For Henry Roberts, navigating the ever-present foot traffic of Camden’s city streets proved to be much less of a challenge than he had expected. Having grown up in Valence, he had already become accustomed to crowds twice the size of what the Avilonian capital had to offer. As if by muscle memory alone, he found himself weaving and shuffling through the river of bodies like a well-rehearsed waltz. He danced onward, creating more and more distance between himself and the gargantuan central train station that, even now, dwarfed the surrounding buildings despite being well over a mile away.

  Motor cars and horse-drawn buggies trundled through the paved road beside him, adding percussive bass to the symphony of the streets. There was an even mixture of both kinds of transport, though the latter seemed to be getting more and more antiquated by the day. Whether the nags knew it or not, progress was marching ever forward.

  Crumpled in his coat pocket was a telegram sent to him earlier that morning, requesting his presence at a nearby cafe at 5:00 pm sharp. He pulled his pocket watch out from his vest and flipped open its silver lid. 4:50. He should be there with about two minutes to spare.

  Henry shivered slightly and began to button up his thick trench coat as he strolled along the slippery, snow-covered sidewalk. While he liked to think that he had grown used to freezing temperatures, there were days when even he needed to admit defeat. Henry felt most of Oliida would agree. One would expect that over a thousand years of permafrost would yield some sort of drastic global adaptation by its inhabitants, but alas, cold was still cold. And today, in particular, was not only cold, it was damn cold.

  Roberts was fairly tall, standing well over six feet, and had dark skin that wrapped around a muscular frame. He was bald, but often wore a wool flat cap, and had a beard that covered the majority of the lower half of his face. He had dark brown eyes and thick, well-manicured brows that could just as easily evoke sensitivity as they could intensity.

  He glanced up briefly at the structures lining either side of the street, their windowed eyes watching him intently. Robert’s sudden feeling of unease wasn’t helped by the plethora of banners coating their exteriors, boasting public service announcements like “Fight the Sieges Scourge, Enlist!” or “Soldiers Have Stomachs Too, Ration at Home to Feed the Frontlines!” One banner in particular depicted a smiling, obviously pregnant human woman gazing skyward. Opposite her, on the right-hand side of the image, was a young man in full Avilonian Dish Head uniform, saluting. The words, “Help Give Birth to Victory, Populate to Protect Our Future!” were written along the top and bottom. Henry’s stomach churned. Entire families starting for the sole purpose of nationalism; this war had gone on far longer than anyone could have anticipated. If the House Collective was priming their young to serve in a conflict they were not even alive to see begin, then they truly were intent on fighting to the very last man standing.

  Henry jolted alive, suddenly realizing that he had actually stopped in his tracks to look at the message. He kept walking until he finally came to a street corner cafe another block down the road. Mac’s was the name written in large cursive script on the windows and carved into a wooden sign dangling perpendicularly to the double doors below it. A warm, golden glow emanated from inside, and Henry could see a large number of people gathered at booths and tables sipping hot coffee and tea. Roberts wondered if his boss had chosen this spot to tempt him into early retirement, allowing him to live comfortably at Mac’s for the remainder of his natural life. He reached the entrance and pulled open one of its rustic-looking oak doors. A bell chimed overhead, and a wave of warmth coated his body. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans and toasted baked goods. If this short-notice rendezvous were to run longer than expected, there would be no complaints from him. He looked to the well-appointed maitre d’, who gave him a welcoming nod.

  “Hello, is there a Feliz here? Abigail Feliz?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, right this way, sir,” the man replied, “May I take your coat?”

  Henry nodded and slipped off his outer layer. The man took the garment and brought it into a large windowed closet just a few feet away. Henry peered into the room and saw that amidst the racks filled with all manner of heavy shawls, topcoats, and other accessories was a massive floor-length fur. It was fashioned from dark gray and black streaked pelts; Dire Raccoon, a type of megafauna commonly found in the ice deserts of Fringen. The coat was a statement piece that stood out from the rest, a status symbol if ever there was one. Feliz was indeed here.

  The maitre d’ led Henry through the crowded cafe floor, stopping beside a booth enclosed on either side by black-stained wood, which resembled a sort of rudimentary sleeping car. There, seated on the right-hand side, was Conductor Abigail Feliz. She wore a midnight blue two-piece suit over a matching vest and white undershirt. A black tie hung from beneath her collar, and a gold chain, attached to her watch, dangled delicately from her vest pocket. She was reading a newspaper next to a steaming cup of tea left cooling on the table. She didn’t look up from her reading as Henry quietly thanked the man and took his seat across from her.

