes, Margery.” Harold hissed venomously before slamming the door in her face.

                A couple of days later, whilst eating dinner and watching the locusts swarm Margery’s empty window boxes, Harold couldn't help wondering if the delivery debacle had been an accident after all. He certainly wouldn't be apologising or lifting the curse since that would be an admission of guilt, but the uncertainty plagued him all the same.
                Harold’s ponderings were reaching a fever-pitch when a knock on the door rudely interrupted them. Aggrieved that anyone should have the nerve to disturb him, Harold stomped with a theatrical sigh to the door and opened it to a thin man in a pinstriped black suit. The man held a sheaf of papers out to Harold, who eyed them suspiciously.
                “Why are you knocking on my door? Can’t you see I’m eating my supper? What do you want?” Harold questioned intently, apparently assuming the man could see through walls and thus determine that Harold was engaged in a meal.
                "Harold Livingston?" The man asked. He had a fairly good idea that this was indeed Harold Livingston, but wished to be sure.
                "Yes, what is this?"
                "I am here to notify you of proceedings being raised against you by my client for misuse of magic to the detriment of others. You are due in court in one week to hear the case against you."
                "What the- this is preposterous!" Harold bellowed incorrectly.
                "We'll see you again in court Mr Livingston." The man in black replied smugly before turning away and walking up the driveway.
                "Come back here and explain yourself!" Harold demanded.
                The man kept walking and so Harold did what any self-respecting citizen accused of magic abuse would do; he cast the spell of the never-ending driveway. This was another of the spells he'd picked up from the old tomes. Previous magi had used never-ending path spells to protect the routes into their homes, so that any intruder could walk forever but never reach their destination. Harold, on the other hand, used it whenever he saw salespeople walking towards his door. This time around, in his rage, he fudged it up and instead of making his driveway endlessly long, it became endlessly wide. Thankfully the lawyer had parked in front of the door, and was now unable to walk around his car to get in. He stopped and faced Harold again.
                "You see, this is exactly the kind of thing my client is talking about. Magic abuse, using your powers to exploit the magically-impaired."
                "Oh I am not."
                "You are currently holding me prisoner in an infinite driveway of your own creation."
                Harold frowned at the accusation and blustered "Well I don't see what business it is of yours how I conduct myself."
                “It’s precisely my business, Mr Livingston. My name is Zachary Null and I specialise in magical litigation.”
                “Magical litigation? I’ve never heard of such poppycock in my life”
                “I can assure you it is not poppycock, Mr Livingston. I’m an expert in claiming for all damages caused by the higher powers, including but not restricted to plagues of locusts,” Harold shot a sideways glance at Margery’s window boxes “curses, hexes, enchantments and miracles. Artefact abuse is considered on a case-by-case basis” he recited with a thin smile. Zachary Null didn’t know it, but he was a distant descendent of the cultists who had originally sought to expunge magic from the world. His own view on magic was far more avaricious than that of his ancestors, which, if anything, made him far more dangerous in the modern age.
                “What a load of bunkum. There’s no way anyone could sustain themselves so… well, like such of a leech.”
                “Take a look at my car and you’ll see how well someone can sustain themselves by upholding the law against the abusers of magic.” Zachary said, holding a hand towards the vehicle. It was mid-range hatchback, at least ten years old, with a Porsche badge crudely duct-taped to the boot lid. It was also currently infinitely wide, rendering it an impractical choice of transportation for narrow country lanes, although this wasn’t an inherent design choice by the manufacturer.
                Harold was deeply unsure as to whether this display of automotive delusion was an elaborate bluff or not, but chose not to question it openly.
                “Now would you please release me before the charges against you grow any greater?”
                With a deep huff Harold muttered some magical words and the driveway returned to its original dimensions, with the exception of two bricks at the end that travelled to a mystical dimension of golden rains and obsidian lakes. They felt awfully under-dressed for their surroundings.
                Without speaking further, Zachary climbed back into his ‘Porsche’ and drove away, bouncing his suspension with a teeth-chattering crunch on the two-brick pothole which had recently emerged.

                Harold did his best to keep a low profile for the week leading up to his hearing, lest anyone else get ideas above their station regarding legal proceedings. He seethed and dwelled on whom the prosecution was representing, suspecting the involvement of some kind of Margery. This was exactly petty enough for her, but lacked a certain personally demonic touch; she wasn’t renowned for hiring in professional help. Still, not wishing to take any risks, Harold avoided raining magical fury down upon her too hard, only once giving into vengeance when Margery’s newly bought wheelie bin was protruding onto his drive again. Even then, it was a subtle curse of eternal night time onto her flower beds so that her sunflowers wouldn’t bloom; passive aggressive magic was about all he could muster confidently.

                On the morning of the hearing Harold made his way to the town hall by distinctly non-magical means and waited patiently outside the courtroom until he was waved in. On the way to his seat, Harold saw Zachary sitting alone at the table for the prosecution, apparently acting entirely on behalf of his client. The fact that whomever was raising these spurious charges against him was too cowardly to show their face somehow angered him more than the charges being raised in the first place; now it would be that much more difficult to know who to curse.
                Zachary sat with a neat stack of papers in front of him, several more folders to one side and a briefcase resting on the adjacent chair, showing that he meant business in a display of professionalism. Conversely Harold’s own legal advisor, Joan Merris, had elected to arrive half an hour late with wet hair and a wonkily buttoned blouse, in an effort to intimidate her opposition with extreme confidence. At least, Harold hoped that was what she was doing.
                “Now that we are all finally present” the judge started with a sharp look at Joan “we’ll get underway.” Joan gave the judge a thumbs up to signal that she was ready, then stuck her tongue out when he turned away again. “Would the prosecution please read the charges against the defendant?”
                “Certainly, your honour.” Zachary said with saccharine sweetness. Harold squinted at Zachary’s suit and saw that an ‘Armani’ label had been safety-pinned to the lapel. “Harold Livingston stands accused of causing my client significant distress and loss of earnings as a result of the abuse of his magical powers. Not content with having the advantage over all other men and women, he actively seeks to make the lives of those around him more difficult and thereby his behaviour is a danger to the public.”
                “It most certainly is not!” Harold shouted angrily across the courtroom.
                “Mr Livingston, please remain silent whilst the charges are being read.” The judge told Harold with the authority of a hundred librarians.
                “You should listen to him, ‘Rold. He’s got a tiny hammer and everything.” Joan added in her expert opinion. She was reclined in her seat with her feet up on the table, staring at her fingernails as she filed them.
                “As I was saying, Harold Livingston, the so-called ‘Grand Magus’, is a threat to society with his malicious use of magic. He shows a wilful disregard for other people and the trouble his spells may cause them, exercising spite and pettiness where there should be restraint and compassion instead. It is the responsibility of those with power to use it for the common good, not to torment the people around him.”
                This sounded exactly like Margery’s sob story. He’d barely even hexed her at all, only ever lashing out at her home or belongings. If that wasn’t restraint against the woman who had left her television too loud for more nights than Harold could remember then he didn’t know what on Earth these people were expecting from him.
                “Moreover, my client moves that Mr Livingston has used his magic to permanently disfigure property and land in pursuit of trivial convenience and petty retaliation.”
                “I am perfectly within my rights to use magic to make my life easier!” Harold protested, having far more objection to the dismissal of his convenience as ‘trivial’ than the accusations of vandalism.
                “Mr Livingston, I will not warn you again to stay quiet.” The judge snapped.
                “He probably will warn you again; guy’s just trying to throw his weight around. Still, you’re probably best off listening to him and keeping your mouth shut.” Joan’s nails were still more deeply engrossing than her work.
                Harold seethed but nodded to the judge. He couldn’t believe how much Margery was blowing these things out of proportion. Sure, he might have dropped one or two lingering curses on her home and magically sealed a wheelie bin to her driveway but it was a proportionate response. Her bin was slightly over his driveway every week. She’d ruined more than one delivery, been caught throwing her garden clippings over his fence, and even had a barbecue specifically because his washing was out on the line. Who has barbecues in the middle of the day in November? Harold asked himself that question every time he ran Margery’s cover story over in his head. This was a war of tit for tat that she was losing, and now she was getting the law involved to really cripple him. It wasn’t just unfair and underhanded, it was barbaric. Harold didn’t know why he would expect any more from a vile hell-beast like her.
                “My client moves that damages and compensation for loss of earnings are due from Mr Livingston, along with a court-ordered restriction on his use of magic.”
                “And for the court, who is your client, Mr Null?” The judge asked flatly.
                It’s that contemptible witch. Harold shouted inside his own head.
                “Mitchell Clyde, manager of the West Turnton branch of Cheapo’s Supermarket.”
                Harold was flabbergasted. He'd been much more vengeful to Margery than the supermarket manager - in fact, he had never exacted personal retribution on the manager at all. The worst he'd done, he told himself, was to use magic for his own gains. That hardly qualified as tormenting someone in Harold’s book. Tormenting was far better described by some of the things he’d done to Margery.
                “The supermarket is raising charges against me?” Harold whispered incredulously to Joan.
                “Guess so yeah. Must be antsy about you using the self-service checkouts wrong or something.”
                “My client has listed several complaints against Mr Livingston, including but not restricted to the opening of a rift in space in the dairy aisle just behind the yoghurts, the attempted assault of an employee with a tub of vanilla ice cream, the bestowal of sentience upon a trolley which has since elected to leave the service of the supermarket in pursuit of a golfing career, and the creation of a sacrificial circle in the family section of the car park.”
                “Well how else was I supposed to load my shopping?”
                “The court recognises the difficulties inherent in loading the shopping, particularly in the rain. I’ll going to allow this interruption.” The judge said supportively, much to everyone’s surprise.
                “Yes, but not everyone needs to slaughter live animals in front of young children for the occasion.”
                “The court recognises that everyone has their own method of loading the shopping, Mr Null. There will be no further discussion of Mr Livington’s sacrifices in the car park.”
                “Preach it!” shouted Joan, pointing at the judge with one hand and carefully examining the nails on the other.
                Zachary let out a disgruntled sigh and sat down.
                “Does the defence have any opening statements?” The judge asked Joan and Harold. Joan made no move to respond, or even to acknowledge that she had heard the judge speak. When Harold nudged her she looked up at him and shrugged.
                “You want to say anything?” she muttered to Harold. He shook his head. “Ugh, fine. I will then.” Taking her own time about it, Joan swung her legs off the table and stood up, flattening out the creases in her blouse and trousers before addressing the court.
                “I move that Harold’s done nothing wrong in using his abilities for his own good. I also move that Znull over there is a nerd.” Joan spoke without passion, but had enough confidence to make up for it. She swaggered with each of her few words and waved her pointed fingers freely as she did so.
                “The court recognises that it is permissible for people to act in their own interests, and that, in all likelihood, Zachary Null exhibits some nerdy behaviour.”
                “I object to that!” said Zachary, his tone corroborating that claim.
                “That’s fine.” The judge replied as Joan returned to her seat. “I will now hear the evidence against the defendant.”
                Zachary cleared his throat and stood again, attempting to regain his composure after being insulted by not only the defence, but also the ‘impartial’ judge.
                “Harold Livingston has a history of ruining honest businesses with his magic, and I intend to show that he is repeating his dangerous behaviour to the detriment of Cheapos supermarket. How many beekeepers were there in West Turnton before Harold came along with his reckless beeomancy?”
                “Technically speaking, one half.” Joan replied.
                “Oh. Well, that’s still at least half of a tragedy, which is far more tragedy than anyone would like.”
                “The court recognises that one half is greater than none.”
                “Harold has never shown any indication of remorse for the half of a livelihood he ruined. I move that Harold is to pay the damages he owes and is contracted into servitude to the Cheapos store for at least a year, using his magic for the benefit of others instead of their detriment. Although these punishments do not fit with any of the legal precedents I could find for misuse of magic, I felt that I would be magnanimous with such leniency. After all, burning Harold at the stake seems excessive and drowning him would be inhumane. Plus, it would deprive Cheapos of the servitude they are due.”
                “These are... bold claims and sentences, Mr Null. I would remind you that sentencing is my right and duty alone. I will, however, recognise that compensation and, let’s call it what it is, slavery are much more modern punishments than the alternatives.”
                “I am attempting to extend an olive branch, even whilst bringing about the justice that Cheapos deserves.” Zachary told the judge, his words even slimier than a jellied slug. As he smugly grinned a high heeled shoe struck Zachary on the side of the head. Joan looked innocently in the other direction, one bare foot crossed over one high heeled foot, both still up on the table.
                “Continue giving your evidence, Mr Null. And please do not deviate into sentencing again.”
                The case extended for the majority of the day, with Zachary listing various magical offences that Harold was observed to have committed and Joan rebuking them with either projectiles or shrugs. Harold passed the time shuffling his hands around under the table and muttering quietly to himself occasionally. When Zachary finalised his case by pointing out that the roving beast which had been terrorising bins across the town had originated at Harold’s house, the judge finally called proceedings to an end.
                “I think we have heard enough now, Mr Null. We will have a 15 minute recess whilst I consider the facts, and then I shall pass my judgement upon you all.” The judge told them with grandeur and abuse of power.
                “This whole trial is a farce.” Harold told Joan grumpily. She was still, impossibly, filing her fingernails down. After such a long time she should have had no fingers left at all.
                “All trials are farcical. They should call the courtroom a farce-hole.”
                “Are you going to say anything useful today?” Harold snapped at her.
                “Depends if I need to speak to a waiter or not, really.” She said, still not looking up. Harold made various grumbling noises and ceased his attempts to discuss the matter with her.

