Secrets are brought out of the shadows

A sailboat glides across glass-smooth water and over the reflection of white clouds piling on the horizon

Out of Shadows

BY SHANEL WILSON AND FRASIER ARMITAGE

PART THREE

Raindrops slashed at Solanio’s face as he and Butch made their way up the river. Solanio pulled the hood of his cloak up and hoped the storm that was brewing would give them the cover they needed. Two quick flashes of light shimmered through the tall grass when they reached the mouth of the inlet. 

“Drop anchor,” Butch said. 

Solanio cut the engine and steered the skiv silently through the reeds. Three ragged shadows slinked toward the skiv. 

Photo by Joran Quinten.

“Oy, we ain’t got all night lads. Quick step,” Butch growled at his companions.

“And quietly, while you’re at it,” Solanio hissed.

A stout, barrel-chested man stomped aboard. His matted hair was tied back into a rattail that wagged down his sweaty back. He gave Solanio a toothless grin before moving aside for his mate. A wooden peg jabbed the deck, nearly missing Solanio’s well-oiled boot. The peg’s owner sat his skeletal frame on the crates next to Butch, his gaunt face glowering. Lastly, a brute that matched Butch in size and number for belt-knives sagged the skiv even further in the water. 

“Tiny, Bones, and Dagger, at your service.” Butch gestured to each of his mates. 

“Pleasure. Shall we?” Solanio swallowed hard and started the engine.

The pelting rain blurred Solanio’s vision, making it difficult to scan for the barge. Tiny gave a low whistle and nodded ahead into the growing darkness. Sure enough, the lights of the barge twinkled in the rainfall and river mist. 

Solanio scanned the skies. 

“What are you looking at?” Butch snapped. 

“Do you see any drones?” Solanio asked. 

Butch laughed. “Trust me. There won’t be a Whitehall drone pass over this side of the river for some time.” He tapped his temple, as if he kept the inner workings of the drones inside that thick skull. 

“Alright. I’ll pull alongside the barge and then you do the rest.” Solanio gripped the controls.

“We know the plan. Smash and grab. Done it a thousand times.” Butch drew a pair of knives from his belt and ignited their laser blades. “Ready, boys?” 

Solanio shuddered under their unnatural glow and silently nudged the skiv to the starboard side of the barge. 

On the barge, the barge he owned but had been tasked with raiding, his trusted crew relaxed on the deck as if the rain were a summer breeze. 

Butch and his men secured rigging, and silently attached the skiv to the barge, entwining them in a lattice of knots. Solanio rubbed his gold signet ring–a ring signifying his membership in the Guild–trying to summon any last luck it might supply.

The skiv aligned with the barge, and in that instant, everything stilled. The river seemed to pause, even the breeze dropped, as if the world held breath for what was about to happen. 

But the moment soon passed, broken by the pirate crew bounding onto the barge’s deck and mounting their attack. 

“Pirates!” the barge captain bellowed, snapping his crew to attention. 

Solanio sunk further into his hood, not only to hide from his barge crew but also from the squelch of soggy punches and the metallic clang of blades connecting. A mighty clap of thunder shattered the sky above, tearing at the frayed edges of Solanio’s nerves. He flipped the helm to automatic and scurried below deck as mist engulfed the skiv and barge. 

Solanio paced in the darkness, shaking his head. The clash of steel rang out from the deck above. A sickening thud pounded the boards. He closed his eyes and tried to push out the screaming voices. 

“Ghost!” 

“Where is he?” 

“Show yourself!” 

Ghost? That wasn’t one of Butch’s pirate friends. 

A gust of wind ripped through the hull, shaking its metal plates. Terrified shouts and shrieks pierced the air, drifting down to him in echoes.

“There’s another one!” 

A second thud sounded, followed by a splash on the port side.

“Coward! Show yourself!” Butch screamed through the raging storm. 