  “You’re later than usual,” she said, her eyes still scanning through an article she seemed to have little interest in continuing to read.

  “Still have a minute to spare,” Roberts replied, checking his pocket watch and verifying it with a clock on the wall.

  “Exactly,” she retorted, “Normally you would have arrived with at least four.”

  “I suppose I’m still getting my bearings around here.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Feliz motioned to a waiter and had him fetch a cup, then decidedly folded the paper and set it aside. Her elegant features were struck perfectly by the lamplit room as she adjusted her posture. She had cheekbones that were strong, yet not distractingly prominent, and thick lips that rarely broke their neutral, unamused expression. Henry could count on a single hand how many times he had actually seen Feliz smile in his time with her; perhaps a few digits less for how many times the smile had been genuine. She had intoxicatingly alluring sapphire eyes, always perfectly framed by a flattering layer of eyeliner and likely some other forms of makeup Henry hadn’t the knowledge nor the care to name. She had light tan skin that, compared to most humanoids living in the western region of Oliida, would have seemed quite dark. Her walnut hair was trimmed short, cascading beside her cheeks like waterfalls and ending in slight concave curls. By all standards, she was gorgeous, though that fact had never distracted Henry from his duty as her second in command.

  “I had to leave early this morning,” Feliz said, stirring a sugar cube into her tea, “anything of note to report from the Glacier?”

  “Nothing serious,” he responded, “Though I think Stonesmelt is already contracting cabin fever.”

  “We’ve only been here a day.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not so much by that as I am by the irony that he never leaves the engine room, regardless of whether or not the train is moving. Anything else?”

  “Kira’s requested that Mr. O’Keefe over in Upskirt Sally’s play something that isn’t, quote, ‘an epitaph set to music.’”

  “I like Frank's music,” she replied, “It’s raw. Honest. It tells a story that most of us working on that train can connect to. If she wants to be dazzled, she can spend her free time at Carousel Cabaret.”

  “Speaking of, isn’t-” Henry began.

  “Kitty Cleary?” Abigail finished, “Yes. That’s actually why I left early today. She’s officially contracted to be a resident entertainer aboard the Black Glacier for the next two months.”

  “We’re gonna need a bigger train to fit the crowds.”

  “Ticket prices are going up, that’s for certain.”

  The waiter returned with Henry’s coffee, placing it gingerly in front of him before drifting away once more into the bustling cafe. The two sat quietly for a minute or two, occasionally sipping at their drinks and staring at the numerous patrons seated nearby. Henry noticed more than a few men, either alone or with their wives, snapping quick, admiring glances in Feliz’s direction when they thought no one was looking. She had caused a stir.

  “So really, why were you late?” asked Feliz, breaking the silence.

  “I wasn’t late,” Roberts insisted, attempting to brush away the question by taking another long drink of coffee.

  “Fine, then why were you procrastinatedly punctual?”

  “‘Procrastinatedly’ isn’t a word.”

  “Were you actually lost?”

  “I really don’t see how this matters.”

  “I considered sending a search party after the first minute.”

  “Very funny. And no, I didn’t get lost. Maybe just…distracted.”

  “Oooh, now we’re getting somewhere,” she said, brow arched. “What did she look like?”

  “Pregnant.”

  “You scoundrel.”

  “No,” Henry protested, “She wasn’t real. It was some woman on a banner.”

  “Oh…” said Feliz, grim realization coloring her expression, “You’re talking about the MFA program.”

  “The what?”

  “Mothers for Future Avilon,” Feliz began, “It’s a kind of repopulation program the Avilonian government is promoting. With all of the young and able-bodied out fighting and dying in the war, House officials have had genuine fears of an entire generation being lost. They want to make sure there will still be enough children to eventually take their place.”

  “Seems desperate,” said Henry.

  “It is,” she replied.

  “Bet you’re glad that you’re an only child now.”

  Feliz sipped her tea again, cocking her head in agreement. “Are any of your siblings getting drafted?” she asked.

  “New Avilon entered the war just a few years ago,” he said, “so that remains to be seen. My kid sister Ruby said she’ll be serving as a nurse soon, but she’s been stationed in Fort Graham, a safe distance away from the Southern Front. Charles and Ted are too old to be drafted, so I doubt they’ll feel inclined to enlist unless things get worse.”

  “Fingers crossed they don’t.”

  “Is it true the Sieges are using gas now?”