                After the recess they piled back into the courtroom and Harold resumed his muttering. The judge called for quiet and then, once Zachary had ceased firing platitudes around, he spoke at length on the evidence had heard. Harold zoned out after the first ten minutes, Zachary was enraptured the whole time, and Joan had clearly mentally checked out of the whole case at least 3 days previously. Finally, however, the judge ruled in Harold's favour, much to Zachary’s dismay. It allowed Harold to breathe a sigh of relief, though. The case has been deeply stressful to him and he'd nearly lost hope on a few occasions, but in the end everything had worked out - Harold's first successful allegiance charm had paid off and totally convinced the judge that he was innocent, despite an avalanche of evidence to the contrary. The charm had been sloppily done, of course, and the judge would eventually relax back into a state of hatred for Harold, but for now they were on the same page. Abuse of magic indeed, Harold muttered to himself. Preposterous.

                Arriving back at home, Harold saw that Margery had swept all the leaves from her driveway onto Harold's, leaving a pile exactly where he’d have to drive. The pile almost certainly contained thorned plants and other such objects renowned for their aggression towards tyres, so that Harold would either have to move it all carefully or risk flattened tyres. This was exactly the kind of straightforward attack that Harold respected – none of this getting the courts involved nonsense. Demon though she may be, at least Harold understood her brand of evil.
                Looking at the tyres of Margery's car, Harold decided the best approach would be exchange magic. He paused, muttered a few words whilst looking distant, and then drove through the leafy detritus as if nothing was there at all.

                The following morning Margery drove herself to the shops as normal, smirking to herself as she looked at the tracks running through the pile of leaves on Harold’s driveway. A few miles away, Zachary Null stood by the side of the road staring at his car, wooden thorns and steel nails jutting from all four flattened tyres.

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The Terraformation of Gestis

                As humanity spread through the stars, the scientific community agreed that the terra-formation of alien worlds would be necessary in the future. The number of human-habitable planets was very few in the local cluster, so unless the race was prepared to establish a vast linear empire through the stars and deal with the catastrophic bus routes required to link it, another solution was required. Some scientists argued that it could be a big business, between population resettlement, infrastructure development and deciding which aspect of the planet would be ruined to give the hippies a cause to fight for. However, this argument was motivated entirely by the desire to secure funding, rather than any belief that it was true.
                The so-called ‘new world’ of Gestis was a celestial treasure; a red, blue and green ball of potential life drifting idly around its red giant. The red giant was pleased to have such a pretty planet in its orbital garden, and was thrilled to notice that it had gained a significant amount of attention from the microscopic little beings who floated around in their curiously cold metal boxes.
                Gestis was under close scrutiny by the Galactic Institute for Technology and Science, or GITS. GITS had always been interested in Gestis, since it fell into the human-habitable zone of the bright red giant but was lacking in an oxygen rich-but-not-too-rich atmosphere. It had a complex system of moons to create several tides per day, it rotated to create a day/night cycle, although it did occasionally change direction, and it had plenty of its own water so everyone could be sure of a nice bath and a pleasant cup of tea. In short, this collection of factors made the planet a perfect experimental playground for the GITS most ambitious terra-formation project.

By the late 25th century, GITS had managed to develop the requisite technology to seed an atmosphere and kick off enough accelerated evolution to generate a sustainable ecosystem. As with any technology that could have irreversible planet-wide effects, thorough testing had been declared absolutely critical prior to its application in the real world. Extensive proposals and plans had been drawn up years in advance, detailing barren moons to use as a testing grounds, the specific dosage levels to try, and even the correct way to button one’s lab-coat whilst carrying out the process. Therefore, when the first prototypes of the technology were finally created, it was with a terribly heavy heart and guilty conscience that the whole lot was fired directly into Gestis without so much as reading the label. The debate over who was responsible could rage for many months without reaching a satisfactory conclusion, argued the scientists, and therefore was declared to be a waste of precious experimental time.

                The terra-formation research group, a cross-disciplinary team of scientists, was formed immediately to study how Gestis was changing. There were geologists to characterise the structural integrity of the planet for construction and pick the best location for settlement. Biologists and zoologists were drafted in to characterise the flora and fauna, determining which ones would be pets and which would be dinner. Physicists were employed to deal with any gravitational peculiarities, define days, nights, months and years, and locate the best locations for observing the Gestis aurora borealis for immediate tourism revenue. Chemists were also brought on board to make the perfect cup of tea through a complex chain of burettes, conical flasks, distilling tubes and bunsen burners; arguably, this was the most vital aspect of the team.
                The terra-formation technology, uncontrolled as it was, functioned far in advance of even the most optimistic predictions. It was a matter of only a few Earth-months before patches of barren ground were covered in newly evolved mosses and detectable changes in the atmospheric makeup were recorded. Whole new species of trees burst up from the ground at incredible speeds thanks to the genetic accelerants sprayed liberally over the planet surface, some of which cross-bred with the existing flora of Gestis to create hideous but fascinating hybrids. Complex weather systems developed as a result of so much change in the chemistry and topology of the surface, sending swirling micro-tornados to carve a devastating path over highly-specific metre-square patches of the surface. Tidal waves loomed up suddenly in the deep seas and slammed themselves into one another, having discovered irreconcilable differences in their opinions on sea-life.