What was going on up there? This was supposed to be a simple smash and grab. Butch had said as much. 

Another clap of thunder shook the skiv, threatening to roll it. Solanio knew he was needed at the helm, otherwise this hover would become his coffin. But he couldn’t bring himself to enter the fight. 

Photo by Johannes Plenio.

His fingers tapped the pistol below his cloak, remembering Prospero’s promise that its wide beam would eviscerate anything in its path. He breathed deeply, tightening his hood to mask his face. Prospero had better not have been exaggerating. 

As the skiv rolled in the rising river, Solanio crashed onto its deck. He squinted through the rain and mist to steal a look at what was happening on the barge, but he couldn’t see beyond its prow. The sounds of the fight quieted and all Solanio could hear was the lapping of water against the barge’s hull. 

Solanio blindly scrambled up the rigging, and pulled himself onto the barge. He tripped and crashed onto the deck, glancing back at what had sent him toppling. Tiny’s limp body twisted, soaking the deck with crimson blood. 

Solanio scrambled to his feet, drawing his pistol. He whirled around to find the bodies of the three barge crewmen gruesomely slain. Dagger lay in two halves, cut clean through. The crate containing the eye still sat on its pedestal in the center of the barge next to Butch. Butch’s eyes widened in a maddened frenzy. Beside him, Bones quaked. 

“Come out, ghost!” Butch shouted into the air, drawing the thunder closer. 

“What the—” Solanio’s voice caught when, from nowhere, ten silhouettes of men surrounded the barge. They drew swords which flashed like lightning in their hands. 

All the blood drained from Solanio’s face as he aimed his pistol at the closest silhouette, but before he could fire at the man, their body vanished into mist. Butch lunged at another attacker, nearly falling over the railing. Bones threw himself at the specters. Solanio continued to aim erratically at each figure that appeared before him, but each disappeared before he had the chance to shoot. 

In no more than a blink, all the shadows vanished. Bones lay on the deck, blood spilling from a gash on his neck that no medicine could mend. 

Photo by Solen Feyissa.

“I said show yourself!” Butch bellowed.

A figure landed in front of Butch. The mysterious man knelt, his face obstructed by the pitch-black cloak he wore, before he theatrically unsheathed a long, gleaming sword. He brought the blade in front of his face ready to strike. Solanio beheld a piercing blue eye in the sword’s reflection. A Newlondoner? 

Butch roared, daggers gripped tight, and pitched himself at the assassin. The man swiftly dodged Butch’s attack and swung his sword, catching Butch in the arm. Butch howled in pain through gritted teeth. The figure stood motionless while he waited for his opponent’s next attack. Solanio watched the mysterious man perform a graceful ballet of parries and feints as Butch lumbered clumsily, failing to land a single blow.

Butch slammed his body into the man and stabbed his attacker’s cloak. It rebounded off their armor plating, sending Butch crashing to the deck. Butch grabbed an edge of the cloak as he tumbled, entangling the two. Butch swung his fists wildly, finally connecting with his foe’s face to land a satisfying crack. Solanio tiptoed toward the crate which held the kraken’s eye, never daring to look away from the fight. The man spun and expertly pinned Butch. He pressed the edge of his sword against Butch’s pulsing neck.

“Who ordered you to this shameful task?” The man pressed the edge deeper into Butch’s skin.

“The Guild. It was the Guild.” Butch lifted a bloodied finger toward Solanio. “Ask him. He’s one of them!” 

Solanio froze with his hands hovering just above the crate. The figure flicked his wrist toward Solanio while maintaining his hold on Butch. 

“Your disgraceful deeds have sealed your fate.” The man bowed his head and, in one fluid motion, killed Butch with a slice of his sword.

As Butch crumpled to the deck, the man flicked his wrist again. A drone cut through the mist to face Solanio, a red light near its lens flashed. Solanio swerved to avoid the drone’s rotors. It was no Haller drone. He aimed his pistol at the figure as they approached.