  “That’s what I was just reading about, as a matter of fact,” Feliz said, tapping the folded newspaper before grabbing a nearby menu. She opened it and continued, “They say the toxins attack the lungs, liquifying them. Soldiers are coughing up blood by the handful before they can finally die. It debuted in the Eastern Theater against the Stevnovians last week.”

  “By the Sun’s Glow,” Henry balked.

  “Hungry?” she asked, browsing the leather-bound pamphlet.

  “You must be a hit at parties with conversational timing like that.”

  “I think I may get a scone.”

  “So, did you actually have something you needed to see me about, or did you just anticipate being bored this afternoon?” Henry asked, mild irritation bubbling.

  “Column A, Column B,” Feliz replied. She set down the menu as the waiter returned to take their order. Feliz ordered an apricot scone, Roberts a Monte Cristo. As the waiter vanished once more, Abigail rested her chin in her hand, mouth tucked into the crease between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes darted back and forth as if mentally attempting to put together a jigsaw puzzle.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Something else bothering you?” Henry inquired.

  “I think something big is going on in Chaleur.”

  “In Chaleur? Like what?”

  Henry had visited Chaleur in their travels before. It was a quaint town nestled on the northmost point of Candin, hardly as impressive as the mega metropolises of the world like Camden or Valence. It didn’t have much to note except for its university, aptly named Chaleur University, which was famed for its scientific studies. The school was effectively the cheaper (and less controversial) alternative to Ganes University.

  “I’m not sure, but whatever it is, it seems to have caught the attention of the House Collective military,” Abigail continued, “We’re supposed to be picking up a General during our next stop in Telbryn to take him there.”

  “Well, now I have even more questions.”

  “Now you’re understanding how I feel,” she chimed.

  “First of all, why are we transporting army officials? What happened to our oath?”

  “I’ve made it clear with those involved that we are only acting as transport,” said Abigail, “He will be just like any other passenger aboard. He will receive no special treatment and will be welcome to stay in one of the standard guest rooms just like anyone else, unless, of course, he wishes to pay extra for the luxury suite.”

  “Fine. Secondly, why is a General in Telbryn? I thought they were neutral.”

  “They are. He’s likely there to try and change that, however.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t cave.”

  “Hard to say. Lady Victoria and her sisters have created a very self-sustaining society for themselves. They’ve lasted this long without receiving trade shipments from their House Collective neighbors. Still, society’s ecosystem is fragile right now. Lone wolves rarely last in the wild.”

  “We’re getting off track, though,” interjected Henry, “What’s going on in Chaleur?”

  “I don’t know…” she said, gravely, “That’s what concerns me.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it has nothing to do with us. We do the job, we get paid, we take on another, repeat.”

  Abigail nodded, though she didn’t appear any more reassured. Her eyes continued to scan, still reading an endless, invisible dossier filled with questions and possible answers. After a few more seconds of pointless pondering, she closed her eyes and took a swift breath, a clear sign that she was ready to change the subject. “Oh, by the way,” she said, suddenly, giving Henry a sideways glance, “I hate to admit it, but you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “Gordon quit.”

  Roberts laughed heartily.

  “Said he couldn’t bear to work with Krol and Bismark any longer,” said Feliz melodramatically.

  “I do believe someone owes me five bucks!”

  “I’ll pay for your meal,” she bemoaned.

  “What? I figured you were treating already.”

  “Fine, your next drink at Sally’s is on my tab.”

  “Deal. So who’s our next Hangar Captain?”

  “No one quite yet, though I have been given a lead on someone. A veteran: Albert Elles. Tom said he may still be living around here. I guess Elles was a patient of his a couple of years back when he was a field medic in Paix.”

  “Does he know how to work a tank?”

  “First Commander of the 22nd Avilonian Tank Division.”

  “He’s hired.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure, Tom said he spent a little time in the hospital’s psychiatric ward when he was sent back to Camden practically in pieces.”

  “What for?”

  “Not sure. But a man who’s seen the things that he’s seen could have any number of diagnoses.”

  “Well, he certainly can’t be any crazier than Bismark,” Roberts joked.

  Abigail raised her eyebrows knowingly while taking another swill, as if to say, You’ve got that right. At long last, their meals arrived, and the subsequent few minutes consisted of minimal dialogue, which Henry figured was as good a compliment to the chef as any. Eventually, they finished, forcing Roberts to keep himself occupied by continuing to people-watch. His attention quickly snapped back to Abigail when she said, unprompted, “It only feels like yesterday that I became Conductor.” She had a wistful look about her, as if browsing an ethereal album of family photos.

  “Fifteen years now, right?” Henry replied.

  “And eight days…”

  “You’re getting old,” chided Henry.