                After nearly a year of studying the planet from space, and discovering the vast array of mechanisms they’d created to make the planet more perilous, the research group decided that someone should go down there and take a look first-hand. However, the sloping shoulders of responsibility still constrained the forward march of progress; every time it was mentioned it was caveated heavily with ‘Obviously not me but someone’.
                Discovering the identity of ‘someone’ became the most important undertaking in GITS and one of the greatest mysteries of modern science. Someone must have been aboard their station already, because the research group always agreed that ‘one of us should go down’, but everyone remained adamant that they themselves weren’t someone at all; such a notion would be preposterous. Clearly, each of them argued, someone was someone else and not them.
                Sleuthing for someone was a full time job for the terra-forming team. Invasive and overly-personal background checks were performed on every staff member, and although a number of surprisingly petty crimes had been committed between the members of the geology team, nothing solid was learned regarding someone’s identity. Interrogations were carried out to trick someone into revealing themselves, but they soon fell flat when the whole research group agreed that they were all incapable of intimidating an already scared hedgehog between them.
                The great breakthrough came, as these things always do, over lunch. The whole group had gathered together in the canteen to enjoy some milkshakes of great scientific interest. A jar of straws sat in the centre of the table, and each member of the team took one for themselves. However, an eagle-eyed biologist ‘noticed’ that Milton, one of the geologists, had a drinking tool whose length was lacking compared to all others on the table. If there was a short straw in the jar, the biologist argued, then someone would have to draw it. Milton had drawn the short straw, ergo he was someone, and therefore they had found their bold explorer.
                Milton could scarcely have disagreed any more with that hypothesis, and cried for a thorough peer review. Inevitably his peers agreed with the original hypothesis and the evidence presented in its favour, namely that Milton’s straw did look suspiciously short. Unfortunately, all of their straws had disappeared in the intervening seconds and thus no direct comparison could be drawn, but it was unanimously agreed that the all other straws were both much longer and very honest.
                Milton then tried offering a counter-argument by postulating that someone would equally have to draw each of the long straws. The others quickly dismissed this a preposterous semantic argument, and agreed that he was clutching at straws. Milton was thus proven to be someone.
                Despite his initial, and continued, reticence, Milton took easily to being a pioneer. He quickly mastered the art of digging his heels into the ground against strong outside forces, however no-one’s heels ever could sink into steel, and so the other scientists were able to slide him across the floor of the station and into the landing pod.
                All in all, Milton’s first visit to the planet surface lasted just over ten Earth minutes, which is roughly the time it took for the landing pod to calculate its return trajectory to the space station.
                Milton’s report on the conditions of the planet’s surface was hotly anticipated by the whole research team. Despite the brevity of his observations, he would surely be able to provide them with a wealth of information on which to base their efforts for a larger scale planet-side landing.
                Once edited to remove the various colourful expletives that he’d spent his return journey devising, the report was sent back to GITS for an assessment of the funding and resources required for the next phase of the investigation. It read as follows:
                ‘The atmosphere is breathable and the flora is thriving, but the fauna has got really out of hand.’

*                             *                             *                             *

                “Gestis Outpost, this is Drooping Mary, requesting clearance to land, over.”
                “Drooping Mary this is Gestis Outpost. Your call-sign is ridiculous, over.”
                “Gestis Outpost, do we have permission to land? Over.”
                “Droop away, Mary. Over.”

                The lander craft swooped downwards in a deep arc, a great steel hawk preying on the planet itself. The engine noise inside the lander craft peaked aggressively as the reverse thrusters started to burn, blue flames spewing from the undersides of the wings and pushing the nose back upwards. A familiar sag of G-force beset Carl as the craft levelled out, pulling his cheeks down towards his chest and temporarily aging him by several decades. His skin had barely recovered from the gravitational turmoil when his skeleton decided to join in on the fun, lurching forwards and dragging the rest of his flesh with it. The webbing straps, forming an X over his torso, dug into his chest and put a stop to all that rushing forward nonsense; they enjoyed free range of motion just as much as anyone, but sudden lurching was something they simply couldn’t abide.
                The lander all but stopped in mid-air, hovering on its thrusters, and then started to descend vertically. Carl rubbed at his chest where the seat-belts had displayed their fanatical devotion to restraint, and looked out of the transparent aluminium window at the unfamiliar world below. He saw brightly coloured trees through gaps in the white clouds, and tried to imagine what might lie beneath. As far as he knew it could be nothing, and he wondered if birds ever felt the same way, staying above the treeline lest they find an empty void beneath them. Given that a research outpost had been constructed on the planet’s surface and that birds were regularly seen on the ground, however, he quickly dismissed his thoughts of the sub-canopy void as ‘unlikely’.
                The wide steel landing pad loomed below him. Yellow and white lines marking where each type of ship should try to land itself formed a tessellated mass of paint spaghetti across the surface. Carl had a suspicion that the pilot would be disregarding those lines entirely, and hoped it wouldn’t interfere with the greeting party who would surely be making their way to the lander’s doorway in time to meet him. Carl was a student of physics, sent down to Gestis on a research placement by the GITS educational faculty, and thus would need to be formally greeted and escorted to the outpost by a senior member of the research team.
                With a slight judder, the craft made contact with the landing pad and the engines gradually whined their way down to dormancy. A calm serenity enveloped the craft, like the dead soundlessness at the end of an hour’s hard screaming about a particularly terrifying rodent.
                “That’s planet-fall. Welcome to Gestis everyone.” Came the pilot’s disinterested voice over the comms system. Carl was the only passenger on board the lander, so he didn’t really understand what the pilot meant by everyone. He suspected it was a sign that the pilot didn’t like him very much.
                After a brief but intense battle with the buckles on his seat-belts, which were still making their feelings on unrestricted motion perfectly clear, Carl stood up, picked up his case of belongings from the racks opposite his seat, and waited next to the doorway at the side of the craft. This was it – he was about to set foot on the first ever terraformed world. His heart rate quickened as he imagined the fantastic new science awaiting him. His future awaited on the other side of that steel door.
                With a hiss of hydraulic pistons, the door began to fold open, descending into a ramp for Carl. The light of the bright red giant, filtered to a gentle white by the upper atmosphere, lit up the interior of the lander and warmed Carl almost instantly. The chilling effect of an empty landing pad and no-one there to meet him, however, counteracted the sun’s heat perfectly.
                He stepped out onto the landing pad and tried to summon up a feeling of grandeur for his arrival, but all he managed was to trip on the bottom of the ramp, drop his luggage, and land completely outside of any human-shaped lines on the landing pad. In many ways, that may have been a far more apt metaphor for humanity’s journey to the stars than any of Carl’s daydreams about a grand entrance.
                Carl picked himself back up from the ground, and so did the ramp from the landing craft, sealing the doorway shut. The engines began to whine once more in preparation for take-off, hinting to Carl that he should vacate the immediate vicinity if he didn’t fancy being rapidly oxidised. He snatched up his bag and ran for the grey-white structure which sat at one end of the landing pad, sparing a glance back at the landing craft as the whine took a higher pitch and it swept into the air.
                Now that the threat of incineration had been significantly reduced, Carl took a look at his new surroundings. The landing pad was set into a clearing within some kind of forest, although the trees reminded him less of terrestrial flora and more of an artist’s impression of a hairbrush underwater. They all stood at an identically extreme angle to the ground, thin branches on one side of the trunk swaying rhythmically in a breeze that Carl couldn’t feel. They were also a deep blue colour, which was distinctly un-tree-like.
                The ground between the treeline and the landing pad was covered in a blanket of paler blue vegetation; some kind of moss by its distant appearance. Carl supposed that moss and grass weren’t so different really, so this was deemed to be acceptable.

Whilst he was taking in and judging the surroundings, a pink blob slapped into the side of Carl's ankle and flopped to the ground. Carl jumped to one side startled, and then peered at the tiny assailant. Peering back up at him was what appeared to be a perfectly spherical peach with stubby arms and legs poking out. It was also sporting a rather furious and aggrieved expression at having its run spoilt by a large obstacle.

"What the hell are you?" Carl asked it, but it didn't seem forthcoming with a reply. Instead, it rolled itself laboriously back onto its feet and sprinted away again. It was then that Carl noticed the dozens of other pink blobs, all of whom were engaged in similar cardio routines across the mossy ground, like flies buzzing around a freshly dropped sandwich. 

                Assuming incorrectly that he would find answers to the questions forming in his mind about the natural and unnatural life on Gestis, Carl headed towards the outpost building once again.

                The double-doors to the structure had been left ajar, with a note pinned to the outside. ‘Please do not break in and kill us. Cordially, GITS Outpost 1’ it requested. Carl was all too pleased to comply with this, and walked calmly inside without causing a single fatality. It was an auspicious start to his placement already.

                The doorway opened to a porch area of sorts. Rows of neatly aligned, clearly unworn boots and similarly untouched lab coats occupied the shoe racks and coat hooks which lined the room. There was a single missing pair of boots and one empty coat hook.

                It wasn’t that Carl felt uncomfortable in the presence of coats and shoes, per se, but being surrounded by all these perfectly ordered and pristine, sterile boots and lab coats was slightly disconcerting. He felt like he was present at his own autopsy, which is a place one should make every effort to be as far away from as possible. Seeking to bring an end to this displeasure, Carl hurried himself through the second set of doors and emerged in an open common room, bustling with men and women in lab coats, woollen jumpers, tweed jackets, and in one instance a hazmat suit. Since no-one else seemed particularly concerned about airborne contaminants, Carl decided not to panic about that one anomalous dresser for the time being. The variously clad occupants of the room were engaged in spirited conversation and largely gathered around the windows at the far side of the room.

                The nearside of the room bent around in an L shape, allowing for a window which looked out over the landing pad he’d just arrived from. Carl hoped dearly that no-one had been looking when he tumbled out of the lander.

                “Um, hello?” he said to the room in general once it became clear that no-one would notice him of their own accord. The keen observational skills of the galaxy’s finest scientists allowed them to screen Carl out completely as an anomalous event.

                “I, uh, I’m Carl.” He added, hoping that would jog someone’s memory. Unfortunately, someone was not present to have his memory jogged. However, the head of the research team elected to sacrifice a small amount of his attention to address the new voice in the room.

                “Ah! You must be the new intern.” He said happily. He was clad in a woollen jumper which could only have been made specifically for him, but was a poor fit none-the-less. His generous stomach bulged into the wool and shaded the top of his trousers. Carl wondered if it was perhaps ashamed of the man’s choice of belt. “I’m Geoffrey, the head of the GITS Gestis research team.”

                “Hello, nice to meet you, but I’m not an intern I’m a-“ Carl started.

                “Welcome to the outpost.” Geoffrey boomed welcomingly over Carl’s words. “How do you like being on Gestis?”

                “It’s exciting; I’ve already seen a totally alien species!” Carl said, allowing his enthusiasm to creep through the air of professionalism he told himself he’d maintain. “What are the little pink blobby things outside?”

“We call them tarkins. Disgusting, aren't they?" Geoffrey said with a smile.