“Stay where you are!” Solanio’s pistol hand shook.

“Everyone will know what you and the Guild really are.”

Solanio caught a glimpse of the blue eyes beneath the hood again. 

“I said, stay back!” Solanio yelled. 

“You cannot stop what is coming.” 

“Maybe not. But I can stop you.” Solanio pulled the trigger of his pistol. A crack boomed through the air and a flash of light illuminated the dense fog, blinding him. He stumbled backward, shielding his eyes with the crook of his arm. The pistol’s blast shrouded everything in its hot beam. What did Prospero need a weapon like this for? 

The gun’s glowing report relinquished itself to the darkness. Surrounded by shadow once again, Solanio peered across the deck at where the man’s body should have laid in a charred heap, only to discover that the man and the crate with the kraken’s eye were gone. 

“No!” Solanio slammed the pedestal that once held the crate. 

He ran his fingers through his drenched hair when Leonardo’s words echoed in his ears. Shadow Walkers. Could they actually be real? He knew his fair share of skilled Newlonders, but this man’s skills were unlike anything Solanio had ever witnessed. He was more than a myth. More than a ghost. He was real. 

Solanio forced the madness of what he’d witnessed out of his brain. He had larger worries to contend with than a fictional group of mysterious crusaders. What would that man do with proof of the Guild’s misdeeds? Of his misdeeds? Mind racing, Solanio jumped back to his skiv to race back to Newlondon. He had to warn the Guild, find a way to shore up the damage before it was too late. Before the shadow struck again. 


Balthasar steered his skiv towards the Westminster dock. Sebastian and Gonzalo stood waiting. 

“What happened to the barge?” Gonzalo asked. 

Balthasar said nothing in reply. 

“This isn’t good business.” Sebastian frowned. “Who are you, and where is the barge?” 

“I believe this is yours,” Balthasar growled, unloading the crate single-handed, as if it weighed nothing. 

Sebastian and Gonzalo’s mouths gaped like a couple of river fish. 

Balthasar bowed towards them and pulled away from the jetty. An honorable trade. When he was out of sight, he angled the mirrored panels to disappear into the coastline. 

Balthasar found the mouth of Limnoreia Estuary and guided his skiv to a pocket behind the high reeds. He closed his eyes to listen to the wind on the water. He placed his sheathed sword before the shrine in the skiv and bowed. 

“I thank the wind for its power, and the ocean for its patience,” whispered Balthasar.

He recalled the drone and replayed the attack on the barge. Holograms projected everything it had recorded. A smile played at the corner of his lips. The effort to reprogram the drone had paid off. The drone’s duplicate projections of himself around the barge proved to be perfect decoys to confuse his quarry. Balthasar tapped his wrist to enable the audio playback when the hologram replayed the moment he had pinned the pirate to the deck.

Who ordered you to this shameful task?

The Guild. It was the Guild. 

Balthasar flicked his fingers and the hologram spun to show the face of Solanio approaching the crate. He paused the recording and keyed in a command for the drone to deliver the recording to Leonato. 

“It is done.” Balthasar watched the drone disappear down the river. He snatched the communicator from his buckle, knelt before his shrine, and sent a message through the water to every Shadow Walker on the Globe. All at once, their pendants would shimmer with the same call, the same cry, the labors of their purpose realized at last. Just as every dawn began with the smallest glimmer, so too, they would rise with the words that every Shadow Walker had been waiting for, and Balthasar had finally spoken. Those fateful words could not be undone, could not be escaped, nor could the raging storm that came with them. 

His message was simple. “Out of the shadows, there shines a light.” 