  “Now if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.”

  “Hey, I’ve been told the salt and pepper in the beard suits me.”

  “By whom? Your mother?”

  “No. Yours,” he said, chuckling.

  Feliz rolled her eyes as she began to take another sip of her tea. Henry watched intently, grinning wryly as he waited for the perfect moment to speak. “So, when do you plan on having kids?”

  He had struck a perfect blow. Abigail nearly spat. Her cheeks puffed up like a blowfish and her eyes bulged. She strained and forced a swallow before laughing between coughing fits. “You tosser,” she said, cackling and sputtering, “You did that on purpose!”

  A bemused smile had spread playfully across her face. Henry could finally count with both hands.

  Why are you here?

  Get out! Get out! Get out!

  She doesn’t want to see you.

  Leave! You worthless, good-for-nothing-

  Maybe it will be alright. Maybe…

  Run! Run before it’s too late!

  Albert could feel his pulse quicken to a startling rate as he strolled through the long hallway flanked on either side by dozens of numbered doors. The blood pumping through his veins pounded on his eardrums. The silence in that room was ear-splitting. It had no windows, its interior lit dimly by a few gas lamps hung symmetrically on the walls. The floor was covered in a plush, ornately designed carpet that soaked up reverberations, making echoes nonexistent. The place reminded Elles of a coffin.

  Occasionally, he would hear murmurs and muffled, incoherent sentences coming from within the various apartments; a welcome respite from the sounds of his own body. He suddenly became hyper-aware of the noises he made involuntarily. Right foot: Step, Left foot: Step, click, repeat. He tried to ignore himself, looking instead to the letter and single rose held tenderly in his right hand; the hand that, unlike his left, was still made of flesh and bone.

  You’re too loud! They’ll hear you!

  Don’t look behind you…

  You’re a freak! No one should have to see you!

  Albert needed quiet. He took the capsule from his coat pocket and unscrewed its lid, retrieving one of the pills from within. He popped it in his mouth, washing it down with a swig of water from the metal flask he kept strapped to his hip. Hopefully, they’d stop by the time he reached the end of the hall.

  He had finally gotten used to his new lifestyle after being discharged from service, at least to a point where it felt natural to move. Though he convinced himself that he didn’t deserve it, the surgeons had spared no expense in his prosthetics. His left leg was expertly crafted with all manner of springs and hydraulics, allowing him to walk without so much as a slight limp. His metal hand could bend, open, and close at will. This was all thanks to a tube that ran from the false elbow up to a plug built into his bicep, containing pins that connected to his nervous system using new arcane technology. He still suffered from aches and horrible migraines, but these could hardly be helped. He had still been far luckier than the rest of his division.

  Albert heard the news of what had become of his men shortly after waking from his coma. The nurse had entered his room in Camden General Hospital, accompanied by two high-ranking Avilonian officers. They had thanked him for his service and presented him with the Red Wing, a medal given to soldiers who were wounded or taken prisoner in the line of duty. “What about the others?” he remembered asking as he examined the award. His heart sank when the uniformed men said nothing, replying only with looks of intense sympathetic reservation. It was here that the voices began.

  He could still see the faces of their loved ones at the funeral, clear as day in his mind. Widows, mothers, fathers, and children all with tear-stained cheeks and tired eyes, watching as thirty-one caskets decorated with the Avilonian flag were laid to rest in the cold dirt. He had given the eulogy, telling the mass of people that he, “had never served with finer men” and that “he felt beyond honored to have been called ‘Commander’ by them.” He had truly meant the parting words he had given, which made his survivor’s guilt all the more crippling. He thought of what Nathaniel had said about the cost of giving orders, the loss and pain required to pay for victory. He was haunted by that battle daily, living out scenarios of what might have been. But no amount of retrospection brought him comfort.

  “514,” he muttered to himself as he walked, “514.”

  514!

  514?

  514 gods dammit! Get it through your skull!

  514! 514!

  He counted the black numbers hanging on the doors as he passed. Finally, he stopped and turned, facing room 514. The door seemed to dare him to knock, somehow knowing that he hardly had the courage to approach it in the first place. Elles considered simply placing the rose on the doorstep and slipping the letter under the frame. With any luck, if she was home, he could scurry back down the hall and disappear into the city before she could see who was there. With better luck, she wouldn’t even be home at all.

  Albert shook the thought from his mind and raised his mechanical arm, preparing to knock. He held that position for a staggering amount of time, as if he were giving the door a sort of bizarre, otherworldly salute.

  Coward! You freak!

  You don’t have the guts!