“Uh, well I didn't think they were that bad..."
                “Well perhaps you just like disgusting things then! I’ll warn everyone else about you.” He chuckled. The thought of everyone being told he was disgusting sunk in Carl’s stomach and made him blush. Geoffrey congratulated himself internally at his use of humour to put the new lad at ease.              “Milton’s out there now trying to capture us a tarkin to study, in fact.”

“Oh right. Is he a trapper or something?”
                “Oho, far from it! He’s a geologist.”

“OK… so why is he capturing the tarkin again?”

“Because he’s someone.”
                “Um… I don’t understand.”

“Geoff! Come over here, quickly! One of the fang beasts has appeared again! It’s out there with Milton!"

                "Gestis Fanguli." Corrected a female voice, presumably originating from a female zoologist.

                "It looks more like a gorilla crossed with a cat, to me." Said another female in a long lab coat.

                "Exactly! I preferred Gestis Felix Primatus for that very reason." Answered another of the scientists excitedly.

                "Why not Rattus Rattus?"

                "That's already a thing, and the fang beast clearly isn't a rat."

                "It's not a gorilla or a cat either, it just looks like them, that's why Fanguli is much better."

"They might not be fangs at all. We'll need to wait until someone gets a sample of one to find out."
                Carl turned away from the rapidly growing discussion and peered out of the rear window where the first man had indicated. Outside, the clearing stretched away for a hundred metres or so before the boundary of the blue forest, and in the middle distance there stood a skinny man in a loose lab coat. Despite his beautiful and fascinating surroundings, he was looking rather tense. This had more than a little to do with the company he was currently keeping.
                A few dozen metres away from him, pawing at the ground, was a terrifying mass of muscle. Carl could instantly see the comparison with a gorilla crossed with a cat, but he didn’t recall either of those creatures having a scaly tail. Nor was a cat’s head so disproportionately wide compared to its height. The fang beast stood like a gorilla on all fours, its shoulders higher than its pelvis and both back legs tucked tightly together in a low squat. Even so, it was easily half as tall again as Milton.
                Milton trembled slightly in the face of the fang beast. He had grown far better at facing down unknown horrors since he’d become ‘someone’, but that still didn’t make the hulking monster in front of him any less frightening. He stared it in the eye, hoping to intimidate it with his shivering body and slight frame.

                “Will he be safe?” Carl asked, alarmed at Milton’s plight.

                “It's ok; he’s armed.” Geoffrey told him reassuringly.
                Carl looked out again, squinting, and saw the glinting metal in Milton’s hands.

                “Is… that a hammer and chisel?”

                “We didn't have the budget for anything more industrial” Geoffrey admitted, embarrassed “but he's a dab hand with those.”

With saliva dripping from between its yellow, jagged teeth, the beast snarled and charged at Milton, its muscles bulging and flexing like a sinuous rock. Once it was in motion, Carl could see that its legs were articulated in far more places than were either necessary or practical – they looked far more like backbones than anything else. Even so, it was able to cover the ground at an impressive pace. Four wide, flat paws with webbed toes and thin spines at the joints tore through the ground, spraying dirt behind the beast as it closed in on the geologist.

                “It’s charging! He needs to run! Wait… what's he doing?”
                Milton had leant forwards in a squat, sticking his bottom out awkwardly and holding the chisel in front of him. He lifted the hammer up and held it poised to strike, waiting for his moment. They watched the beast closing in on the tiny frame of the geologist.

                “Easy...easy...” Milton muttered to himself, shakily holding the chisel at what he thought was roughly skull-height. “Animal skulls are softer than the vast majority of sedimentary and igneous rocks. This will work.” He assured himself unconvincingly.

                It would require impeccable timing to strike the hammer at the right moment, but Milton felt he was up to the task. At least, he told himself that he felt that way. The evidence was rapidly mounting against it however, what with the trembling and the fact that he knew he was distinctly experiencing panic.

                “I’m really not sure that this is going to work.” Carl told Geoffrey
                “I’ll admit, I did question it myself to begin with. But we don’t have any other options for defensive armaments so we may as well go with it.”
                “I don’t think that’s strictly the point, is it?”
                “I wouldn’t worry about it.” He said, and clearly enough it was the truth. Carl didn’t find much comfort in it though.

                The distance between Milton and the fang beast was closing rapidly, the scientist still poised with his small hand tools and the animal barrelling along the ground like a battering ram carried on four confused snakes. It dropped its shoulders towards the ground as it approached strike range, so that its head was level with Milton’s.

                Milton swung the hammer forwards and struck the head of the chisel at the exact right moment, driving the sharpened steel deep into the beast’s head. This didn’t seem to faze the fang beast too much, since its head seemed to be made almost exclusively of hair, and the tool just disappeared into the tangled folds. Carrying its momentum forwards still, the beast bowled straight though Milton, sending him onto the mossy ground and tumbling over him in a feat of sudden gymnastics. The geologist was winded by the collision with the ground. Being unable to breathe was a good enough reason for panic on its own, so when the fang beast reappeared and loomed over him, Milton was understandably discontented with proceedings.
                The beast opened its mouth wide, displaying three rows of teeth and a pair of tongues, one extending from each cheek. A current of hot air swept out of its body with each breath, carrying with it an unfamiliar scent. It plunged its head down, fitting the majority of Milton’s chest into its mouth.

                From their vantage point in the outpost, Geoffrey and Carl were horrified. Not only had Milton failed to slay the beast, it was now setting about the process of eating him. This hadn’t been the first impression that the research team had been intending to give to their new recruit, nor was it the kind of hands-on experimentation that Carl had been looking for. It didn’t mean that the results were any less interesting, however. This Milton chap must have been brave in order to go out and face the beast in the first place, but his current display of courage was astonishing. Far from seeming panicked or thrashing around, he looked rather curious at the beast attempting to devour his torso. Within a few moments of the attack, he had propped himself up on his elbows and begun to poke at the beast with one finger, tipping his own head to the side like a puppy looking in a mirror.

                Milton’s observations of the attack were nothing like his expectations. He’d been anticipating indescribable soreness at this stage, because he imagined that inch-long teeth pushing into one’s ribcage was a general downer. However, his current situation was altogether nonplussing. It seemed, to Milton’s delight, that the beast’s teeth were made of some kind of organic jelly or soft cartilage, bending harmlessly at even the lightest contact. Not only was he spared perforation, but there was no compression over which to concern himself either. The beast was simply holding an open mouth over his ribcage, calmly allowing its saliva to soak into Milton’s lab-coat but otherwise indulging in no sinister behaviour whatsoever. As beast attacks went, this was one of Milton’s favourites.

                “He doesn’t seem too worried, does he?” Geoffrey said, peering out of the window.
                “Not really, no. The beast seems to have just stopped trying to eat him at the last moment.”
                They saw Milton look over towards the window and shrug theatrically as best he could. He looked more like he was saying ‘I can’t find the tomato sauce’ than ‘A hitherto unseen monstrosity is devouring my body’, which either pointed to a lack of real danger, or a lack of tomato sauce and perspective. Having never known Milton to be very concerned about tomato sauce at the best of times, Geoffrey favoured the former explanation.
                “Well, I suppose the fang beast isn’t so ferocious after all. Perhaps that name doesn’t suit it.”
                “Please don’t start with that again.”
                “Hmm. I suppose it’s not the most pressing issue at present. Alright someone needs to go and see what the situation is with Milton.”
                “But Milton’s already out there, how can someone go out and check on him?”
                “Hmm, I… well…”
                “That’s a quandary.”
                “If only there were two someones…”
                “There are! Someone arrived today!”
                “That wasn’t someone, that was Carl.”
                “Hey! I’m someone! I might just be on placement but I’m still someone.” Carl said defiantly, exercising his right to use ‘enough rope’ and failing to recognise the semantic trap he was being lured into.
                “Well that’s settled then! Out you go, someone the second.”

                Carl stepped unsurely across the mossy ground towards Milton, taking the occasional look back at the windows of the outpost. The research team inside were watching curiously, and made encouraging ‘go on then’ motions with their hands, shooing him towards Milton. Between the springy moss and Carl’s general reluctance to approach a beast which was in the process of attempting to eat a man, no matter how ineffective that attempt was, his progress across the clearing was slow.
                “Are you coming over here to help me?!” Milton called across to him sounding surprised and confused to the point of suspicion.
                “I think so. I don’t know what good I can do though.”
                “Hmm.” He still sounded dubious. “We’ll think of something, probably.”
                “Are you alright? You don’t seem very concerned about the whole, erm,” he pointed to the fang beast “situation?”
                “It’s not as bad as it looks. His teeth don’t seem to be very solid, and unless I’m mistaken he doesn’t have any jaw muscles to close his mouth again. He’s very determined though, which is to be respected.”
                “Yeah, I suppose so. How are we going to get you free then?” Carl asked, leaning on the fang beast since it seemed so disinterested in moving.
                “I was thinking we could lure it off me.”
                “With what?”
                “How about you? You’re a young and fleshy sort. I’m sure it would love to chase you down.”
                “I mean, the evidence against that is pretty clear.” Carl patted the fang beast.
                “For now yeah, but you could try a little harder to get its attention couldn’t you?”
                “Not convinced I want to.”
                “It’s been trying to eat me for the best part of five minutes now, and all it’s really done is give me a soggy midriff. I think you’ll be alright taking it for a jog. Isn’t that what interns are for?”
                “I’m on placement, not an internship.” Carl told Milton and reminded himself. “So we’re going to do what, try to lure it back to the outpost?”
                “Well, yeah. I was only supposed to capture one of the tarkins but then he showed up.” Milton nodded towards the fang beast “I don’t think leaving him behind with be necessary though. Or possible. They’ll just have to study whatever I bring back and be done with it.  Maybe they can find a way of working out which parts of him are actually solid.” He paused “I’ll be needing to get my chisel back at some point too, come to think of it; do you think you could grab it out for me now, actually?”
                “You want me to get your chisel first, freeing you from the jaws of this… genetic aberration second?”