If you enjoyed Shanel and Frasier’s story, feel free to leave comments below. If you would like to read more about Newlondon, read “The Beast Below” which kicked off the Newlondon stories in the Globe Folio series.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Now you’re all caught up. But don’t worry, we have more stories from the Globe on the way soon!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

Secrets swirl in the Newlondon Harbor

Out of Shadows

BY SHANEL WILSON AND FRASIER ARMITAGE

PART ONE

Sea fret clouded Newlondon’s winding streets, hiding Solanio as he scurried to the dock. The tang of salt tinted the air, stinging his eyes. His keys jangled at his side, masked by voices which echoed from the harbor, filling the narrow alleyway with a clamor of anticipation. 

“Solanio,” a voice whispered, and a shadow cut through the air. 

“Is that you, Prospero?” Solanio asked. 

“The same. And we have company.” 

Photo by Maksim ŠiŠlo.

Solanio ducked around the corner, following Prospero’s shadow, and stumbled into the hulking frame of another man. His tattered camouflage and the scars down his cheeks revealed him better than the knives he carried. 

“Solanio, meet the ‘Butcher of Wildcat Fields.’ ” 

“You can call me Butch,” the man said through gritted teeth, with a grimace that Solanio interpreted as an attempted smile. 

“Butch has served the Guild for many a cycle,” Prospero said. The Head of the Guild seemed out of place in this alleyway. Solanio had witnessed Prospero granting waivers of entry to the auction over the kraken’s eye these past few days, his gold chains radiating an aura of invincibility about him. But here, crouched before a giant whose reputation as a bandit haunted the nightmares of many a Newlondon boy, the glint of Prospero’s gold could not stave off the frailty of age. Beneath his chains hid a shriveled old man, exposed by the gloom. 

“What use has the Guild of a man with Butch’s talents on such an auspicious day?” Solanio asked. 

“You already know that delegates from every city are coming to bid for the eye.” Prospero ran his thumb across his whiskers. “When was the last time pollium washed up on our shores? This is an opportunity too good to pass up.” 

“But Prospero, it didn’t wash up. Antonio slayed the kraken and retrieved the eye.” 

“Details best forgotten, Solanio. How much would the pollium in that eye be worth if it were dissected and sold to friends of ours, like Butch here?” 

“You mean bandits?” 

Butch snarled a grunt at Solanio’s carelessness. 

Solanio patted him on the arm. “No offense, friend.” 

“A guaranteed fortune,” Prospero said. 

Solanio frowned. “I doubt even the richest bandits could afford to compete with the other cities in the auction.” 

“Precisely. Which is where Butch comes in.”

Solanio scratched his head. Even the depths of his cunning could not fathom Prospero’s machinations. “How?” 

Prospero rolled his eyes. “By stealing back the eye after it’s been sold. Think of it. We shall take the profit of the sale, and then double it once the eye is returned to us by Butch and his companions.” 

“But what of the reputation of our transports?” Solanio balked. “Would the Globers not think we’ve lost control of the riverways? What security would they trust to us then?” 

Prospero rubbed his eyes. “Solanio, you think so small sometimes. Really, I’m surprised at you. This wouldn’t be the first time the Guild has elicited the help of roamers and bandits. No offense, Butch.” 

Butch grunted once again, crossing his arms. 

“Sometimes, ” Prospero continued, “it’s good for the other cities to be reminded how dangerous the riverways can be. Help them see why they need our guides and protection. Isn’t that so?” Prospero nodded to Butch. 

The giant smiled, or at least, that’s what Solanio hoped the baring of Butch’s sharpened teeth meant. 

“And you—” Prospero turned and placed his hands on Solanio’s shoulders, “—you shall be right by his side the entire time, my dear boy.” 

Solanio’s eyes bulged. “But, Prospero, am I not needed here?” 

“Your barge is being used to transport the eye, Solanio. Don’t you want to make sure nothing happens to your ship when it runs aground?” 

“Well, of course, but—”

“Besides, Butch and his cohorts will require a skiv to derail the transport. And who better to supply one than your own reliable self?” Prospero raised an eyebrow. 