  Run! Run!

  Don’t listen to them!

  Finally, he made to strike. But before his knuckles could ring against the cheap, whitewashed pine, the door opened, revealing a fair middle-aged woman. She was clearly of Oni descent, with light grayish skin and horns protruding from the front of her scalp. She had straight, black hair that parted in the middle like theatre curtains, allowing her eyes to take center stage. They were pitch black except for her irises, which burned a bright, piercing red. A long tail that was forked near the tip swayed to and fro from her backside. In her hand, she held that of her toddler-aged son, likely no more than four years old, who waddled beside her. Like his mother, he had horns; tiny horns that poked out from under a black hunting cap. Unlike her, however, he had a more pinkish complexion and an obvious lack of tail. Minus the influence of his mother’s heritage, he was the spitting image of his father. The woman wore a crimson blouse and a matching skirt that reached down to her ankles under a black shearling coat, which was lined with plush white fur that wrapped over the cuffs and around her neck. She also wore a large round hat that was surely made of the same beast that accented her topcoat. Her son was wearing a thick cotton jacket, winter boots, and a large knit scarf that covered the lower half of his face.

  The woman jumped and squeaked out a startled yelp upon discovering that a large, half-mechanical man was looming right outside her apartment. A smile of recognition, however, quickly colored her expression, and she laughed at her own brief moment of terror.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Commander Elles, you startled me! I didn’t even hear you come down the hall.”

  Albert instantly lowered his knocking hand and removed his cap in respectful greeting. He could feel a sweat on his forehead. This already daunting encounter had now become the worst-case scenario. “M-miss Levings!” Albert replied, “My dearest apologies! I had no intention of frightening you. I was s-simply coming to deliver some things for you.” He held out the flower and the note, which was inscribed with her last name.

  “What’s this?” she asked, taking the items.

  She hates it, you idiot!

  “I-It’s just a letter of condolence,” he said, “I realize today marked the second anniversary of your husband’s passing and I wanted to give you my deepest sympathies.”

  “Oh, Commander,” she said, a small tear building in her eye.

  “P-please…call me Albert,” he replied.

  “Albert, I don’t know what to say. This is too thoughtful.”

  She’s lying! She hates it!

  She’ll never forgive you!

  You’re nothing! You’re —

  Corporal Felix Leving’s widow, Francesca, graciously accepted the offering and quickly gave him a soft, reassuring hug.

  “I sent letters to the families of the others as well,” Elles said upon release, “But I felt that since you lived nearby that I ought to d-deliver yours in person.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better gift,” she said, the tears now streaming down her ash-colored cheeks. After a moment to admire the envelope, she looked up at him and said, “As it happens, Edmund and I were just about to go to St. Valerie’s to visit Felix. Would you care to join us?” It was then that Albert noticed the small boy was holding a small bundle of daisies that looked as though they had been freshly picked from the greenhouse.

  “Oh! No, miss,” Albert objected, “It would be unthinkable for me to intrude.”

  “Please, please, I insist!” she replied, “Your company would be very welcome, as a matter of fact…Felix always spoke very highly of you in his letters.”

  Albert could hardly bring himself to words. She had completely forgiven him for something that he had yet to forgive himself for. The man who was at very least, partially responsible for the death of her husband, stood before her; a shattered, half-human husk that had no right to give condolences for an event that had left everyone except for him dead. He was a walking reminder of her loss. And yet, she embraced him like an old friend. The man whom she had not seen or spoken to since she had watched her beloved enter his eternal rest. Albert felt overcome with gratitude and warmth, of which he had not even an inkling of feeling as though he deserved. He struggled to hold back tears of his own as he smiled appreciatively and conceded. Albert held out his mechanical elbow to the widowed Francesca Levings, who grasped gingerly. Elles led the mother and child through the dark hallway, then down into the frozen city beyond.

  Dear Mr. Elles,

  We are pleased to announce that a position for employment has opened aboard the world-famous steelrunner, the Black Glacier. With its vacancy, we offer you an opportunity for an interview tomorrow, September 6th, at 8:00 am. Details for employment shall remain confidential for now, but will be discussed during the interview process. Please bring a copy of your resume and any legal documents concerning identification, such as birth certificate, passport, etc. This offer is very time sensitive, given our departure from Camden on the morning of the 7th, so it goes without saying that this is your one and only chance to participate in this interview. If you wish to apply, we look forward to your attendance on the date and time printed above. If you wish to decline, we thank you for your time and wish you the best in future endeavors.

  Best regards,

  Conductor Abigail Feliz