                “It is the only chisel we have.” Milton said sombrely as if procuring basic stone-working tools was a herculean task. Given GITS resourcing policy, that wasn’t far from the truth.
                “Fine.” Carl moved carefully towards the fang beast’s face. Up close, it was more obvious that the majority of its head was a tightly tangled ball of hair. On the one hand, Carl found it impressive that it had managed to grow into a shape resembling a head at all, but on the other hand literally any shape could have passed for a head in the evolutionary mess which was the fang beast. The head of the chisel was clearly protruding from the forehead of the hairdo, wedged into the matted bouffant like a pencil into a panna cotta.
                Tentatively, Carl reached his hand out towards the chisel. The fang beast continued to be distracted by the task of remembering exactly how to eat something, which gave Carl a little more confidence. As he took hold of the protruding end and pulled it free, the change in weight took the fang beast by surprise. It leapt backwards on its snake-legs and span around in a wild circle, mouth hanging open limply.
                Milton hurried to his feet, dripping with saliva from the fang beast, and Carl handed him the chisel back. Any emergency masonry could once again be attended to.
                “Thanks. I assume you’re the new intern?”
                “Yeah, Carl Langborn. Nice to meet you.”
                “Milton Sands.”
                The fang beast was staring at the pair of them with its head cocked. Slowly and cautiously it crept forwards, with an uneven, rolling gait thanks to its over-flexible legs.
                “Should we run away?” Carl asked. The sound of Milton in a full sprint answered him adequately.
                The two scientists ran headlong towards the outpost, and the fang beast gave chase behind them. Despite its peculiar gait and perplexing leg structure it was capable of attaining significant speeds. Carl was a few metres behind Milton due to his head start, and could hear the fang beast directly behind him. Just as he thought he was about to receive a vicious gumming, however, the beast leapt clean over him in pursuit of Milton.
                The fang beast felt singularly cheated. It knew that it had hunted the soggy little man down once already, so the hard work should have been done. To have to run after him again was simply unfair. With a righteous lunge forwards, it once again attempted to pin Milton to the ground, but the geologist curled into a ball and rolled away to one side. The beast landed mouth first in the moss, and the two scientists resumed their hurried flight back to the safety of the outpost.
                They reached the doorway and slammed their way through, skidding to a halt inside and spinning round to lock it shut.

                Milton and Carl walked to into the common area where the scientists had been watching through the window. The room was buzzing with excited conversation and gasps, everybody still crowded around to look outside.
                “It’s larger than I thought from a distance.”
                “That hair looks awfully silky.”
                “Why is its mouth still hanging open like that?”
                “I don’t know, maybe Milton was spicy.”
                “I’ve never seen him seasoning his labcoat before.”
                “Me either, but he has all sorts of adventures these days. Perhaps he’s enjoying the adventure of a chilli sprinkled lab coat.”
                “Possible, but not probable. We’d notice the supplies dwindling.”
                Milton cleared his throat. No-one noticed.
                “Do you think it hurt itself while hunting?”
                “Maybe. Perhaps when Milton hammered that chisel in it knocked out the jaw’s motor control.”
                “I’m back everyone!” Milton shouted.
                Geoffrey turned around and looked surprised to see the pair of them standing in the doorway. “Ah, Milton. You were supposed to bring it in for an autopsy, not get eaten. We gave you everything in our armoury and it still got the best of you – must be a fearsome beast indeed.”
                Some of the other scientists had turned around to face Milton too.
                “Yes, it looks awfully powerful. But what did you do to its jaws? We can’t very well study it with a broken mouth.”
                “I didn’t do anything! I don’t think it could ever shut its mouth.”
                “What do you mean? It was shut when we first saw it.”
                “Doesn’t mean he shut it on his own, does it.”
                “Are you trying to tell me there’s some kind of symbiotic organism out there which shuts the fang beast’s mouth for it?”
                “Erm, maybe? You’re the zoologist, you tell me. All I know is that it isn’t a sedimentary rock because it’s largely made of hair.”
                “Probably true. Never send a rock-monkey to do a zoologist’s job.”
                “Do you think it’s water soluble?” asked an excited chemist.
                “Uh, no not re-“

                “Did the moss feel like it was deciduous or evergreen to you?” A botanist cut across.
                “I don’t underst-“
                “Did the fang beast have a notable event horizon?” An astrophysicist interrupted.
                “I have no idea.” Milton said quickly. Being able to finish at least once sentence made him feel a little less flustered.
                “OK, settle down everyone.” Geoffrey boomed over the crowd. “Milton is probably tired from his field trip and in need of a rest.” Milton started to let out a relieved sigh. “So we’ll need to make sure he writes a report in full, with all observations logged, before he falls asleep and forgets it all like a faulty data logger.” With practiced deftness, Milton’s sigh transformed from ‘relieved’ to ‘despairing’. “You can help him too, Carl. You were out there with him and it’ll be a good starting place for you.”

                Milton and Carl retired as instructed with a couple of biologists named Cherie and Julia, and started work on the field report from their experience with the fang beast. Carl was particularly unsure of what input he could offer, but as his second official task for the GITS he wasn’t going to make a half-effort of it.
                The four of them sat in a small, white office, the four of them seated around a square pine table on the least comfortable chairs money could buy.
                Carl sat on one side of the table next to Milton, facing the two biologists across a small pile of stationery and paper pads. Milton was hunched his pad, writing hurriedly in the scrawled script of a scientist. His short but messily cropped dark brown hair gave him the look of a frenzied kiwi fruit as he turned his head this way and that in thought. Every now and again Milton would look up, stare over the heads of the biologists into middle-distance, and then return to his scribbling. His face had the shape of a narrow rectangle, possessing many of the features of handsomeness but spoiled with a veneer of perpetual fear. Now that they were up close in bright white lighting, Carl noticed that Milton was covered in hundreds of scratches and bruises of various ages. It seemed that someone had to do all the dangerous tasks, but anyone could do the safe ones.
                The two biologists made numerous attempts to interrupt Milton’s writing with questions regarding the nature of the beast, and Milton made equally many attempts to ignore them.
                “Would you say that the legs behaved more like bear backbones or wolf backbones when he was standing over you?” asked Cherie, her long auburn hair resting over one shoulder in a thick plait. Milton pretended he hadn’t heard her over the scratching of his pen, but Carl had some thoughts on the matter.
                “I’m not sure on how bear and wolf backbones differ, I don’t get why it evolved to be like that at all – do you think it’s really an advantage to have backbones for legs?” He asked Cherie back.
                “Almost certainly not. I think it’s a natural consequence of the terraformation process, though.”
                “How so?”

                “Are you criticising us?” asked Julia angrily. Carl was fairly sure he hadn’t been.
                “A part of the process is accelerating the development of a self-sustaining ecosystem.” Cherie explained, showing Julia an open palm in an attempt to calm her. “It takes millions of years to achieve this normally, plants absorbing the right gases in the right proportions and letting out the right amount of oxygen, but our terraformation mix propels that slog into the order of months. The mutations which cause a high rate of change will dissipate after a number of generations, but in that initial period it was mayhem down here. That's a part of why we had to wait so long before making the outpost. That, and we had to wait for funding. And for lunch.” 

                “The point is, evolution by natural selection broke down when it was driven that hard. You know that it's supposed to be survival of the fittest, right? Whichever individuals possess the most useful traits to survive in the environment will have a higher chance of breeding and passing on their genes? Well we kind of removed that by making everything spawn and mutate rapidly. They're not adapting to their environment, they are just mutating at random and reproducing anyway, regardless of whether their mutations are wholly inappropriate for the landscape or not.”
                “So… rather than mutations making the animals more successful, it’s just an independent random process? They’ll change however they change and not be punished with a lack of offspring when it turns out that being unable to shut your mouth and chew causes problems?”
                “Basically, yeah. Pretty neat as a case study, but not so great for forming a functional ecosystem.”
                “It sounds a bit weird that evolution could get that far from the slime so quickly though if that’s the case. I mean, how on Earth does everything not just die out immediately like that?”
                “We’re not on Earth, we’re on Gestis. All of the fauna we’ve found so far fits the mould as well; we’re not just making it up as we go along!” Julia defended, despite the lack of any attack.
                “We suspect that there was some life here before we seeded it, and our mix has just sent it spiralling out of control.” Cherie added, with far more relevance.

                “So we’ve tinkered with nature and made it go mental. Got it.”
                “This is forefront science! Show some respect. We can’t all be perfect first time you know.” Julia was almost shouting at him.
                “I… I didn’t mean to imply that you’d done something wrong.” Carl stammered.
                “Well I don’t care what you meant, I care about the progress of science!” she persisted, picking any fight she could find and several that she couldn’t.
                “OK Julia, we should let the gents get on with it.” Cherie said, lifting Julia gently by the arms and chaperoning her out of the room, still spitting bile about the ‘jumped up little intern’. Carl wondered if she was a victim of the terraformation mix too.               

                               

                After the fang beast debacle, it was pointed out that to Geoffrey that he, as the head of the group, was personally liable for any injuries Carl might sustain, since he hadn't seen or signed any risk assessments. As a result, Carl passed the majority of his first week as an aide to whichever research group needed admin, coffee or incredibly well administrated coffee.
                Carl wasn’t expecting to be out in the field at all, so he didn’t mind confinement to the indoors. What he did mind, however, was that he was supposed to be helping the resident physicists to determine the centre of mass of the planet and the gravitational strength compared to Earth’s. As far as he could tell, the repeated trips to the coffee machine were doing little to generate useful data on that front. Whenever he asked why there was no concrete work going on he was presented mostly with more requests for coffee and, cryptically, ‘blame the bakers’.
                At the start of his second week, however, he was called with great excitement to speak with Geoffrey.
                “Carl, glad you could make it.”
                “Um, hello. Yeah, no problem.”
                Geoffrey noted that Carl still seemed slightly shy and awkward around him. He supposed it was a matter of being intimidated by such a high profile member of the GITS mission.