Solanio was shrewd enough to know when he’d been backed into a corner. But there are opportunities even in the darkest corners. “Does this honor not belong to a Guild member, Prospero?” Now it was Solanio who cocked his eyebrow. 

Prospero’s lips curled. “Of course. If all goes well at the auction, your membership will be assured. You’ll accompany Butch with a Guild ring on your finger.” 

Solanio reached across to Butch and offered his hand. Butch shook it, his grip crushing Solanio’s fingers. 

“I believe we have reached an accord,” Solanio said. “Do you know of my business? My office on the docks?” 

Butch nodded. “Prospero told us where to find you.” 

“Meet me there after the auction, and we’ll take the swiftest skiv in my fleet.” 

“As you wish.” Butch released Solanio’s hand and disappeared into the fog. 

Prospero tapped Solanio’s shoulder and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “It’ll be up to you to make sure those fish-brained thugs don’t get greedy and keep the eye for themselves. Take this.” Prospero slipped a pistol into Solanio’s hand. “It’ll fire a wide burst, killing everything in its path.” 

“If you have a weapon such as this, what use have you of me?” Solanio concealed the pistol in the folds of his jacket. 

“This is a task for a younger man, Solanio. Besides, the first thing a man of influence must learn is the art of deniability.” 

“I understand.” 

With knees as weak as Prospero’s, it’s no wonder he wanted Solanio to take the fall. “All eyes will be on Newlondon at the auction today. Do not let us down, my boy.” 

“Have no fear, Prospero. It won’t be the first auction I’ve helmed.” 

“And may it not be the last.” Prospero’s good wishes were always laced with the menace of an underlying threat. The old man withered into the alley, leaving Solanio to navigate a path through the cobbles to the harbor, to the auction that would determine his fate. 


Ripples washed against the side of Balthasar’s skiv. A whisper of grass swayed across riverbank meadows. Pale light from the moons above reflected across his face as Balthasar opened his eyes, finished his meditation, and stood from the shrine aboard his skiv. 

He breathed a lungful of river air and sensed he was alone. With one swift motion, he lowered his arm through a gap in the hull and adjusted the mirrored panels to better reflect the riverbank, concealing his craft from any who might sail across it. 

Satisfied that nobody was watching, he straightened his back, and removed a long samurai blade from its sheath. He pulled a hood over his face, completing the full suit of his black, armored robes, and activated a drone. 

“My blade is the wind,” he said aloud.
Photo by Krys Amon.

“My blade is the wind,” he said aloud. 

He swung the sword in a perfect circle, as one with the breeze. 

“Gentle, yet strong.” 

He pirouetted and lunged the tip of his steel at an invisible enemy, sweeping back in a lightning-fast arc that sliced the air. 

“I command the quietest breeze and the fiercest hurricane.” 

There was no sound to his movements. Only his whisper, and the whistle of the sword as he wielded it in a ritual that sharpened his mind, his senses, and his muscular frame as well as the blade itself. 

“The wind obeys me.” 

He finished in a flurry, missing the drone by no more than an eyelash, before the blade came to rest in its sheath, and he knelt before the shrine to bow one final time. 

With a flick of his wrist, he recalled the drone and projected the holographic recording it had captured across the deck. The machine had kept up with his movements, and he watched the transmission from beginning to end, satisfied his reprogramming of the device was finally complete. 

From the buckle of his belt, a light emitted, blinking a code. 

Shadows meet at dusk. 

A message from Leonato. Balthasar knew his task. He understood his mission well enough. 

Balthasar took the talisman from around his waist, the eel that looped to eat its own tail, and composed a sonar-gram in reply. 

I walk among them. 

Balthasar sent the message through the water, carried up the river along the network of sonar relay units the Shadow Walkers used in secret. He had accepted the task. His path would be in shadow. 

In a single leap, he bounded to the navigation console of his mirrored craft and pitched it across the water towards Newlondon and the auction, the wind whipping his hood and watering his eyes. 