                “We all saw you fall down when you arrived, by the way. We were watching through the window. It was most amusing.”  Surely by pointing out that he had amused them all, Carl would be made to feel relaxed.
                Carl blushed, attaining a similar hue to the red giant around which they were orbiting.
                Geoffrey was just about to point out that Carl’s hair was scruffy, and thus acknowledge that he was an imperfect human of whom no unreasonable expectations would be made, when Milton came out of the dormitories.

“You wanted to speak to us?” he asked Geoffrey unenthusiastically.
                “Yes, that’s why I asked you to come here.” Geoffrey said chidingly, for asking such an obvious question. “I’ve got good news. All the risks have now been thoroughly assessed, so you can officially accompany Milton on his grand field trip!”
                “My what?” Said Milton, surprised.
                “All the risks?” Carl asked dubiously.
                “Your grand field trip, and yes, respectively.”
                “How could you possibly have assessed all the risks of an unknown planet?
                “Ah, now that was a tricky one. It’s why it took us a whole week to get things sorted.”
                “Yeah… I didn’t think you’d done it too slowly.”
                “We’re just full of surprises.”
                “No but seriously, how could you possibly have characterised the dangers of an unknown planet?”
                “Oh, it was easy in the end. We worked out that so far we had observed no appreciable risks. Even the largest creatures had proved themselves to be harmless. Therefore, in the face of such a lack of evidence of risk, the planet must be safe.”
                “That is not a justification.”
                “We had the same concerns to begin with.” Geoffrey chuckled.
                “What changed?”
                “We knew that we needed to get it signed off by the site directors, which is why we were struggling with finding an airtight justification, but then we realised that we counted as the directors in this case! So we’ve all signed it and are all perfectly happy with the distribution of risks.”
                “The distribution? Like, all of it on me?” asked Milton. According to established trends, he wasn’t wrong.
                “Precisely.” Affirmed Geoffrey. “Only two people out of the whole research team are in any danger. Those are pretty incredible odds for a typical café, let alone an unexplored alien world. Plus, once you're off site you're technically not our problem. You are choosing to face knowingly unknown risks.”

“I thought you'd assessed all risks to be fine? “

“We want to have it both ways, so we’re going to.”

“Right. So if I get injured or killed, then what?”
                “We just won't worry about that.”

“That's exactly the sort of thing you should be worrying about. I’m worried about it right now!”
                “You’d best stop then or you’ll worry yourself sick!”

                “It’s no use arguing with him, Carl.” Milton said, with less of a note and more of a whole symphony of resignation. “It's time to go and gather some data. And some samples.”
                “That’s it? We’re just giving in?”
                “The only way I could put it off in the first place was by saying that someone had to come with me, and apparently you’re someone too. So when there’s no reason for you not to go…”

                “No reason except the fact we're going out there with the unknown animals and mental evolution?”

                “Don't worry, Carl, you’ll be perfectly safe. Milton will have his chisel.” Geoffrey said, his tone suggesting ‘reassurance’ and his words suggesting ‘delusion’. “I know you’ve been itching to get involved in something a bit meatier than the caffeine game, and now’s your chance. Milton’s going to be embarking on the biggest data acquisition exercise in GITS history and he’ll need assistance.”
                “And you’re OK with this, Milton? Last time we went out there you were nearly eaten!”

                “Honestly, the animal attacks aren't as bad as that usually. You heard what Julia and Cherie said: they never evolved to be good hunters. Their stalking attempts are pretty inept, and even when they catch you they seem to be at a loss of how to proceed.”
                “But you’re a geologist! Why are you wrangling the animals and taking chemical samples?”
                “Because I’m not just a geologist any more, sadly.” He said with a sigh. “I’m someone.”

                Carl looked despairingly between Geoffrey and Milton, finally realising that no-one here would support his plight of not being in the field team.
                “Fine. Will I at least get to do some physics out there?” He asked pleadingly.

                Geoffrey chuckled. “Let’s go with yes, shall we?”

               

                Milton and Carl prepared for departure later that day. They’d packed their bags with all the field equipment the research team had available - the chisel, a navigation computer and nothing much else aside from sample jars – and reported to the engineering bay. To their distinct surprise, they were being given a means of transport other than walking. Both of them suspected a trap.

                “Over here!” shouted an engineer from the back corner of the bay, waving an oily arm to draw their attention his way. His sleeves were rolled up to avoid the worst of the mess, although the level of success this had enjoyed was practically non-existent. Next to him was a silver and white shape which neither Milton nor Carl recognised. It was comprised of two circular platforms on either side of a motorcycle-like chassis with no wheels. Each of the platforms had sides rising vertically upwards with a seat in the middle and a row of controls in front.

                “Wow! What is it?” Carl asked excitedly.

“It’s called The Floater.” The second engineer replied, causing Carl’s expression to distort immediately.
                “The Floater… brilliant, thanks!” Said Milton, excited to be issued a single piece of equipment which wasn’t his trusty chisel.
                “Can we please not call it The Floater?” Carl requested.
                “The only alternative we had was The Levitator, but that’s too long. Doesn’t sound right.” The first engineer answered.
                “Nope, sure doesn’t.” The second confirmed.
                “The Floater is fine.” Said Milton.
                “I just… fine, whatever.” Carl said with resignation. Milton would hear himself saying it eventually. “I guess it hovers then?”

“Sharp one, this guy. It’s not the fastest but it’ll certainly beat walking.”

                “We built you the best we could, given the time and resources.” He patted the chassis lovingly.

                “Where did you get half this stuff?” Milton asked, intrigued.

                “Same place as the other half.” The engineers replied.

                “That being?”

                “Mostly air con units. Some coffee machines and treadmills too. And Geoffrey's watch.”

                “Nice.” Milton said, clearly impressed and looking over The Floater carefully.

                “Hop in and we’ll show you how it works. I think you’d best get away before anyone realises that it’s made from their missing stuff.

                After a whistle-stop lesson in Floater control, which increased Milton’s confidence in his own driving and dramatically reduced Carl’s confidence that they’d survive their first journey, they consulted their navigational computer for the first location on their grand tour.

                “Milton, I think the compass in this is screwy.”
                “Screwy eh. Good.”
                “Erm, no. That’s bad.”
                “Bad eh. Good.”
                “What are you going on about?”
                “Sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention. What’s up?”
                “The compass isn’t working. It keeps spinning around and juddering about.”

                “How can a compass not work? It’s a wet magnet.”
                “Well it’s not working. Look at it.” Carl held the navigational computer out to Milton. The compass represented on screen was having a terrible time, flailing around and failing to settle down on a solid direction.
                “Huh. We’ll have to go by the GPS co-ordinates instead. Set a bearing and we’ll get going.”

                The Floater hovered over the ground with a satisfying hum, rocking slightly above uneven terrain but otherwise handling well. Carl and Milton had rather different opinions on what constituted a reasonable speed, with the latter clearly feeling a much greater sense of urgency and lesser sense of self-preservation. They passed through a relatively sparse patch of the blue forest, skimming past what had appeared to be trees from afar but transpired to be much more like titanic blades of grass up close. The forest quickly gave way to open plains, valleys and hills criss-crossing the surface in a patchwork of variously coloured mosses.
                After an hour’s ride which took several years off Carl’s life, another forest loomed ahead, this time taking on a shade of purple and black. Just outside the boundary, Milton pulled the Floater up to a standstill and switched off the engine with a descending whine. The circular platforms made contact with the soft moss as they faded into a tired silence, blowing soft pieces of loose foliage away.

                “OK, this might as well be the first stop.”
                “Sounds good to me.” Carl said, lamenting the loss of the true scientific method in the face of looking at whatever happened to loom up first.

                The pair of someones, arguably the sometwo, removed their packs from The Floater’s storage boxes and set off into the trees, scratching out notes on paper pads and taking photos as they went.

                The trees, which were more like giant asparagus with tubular flowers than trees in the terrestrial sense, started relatively small on the boundary of the forest but grew larger and more decadent in their blossoming towards the centre. Towering violet plumes and fronds swayed overhead, shedding a rain of vibrant petals onto the heads of Carl and Milton as they pushed past.
                Occasionally a dark shape would flutter in the foliage, obscured by petals and silhouetted by the sunlight. If either of the scientists caused a tree to shake significantly, several such shapes would flutter urgently to the nearest alternative location.
                “Birds?” Carl asked vaguely.
                “Suppose so. Either that or day-bats. Or huge ladybirds. Or giant viruses.” Milton replied worrisomely. He’d seen enough of Gestis to assume the worst whenever possible, however his interpretation of ‘the worst’ often failed to align with anyone else’s.
                They followed the contours of the land without suffering from a mega-cold or an attack by a gargantuan insect, allowing the slope on their right to grow higher and higher above them and carry the trees farther up with it. Eventually the moss and dirt began to thin, allowing small patches of rock to peek through to the surface, much to Milton’s excitement. At the first particularly large patch, Milton crouched down to take a closer look, whilst Carl hung around looking bored, lamenting the lack of physics to investigate in this dense forest. A loud creaking sound like a leather car accelerating to great tanned speeds came from overhead, and one of the gargantuan violet fronds of a nearby tree lowered itself down to Carl’s head height.
                If Carl hadn’t known better, he would have said it had sniffed him, sneezed, and then sniffed him again.
                “Milton, that plant just sniffed me.” Carl said, not knowing better after all.
                “Hmm. Presumably that means they like you. Rocks never sniff anything, which is why their opinions are far more difficult to gauge.” Milton replied distractedly. He didn’t seem to be feeling the same gravitas in the situation that Carl did. Such were the wages of being ‘someone’ for so long, Carl supposed.
                “Erm, right.” He replied, unconvinced and shuffling away from the violet sniffer. He eyed the other plants with distrust and suspicion as Milton stood up and moved farther along.
                “Ooh, here we are!” the geologist said excitedly after a few paces. A large vertical face of exposed rock was visible behind a patch of the violet plants. The whole face was covered in bands of many colours, ranging from greys to reds to whites and even a bright blue, reminiscent of the forest outside the outpost.
                “So these horizontal lines are layers, right?” Carl asked, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Bluffing was a key skill required by the GITS examination board and he was determined to get some good practice in.
                “Boundaries between layers, yes. Looks like there’s been some geological change in this planet’s history even before we started mucking about with it. Seismic activity, probably a molten core covered in tectonic plates like the Earth has.”
                “So, earthquakes will probably happen here?”
                “I’d imagine so. But everything is so squashy that I doubt we’ll have a problem.” Milton said, bouncing a little on the mossy floor to prove his point. “What direction is this rock pointing in?” he asked Carl suddenly.
                “Uh, North-ish.”
                “How much North and how much ish?”
                “About 50:50.”
                “Gotcha.”
                “What’s the significance?”
                “I don’t know yet, but I’m making a note of it anyway.” Milton sketched out the rock formation on a pad and scribbled some notes next to it. When Carl heard the scrape of the chisel against its hammer he snapped to attention.
                “Danger?” he asked urgently.
                “No, I’m just taking a sample. Fearsome weapons of war can have peacetime applications too, you know. You remember the techniques developed in the late 23^rd century to infuse soil with lead? Those machines started out as weapons from the 21^st century.”
                “That’s crazy.”
                “I know, right. That’s how tech moves on I guess.” A sharp metallic clink rang out as Milton chipped a small piece off the protruding rock. It seemed to wobble and vibrate a little too long before settling down after it landed on the ground.
                “If these rocks form anything like their counterparts on Earth, they’re incredibly ancient. They’ve got no real business on the surface.”
                “Maybe they’re diversifying?”
                “I think those earthquakes are more than probable if there’s been that much motion in the deep bedrock. This isn’t going to be a great location to settle.”
                “So, the sniffy trees were OK by you for a settlement?”
                “I’m not ashamed of my own musk.”
                Carl shuddered.