Solanio slipped slicker than an eel through the bustling dockyard. The rising sun had sent its heat to accompany the light reflected from the moons, and it burnt through the smog to reveal barges and sails littering the bay. Finsbers, Hallers, and Westies flooded the docks, filling taverns with their cheer. 

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge.

Solanio wouldn’t have minded sharing a drink with a Finsber or a Westie. But the thought of Hallers swigging good Newlondon ale churned his stomach tighter than a stormy sea. 

Those brown-eyed lubbers thought they owned the Globe. Solanio still remembered the tales his father had told him—how the men of Whitehall long ago had dumped waste from their engines and factories into the ocean. How Newlondoners had objected to the pollution of the sea, and the Hallers dismissed them as simpletons. And how the creatures of the deeps absorbed that toxic sludge, and grew into gigantic monsters.

Scores of fishermen lost their lives to the beasts that glowed in the dark and swallowed ships whole. Cycle after cycle, ever more ferocious krakens demolished the city when they crept out of the ocean in search of food, before the pulsar cannons warded off their attacks and confined them to the abyss of the ocean’s deep. Sure, the creatures’ bodies may have become a source of pollium, a mineral precious to the Globers which Newlondoners could sell, but at what cost? All those lives lost because the Hallers thought they had the right to dispose of their garbage in Newlondon’s domain. Because they thought they were better. 

And here they were, brown-eyed Haller knaves filling Solanio’s city with their pomp and snobbery. He wished he could put them all on deathships and sail them into the waiting maws of the creatures their arrogance had made. The way he’d sent Antonio to his supposed death. But look at how that had turned out. 

Now his only friend, his brother, Antonio, festered as a smuggler in the Hallers’ cells. And Antonio had only himself to blame for it. No. It was the Hallers. It was they who’d sent their drones and recorded Antonio when he’d defended himself against men like Butch. The Hallers had driven Antonio to that deathship. And if Antonio had not betrayed him by stealing Bianca, then all would’ve been well between them still. Antonio’s haughtiness had put him in that cell, with the Hallers, where men of his sort belonged. 

Solanio passed the amethyst sails of barges from Westminster, the emerald flags of Finsbury farmers, and the pearlescent glow of Whitehall’s insignia as he reached the amphitheater constructed on the pier specifically for the auction. 

He took his place on the podium, in front of where a curtain hung to hide the kraken’s eye displayed behind it. A breeze fluttered the drapes, the fringe of a storm at sea. He glanced across the seats laid out in a semi-circle, and beyond them, to the horizon and the roiling waves. 

Photo by Birger Strahl.

Guild members entered the arena. Prospero approached, his beaming chains strengthening him with the air of dignity and authority. 

“Greetings, Prospero!” Solanio waved as if they hadn’t seen each other in an age. 

“Solanio, how goes it?” the old man replied. 

“All is well. Have representatives from each city arrived safely?” 

“Indeed they have. Allow me to summon them, and I shall introduce you.” Prospero turned and nodded to another Guild member, who vanished, and a great horn blasted across the dock. 

Crowds of Globers swarmed the amphitheater, the many colors of their eyes sparkling in a kaleidoscopic mix. 

One by one, a chosen few emerged from the audience and approached the platform. 

“This is Egeus of Finsbury,” Prospero said. 

A robed figure bowed to Solanio. They wore the sleekest apparel to cover their portly frame, but despite their finery, the trace of soil beneath their fingertips revealed their Finsber roots. No farmer could disguise their true station, not even in the noblest garb. “We hope the kraken’s eye will add to our storehouses.” The Finsber licked their lips. “Quite a delicacy, or so I’m led to believe.” 

“Trust a Finsber to think of food,” Prospero said, and the men laughed, before the farmer took their seat. 

“Next, may I present the honorable Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of Whitehall,” Prospero continued. 

Solanio gritted his teeth, but he managed to smile ingratiatingly at the two men whose smug demeanors made them tower like Whitehall’s city spires. 

“The Governor looks forward to when the eye will be delivered to Whitehall,” Rosencrantz said. 

“As does the Mayor,” Guildenstern added. 

“Will you both be bidding separately?” Solanio asked. 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern flashed each other threatening looks before Rosencrantz forced a laugh to break the tension. 

“We are together in everything. Are we not, Guildenstern?” 

“Most assuredly. Have you ever known the Governor and Mayor to be at cross purposes?” Guildenstern rolled his eyes, yet, behind the show, the two men itched beneath their collars like hunters competing for prey. 

“The eye will replenish our pollium reserves, tripling the efficiency of our energy supplies,” Rosencrantz boasted, as though the kraken’s eye were already his. 

“I wish you success in your bidding,” Solanio said. 

“The sooner this is over and the pollium is in our factories, the better.” Guildenstern swept his cape back and impatiently took his seat. 

“And finally,” Prospero said, “may I present the brothers Sebastian and Gonzalo of Westminster.” 

“Ah, Eglamour’s sons, yes? We met the night of Captain Ward’s arrival. Is Eglamour unwell?” Solanio said. 

“Thank you for your concern about our father. He entrusted us with his invitation to ensure we win the bid,” Sebastian, the taller brother, said. A sly smile slid across his narrow face, and his violet eyes gleamed.

“We think you will be pleased with our offering,” Gonzalo added. He flicked his curly brown hair and grinned widely at his brother.

“Welcome, then. Please take your seats.” Solanio gestured to the chairs before them. He watched the brothers as they stationed themselves in their chairs. Their boyish excitement betrayed their inexperience in official affairs such as these.

Solanio scoured the audience, where people strained themselves for a view beyond the edges of the amphitheater. Where was Bianca? She should have been here to see him taking the lead, center stage, in command of all the Globe. But she was nowhere to be seen. He sighed and extended his arms, calling for quiet. The curtains parted, revealing the glowing, green eye, and a hush descended on the crowd. 

“Welcome, one and all, to the—” 

The cobalt hull of a Polity flier thundered down in the center of the theater.
Photo by Brian McGowan.

A crash of engines whirred overhead, interrupting Solanio’s speech. The cobalt hull of a Polity flier thundered down in the center of the theater. Its thrusters pushed chairs out of place to make room for its bulk, and the landing gears crunched as it settled on the ground. 

From inside, Leonardo led Captain Ward of the Polity down a ramp, and onto the stage. Solanio recognised Leonardo from that first night when the Polity arrived. Kite Night. Was Leonardo to play tour-guide to the Polity? Trust them to put their faith in a Haller. Fools. Behind Ward, Polity officers swarmed out of the small craft. 

“Captain Ward,” Solanio said. “How good of you to join us. Are you here to bid on the kraken’s eye, too?” 

“What does the Polity need with a trinket like that? We’re not here to pick up souvenirs.” Her expression was as stern as her marine body armor. 

Leonardo stepped between Ward and Solanio. “I think what Captain Ward means to say is that she would like to tour the city, and assess its value to the Polity. If you would permit her the honor to do so?” 

Solanio cast a glance at Prospero, who nodded. 

“I believe that we can accommodate the good Captain. But there is no finer place to analyze the value of Newlondon than right here. Let the bids of the other cities show the Polity that Newlondon is a treasure of the Globe.” 

Captain Ward shrugged. “It’s not like there’s anything else here besides a few brothels and casinos masquerading as hotels and taverns along this crummy dock.” 

Solanio forced a smile to slither across his lips and pointed to the few vacant spots around the theater. “Won’t you and your men take a seat, Captain? I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening to observe the auction.” 

The other delegates made way for the Polity officers to station themselves around the arena. Guild members smothered the newcomers with welcoming smiles. The esteemed bidders from the remaining cities crowded in front of the flier. 