                The pair of field-scientists spent that night writing their first report to send back to the outpost, even if their association with the GITS was strictly informal for insurance purposes. By the process of fair delegation by seniority, Carl did the majority of the writing while Milton occasionally dictated key findings and lost himself in his scribblings.

                Carl felt that he’d spent enough time with Cherie and Julia to characterise three whole new classes of organism, based on what he’d seen of the mysterious flying creatures. There were the intra-vertebrates that had backbones running right through their bodies and emerging at either end, the inter-vertebrates that had backbones linking otherwise separate animals together, and the introvertebrates, who were just very shy. It was a far cry from the fundamental physics he was here to investigate, but at least he’d get his name on a paper, even if that paper was entitled ‘Reasons not to accept any more students on placement’. He had a sample of each of those organisms in a horrifying collection of glass jars in the storage boxes of The Floater, and just hoped that decay didn’t set in too quickly on Gestis.
                On the other side of their campfire, Milton was busily poring over his notes. He’d set himself up with the navigation computer and spent as much time scratching his head as he did noting down calculations.

                “What are you doing with that?” Carl asked finally, confused as to how it could take so long to work out where they were.

                “I’m trying to work something out.” Milton said uselessly.

                “Like what?”
                “Those lines in the rock seemed a bit… I don’t know… directional. I’m trying to work out where we should go next to get some more data.”

                “Fair enough. I’m going to sleep if it’s all the same to you. I’ve sent the report off.”
                “Right you are. Don’t get eaten by a fang beast.”
                “I’m not soluble so that should be fine.”
                Milton chuckled and stayed focused on the nav computer.

                They left at sunrise the following morning. Milton had already plugged their bearing into the navigational computer, which Carl assumed to be the output of a complicated algorithm Milton had been working through. In truth, after Carl had gone to bed, Milton had found that his equations were getting nowhere, so he applied the ancient navigational technique of spinning a fork and seeing which way the prongs willed them to go. According to the navigational computer, which had decided to disregard the advice of its rapidly spinning internal compass, they were gaining very little latitude but an awful lot of longitude.

Milton skirted around the edges of the violet forest on The Floater, rising up the hillside to stay outside the treeline. A polychromatic vista of the least natural nature in the universe opened up as they crested the peak of the hill, falling away in all directions like an ambitiously proportioned duvet.

The ground was still covered in moss, which was gradually changing to a brown-red colour as they pressed into drier climates. Slightly North of their bearing, a glinting green valley stretched into the distance. It was as if someone had taken to growing a series of tiny mirrors, and as such warranted investigation. Milton banked The Floater around and accelerated towards the glittery valley.
                They slowed as they approached a meadow of rigid, cylindrical grass, growing like glass rods from the dusty ground. Weaving among the glassy grass were a swarm of scuttling, crawling, furry creatures They looked like a severed human forearm covered in thick brown hair, and were about as appealing a prospect to approach. In the absence of a head, their eyes were on the torso, one on the front and one on the back, and their four rapidly crawling legs fanned out from its pelvis in a square. Two tiny arms, convex like an open crab claw, sprouted from the top of the torso section with bearlike pads and claws running along the inside.

Among them, unbeknownst to Carl and Milton, was also a butterfly which had evolved to mimic everything about the scurrying creatures except their vision. They still had false eyes painted on the front and backs of their body, but their true sight was pointed directly downwards between the scuttling legs. They accounted for 90% of collisions.

                Swooping down to pick off the creatures, mimic or otherwise, were enormous, suede winged flying beasts with faces like the underneath of a jellyfish. Rather than long thin wings like birds on earth, their wings which were octagonal, joined onto either side of a long, thin body. Narrow bones spread out radially from the centre of each wing, ending with one in each corner, and the creatures flapped them like opening and closing a hideous leather umbrella. Carl and Milton looked on with revulsion as they slicked their wings back against their bodies and launched into a death-dive for the furry prey.
                “This... is pretty horrifying. Just straight up horrifying.” Carl observed with a grimace.
                “Little bastards probably deserve it.” Milton said unsympathetically.

                They watched the hunting display for a few minutes, mostly to put off walking in amongst the horror show for a little while.

“I'm calling them scuttlers.” Carl announced finally.

“The zoology department is in charge of nomenclature, technically.” Milton reminded him.

“I don't care. I discovered it and it's being called a scuttler. If I’m expected to gather up a mortuary full of exotic animals then I think I’ve earned naming rights. Besides, if I don’t get to do any physics then they don’t get to name the animals we find.”

“Fine. They're banshees then.” Milton said, pointing at the leathery flying beasts.

“Sorted. We’re getting something out of this at least.”

                Once they’d grown tired of the scuttlers and banshees, they took a deliberately loud walk into the meadow to scatter the wildlife away.

                “Are these made of glass? Does glass even form naturally?” Carl asked, peering into one of the rods. It came up to his chest and was polished to a mirror-shine. Presumably by the buffing of the scuttlers’ fur, he thought with a shudder.

                “Looks like it's some form of silicate yeah. But the colour and clouding implies doping with something.” Milton replied.
                “Weird.”
                The rods sparkled in the light, doubly so due to the glittery particles suspended inside them. They were like static snow-globes thrust into the ground by an ornament collector with little regard for his trinkets.
                “These suspended fragments; do they look aligned to you?” Milton asked Carl.
                Carl leaned in and peered into the rods. He couldn’t deny that it looked like all the glittery particles were formed up into neat rows, and he didn’t even try. That would have meant lying to Milton.
                “Yeah, they’re all lined up.”
                “Chuck me the nav computer again.” Milton said distractedly, holding his hand out. Carl walked behind Milton, opened the geologist’s pack for him and removed the computer.
                “Here you go.” Carl said passive-aggressively, dumping the small black device into Milton’s hand. Milton took the computer without turning around and tapped away purposefully.

                “Interesting…” he muttered, and scribbled some more notes onto his pad.
                “So, um, why do you need to navigate so badly right now? Is this another part of your mystery theory?”
                “Something like that. Chuck me the chisel?”
                Once again, Carl dug the item out of Milton’s own pack and handed it to him. Milton crouched down and shovelled a chiselful of dirt out of the ground, dumping the pile of loose earth and pebbles to one side. The pebbles rolled for a little too long before settling down into a neat line.
                “Look! They’re lined up again!” He said excitedly.

                “I suppose so, yeah.”

                “The pebbles, the particles in these rods, the lines in the rock of the violet forest – they’ve all been aligned. It looks like they’re all directed towards a single point on the surface.”
                “So they’re magnetic and following the field lines?”

                “Well, yeah. Isn’t that exciting to you?”
                “It’s interesting, sure but I’m not that excited. We’ve struck iron.”
                “Look, this is weird and exciting. We’re going to follow the field lines. They’ve all pointed in the same direction so that’s where we’re going. Come on.” He thrust the computer and chisel back into his bag and started to walk back to The Floater.

                “But we still need to gather more samples and write up what we’ve found!” Carl said despairingly.

                “What we need to do is following the interesting things. Everything else will still be here when we get back.”
               

                The Floater zipped along through the wilderness, wobbling and bouncing over the uneven landscape. Carl held the Nav computer in his hand, giving Milton course corrections if they deviated too much, always heading in the due-whatever-direction bearing; the alignment of the pebbles.

                After a couple of hours, a flash of light appeared in front of The Floater, off in the distance. Whilst both Milton and Carl were trying to decide whether they had seen anything at all, it flashed again. The light came from directly ahead of them, apparently underneath an unusually dense and dark cloud. With another flash the sky lit up in the near distance, granting them a fleeting glimpse of the shimmering, coruscating underside of the shape in the sky.

                “Looks like a storm ahead.” Milton shouted tentatively, or as tentatively as a shout can be.

                “Yeah. Weird cloud though, right?”

                As they grew closer to the cloud, they saw that it was floating over a wide basin. In fact, it was floating over the basin quite exactly, ending with strangely sharp edges and not overhanging on any side. The familiar grey haze underneath the cloud suggested the presence of some torrential rain. Milton accepted Carl’s characterisation of the cloud as a member of the ‘weird’ family.

                “Are we heading into it?” Carl asked suspiciously.

                “I hope not. I’m just planning to take us to the edge. I want to see what’s going on in there.”

                “Wait, why do you only hope not? You’re driving. Just don’t drive us into it.”
                “Because mistakes get made and I would be a fool not to acknowledge that possibility.”

                In the end, Milton’s fears were largely unfounded. He managed to pull the Floater to a halt just on the edge of the rain, however it drifted and turned in the process. Milton was safely on the dry side, but Carl was deposited neatly into the storm.
                In fairness, Carl didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. From a distance it had certainly appeared to be raining, but now they were up close neither Milton nor Carl could be sure that raining was the right word; Carl had remained perfectly dry, which was quite uncharacteristic of water-rain, but perhaps the more compelling anti-rain evidence came in the fact that the water was travelling upwards.

                The peculiar cloud appeared to be a vast lake in the sky, into which water was violently flinging itself. The basin, conversely, was filled with a thick misty cloud which would presumably have dropped even farther down had the ground not put itself in the way. Violent tornadoes swirled around within the precipitous maelstrom, carrying debris from the surrounding area on a wild ride and prompting Carl to vacate the area regardless of his continued dryness.

                “It’s raining upwards?”

                “Erm. It seems that way, yes.” Milton confirmed. “Is this sufficiently physicsy for you?”

                “It’ll do. Is this where the field lines meet?”
                “Close. If my calculations are right, which is a big ‘if’, it’ll be inside there somewhere.”
                Carl let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. “Of course it is. And let me guess, someone has to go in and have a look?”
                “Would I do that to you?” Milton asked, somewhere uncomfortably equidistant between sincere and sarcastic.
                “…yes?”
                “Correct. But I’m doing it to me too. Let’s go.”

                Carl and Milton wrapped themselves up in waterproof jackets they’d liberated from the cloakroom under cover of darkness and tried to contrive a way of protecting themselves against upward rain. The majority of their attempts involved an uncomfortable amount of tucking, which took the situation from ‘exhilarating’ to ‘humiliating’ in very few steps.

                “Ready?” asked Milton, the top of his trousers bulging out with all the spare jacket forced into the waistband.
                “I guess so.” Carl replied, trousers firmly inside his socks for the good of all science.

                “Just try to stay away from the tornadoes. Maybe if we don’t disturb them then they won’t disturb us.” Milton advised, displaying the depth of his lack of understanding when it came to meteorological phenomena.

                The pair of style-abominations stepped cautiously into the storm, reeling at the sensation of rain slapping into their underneath of their chins. There were innumerable ‘whys’ to their situation, and very few answers were forthcoming. Neither of them had any idea why this was happening, nor did they understand why they hadn’t anticipated that the water might run down their bodies as normal, invading the necks of their coats and thoroughly soaking them in no time at all. The march into the cloud was disorienting. Sounds bounced unpredictably among the suspended water droplets, making every footstep sound as if it surrounded them.
                Several times they were forced to stop suddenly as a tornado cut across their path, or rush as one came swirling along behind them. The dampened dust and rock underneath seemed to be growing some kind of seaweed, which provided little in the way of grip when stepped upon.
                The basin descended deceptively far, and the cloud grew thicker as they went down. The light grey mists transitioned to darker shades and visibility became even poorer, the light failing to penetrate as well in the depths.
                “Are we getting near the centre?”
                “No idea. I can’t see it.”
                “Well, did you expect to have to walk this far?”
                “I didn’t expect to have rain running up my trouser leg, to be honest, and that’s a fundamental difference to my observations. The lesson to take away here is that my expectations are best disregarded in these circumstances.”

                A tornado twisted its way into view and sprayed wet dust all over Milton’s midriff before disappearing back into the fog. Milton sighed at the childish weather systems the GITS had created.

                After what felt like an hour and thirteen minutes, the cloud began to rapidly thin out. In only a few paces they were completely clear of the mist, and standing in a dry, open plain. It was clearly the centre of the basin, sloping in on all sides towards a bungalow-sized slate-grey dome.
                Vast outcrops of rock saw-toothed inwards on radial lines, all points and layer-lines directed towards the centre of the basin. The dome was strangely bare and smooth compared to the rock formations around it. It was hard to tell form a distance, but it seemed that no lichens, mosses or ambitious ferns had made any attempt to grow across its vast surface.

                Miraculously, Carl and Milton were not the only living things to have braved the inverted rain in the basin. The eye of the storm also played host to a group of what appeared to be ducklings in many respects, aside from the drastically mismatched legs. One was clearly twice the length of the other, so whenever they tried to walk the curious ducklings ended up milling in tight circles around the dark slate mound.
                Neither Milton nor Carl could know, but these ducklings had evolved the ability to see into the future by mechanisms they would never understand. They saw the rise and fall of humanity on Gestis, the industrialisation of the nearby cluster and the final discovery of exactly why the only fabric to be worn by every planetary leader in the future of humanity was corduroy. They were unsure of what to do with any of this information, of course, but at least they had a sense of closure.
                “Here it is then, the spot where the rock-lines meet.” Milton said, pointing out the obvious. He and Carl walked slowly towards the dome in the centre, carefully avoiding the ducklings, which had started to rotate much more rapidly in their attempts to run and hide. It was somewhere between adorable and tragic.

                “Look at everything here, it’s all lined up towards the dome.”
                “Do you think it’s the core?”
                “Hm?”
                “The magnetic core of the planet.”
                “Oh, yes. Yes I do. Nothing says it needs to be in the centre of the planet, I suppose.”

                “I’m going to take some pictures.” Carl announced, pulling his camera out of his bag. The severe electric-magnetic distortion across his screen then announced that he would not. “Hm, this isn’t going to work here.”
                “Best sketch it instead then.”    

The ducklings investigated Carl's feet as he made a rough sketch of the rotating dome. They already knew all there was to know of his life, where he would end up, what he would discover, even how he would die, but they were still curious about whether there were any tasty beetles milling around his shoes and trousers.
                A closer inspection revealed that the dome was not as smooth as Carl had initially thought. In fact, it was simply spinning alarmingly quickly, giving the illusion of smoothness and revealing why no lichen had been bold enough to take up residence upon its surface.
                “No wonder the compass doesn’t work. The fields here must be huge for this thing to be spinning. Christ only knows how huge it is under the surface.” Carl told Milton.

A loud crack echoed around the dome, startling Milton and Carl but not really troubling the ducklings since they were already quite aware of what was going to happen. They were far more concerned with the highly magnetic spiders who they knew would be soaring through the air towards the magnet very shortly. They lined up with beaks open.

                “What was that?” Milton asked urgently. Carl wasn’t sure.
                The dome’s spinning began to rapidly decelerate. The sky bulged inwards towards the magnetic core, the sky lake and the clouds high above it bowed down towards the ground, striving to make contact with the core as it slowed. The inverted rain slowed to a confused drizzle and then stopped entirely as the core span down to a halt. The ground around them rumbled.

                “Say, Milton? Do… um… do magnetic earthquakes exist? And if so, are we screwed?”
                “I’ve never heard of them but it’s certainly feasible if all this bedrock is magnetic. Someone has to find out, I guess.” He said. Carl felt that was a terribly fatalistic way of looking at things.

                Gradually, the core began to spin again in the opposite direction. It was slow at first, but the faster it went the faster it accelerated. The clouds stopped bowing in and began to flex outwards again, repelled by the new and unpleasant ideas of the magnetic core. The sky lake began to rain down on the cloudy basin, which started to settle out into a ground lake which was far less difficult to comprehend. The quaking of the ground grew louder, and the saw-tooth rocks started to grind their way into the earth, rumbling and shaking as tonnes of hardened minerals hid themselves away from prying eyes.
                The quaking lasted for only a few minutes. Rocks and gravel were shaken loose, but only rolled as far as the next neat line, pointing towards the central dome. Then, all of a sudden, there was silence again. The landscape had been dramatically altered, and all was calm once more.  Carl could have sworn he’d seen floating spiders during the quake, but soon dismissed the notion. The ducklings definitely seemed more bloated than before, though.
                “It changed direction…” Milton said, surprised.

“What the Christ?” Responded Carl, asking the tough questions.

“Beats me.”

“You're a geologist, rocks are your thing.”

“You're a physicist, being uncertain is yours.”

“Bugger, you’re right.”

“Exactly. So what do you think happened here?”
                “Well… planetary magnetic cores do swap polarity from time to time. I guess we just got lucky with this one and saw it.”
                “Yeah, but the sky doesn’t go with it.”
                “No. This was very centralised and uniform. It’s... it's a monopole. They... Magnetic monopoles aren't supposed to exist. We've never found even a small one…” Carl said, as the most convincing crackpot theory descended over him.”

                “Well there's your physics.” Milton said, slapping him on the back.

                Milton and Carl braved the regular old downward rain to escape the worst of the magnetic distortion and send a message back to the outpost. Whilst they’d been gone the outpost had sent them a status report of their own. It transpired that the fang beast had proven rather trivial to domesticate, given that it had no concept of predatory threats and no capacity to fend for itself. They’d started feeding it a paste made from the tarkins and adopted it as a pet.

                In reply, Milton and Carl tried to formulate a report of what they had discovered. They started with the upside down rain, then decided that needed to be seen to be believed. The curious ducklings were simple enough, but not terribly exciting by comparison to the monopole.
                “The thing is,” Carl told Milton “we’ve basically discovered a perpetual motion machine here. I mean, it’ll run out eventually but on our timescales we could just attach turbine to this thing and generate power every time it swaps polarity. We’ve found the perfect power hub for the planet. By the time it runs out, we’ll be long dead.”
                “I feel like I already am.” Said Milton groggily.
                “I told you not to eat that duckling.”

                “Urgh, I need to sit down.”

                As Milton fought off the secondary effects of a psychic meal, he and Carl deliberated at great length over the contents of their report. Everything they were trying to report would culminate in a in ridicule and be dismissed out of hand if they tried to write it down, they were sure. In the end, they adopted Milton’s original approach of brevity, producing a sequel to his initial succinct report.
                "Unfortunately, the results we have achieved aren't strictly possible. This has made it very difficult to write about in a scientific framework, and so we have not tried. Fauna is still out of hand. Milton et al and Carl."