Solanio silenced the fury that burned inside his stomach. Ward had made him look a fool in front of the entire Guild. But he’d defused her condescension better than any Guild member. Still, her presence in the auditorium made him question what else could go wrong. 

“Now that we’re all here, is everyone ready to begin?” 


Balthasar throttled his skiv around the bay. He angled the mirrors to reflect the ocean back towards the coast and powered around the multitude of barges competing for space at the docks. 

A crowd surrounded an open theater constructed for the purpose of pure ostentation. Inside the arena, a metallic flier rested. The Polity, no doubt. 

He eased off the throttle and let the rising tide sweep him closer. 

On a stage, he spotted his target. The kraken’s eye. It bulged in a greenish glow, radiating pollium through the swollen gloop of its hide. 

Balthasar knelt before his shrine and closed his eyes, whispering in a voice soft as moonlight. “May the ocean forgive me for what I am yet to do.” 


Solanio turned to the kraken’s eye displayed on the stage behind him. It sat on a hand-carved pedestal, it’s dripping, green goo contained within a custom-made glass-and-metal globe handblown and crafted by none other than the reclusive and mysterious Artist of the Wildcat Glassworks. Solanio himself had commissioned the work, insisting to Prospero that the extra cost would easily be recovered in the enhanced bidding the functional artwork would attract.

“Shall we start the bidding at ten thousand?” 

Egeus raised an eager hand, though it looked more like a grubby paw to Solanio.
“Thank you to our Finsbury delegate for opening the bid. Do I hear twenty thousand?”

“Twenty thousand,” Rosencrantz and Guildenstern echoed in unison.

“Twenty thousand to Whitehall.” Solanio watched them smile at each other through gritted teeth. “Thirty thousand?”

The Finsber raised their hand again. Solanio swore he could see saliva dripping from their chin as well. 

“Thank you for thirty thousand. Forty?” Solanio avoided looking in Prospero’s direction, fearing what he would see in his expression.

“Why don’t we make this interesting, shall we? One hundred thousand.” Sebastian stood, smiling broadly to the crowd.

“A generous raise from the Westminster delegate.” Solanio nodded to Sebastian. “One hundred thousand. Any other offers?” 

Egeus wiped their mouth and looked sullen. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern exchanged tentative glances, waiting to see if the other would bid any more.

“It is an impressive bid, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Any other takers?” Solanio gestured to the eye as enticingly as he could. 

“One hundred and fifty thousand!” cried Guildenstern. 

Rosencrantz gaped, red-faced. He opened his mouth to speak, when Gonzalo of Westminster jumped to his feet, next to his standing brother.

“One hundred and fifty thousand and ten of our Brides. One for each of the Guild House members!” Sebastian said. Sebastian’s eyes swept the crowd, from Solanio to Prospero, finally landing on Captain Ward. 

Gasps rippled through the audience. Gonzalo proudly preened under the attention their bid gave them. Sebastian had not taken his eyes off Ward. A hint of malice swirled in his violet eyes above his ever present smile. Ward crossed her arms and returned her attention to the podium. The murmurs grew until Solanio pounded his fist on the podium.

“Quiet, please!” Solanio demanded.

“I was under the impression only monetary bids would be accepted! This is outrageous!” cried Guildenstern.

“Whitehall controls the employment of Brides, not Westminster.” Rosencrantz stamped his boot. “The Governor will not stand for this bid to be accepted!” 

“Don’t be sore because you cannot outbid us, Whitehaller. Our Brides are just as valuable without your surgical intervention. And I am sure members of the Guild will be glad to utilize all their skills, not just their vision.” Sebastian winked at Prospero. 

Solanio looked to the Head of the Guild. A chuckle rippled through Prospero’s thick gut, and he nodded for Solanio to continue. 

Solanio raised his hands to calm the crowd. “Gentlemen, please. Your invitations indicated that the most valuable bid would win. There was no mention of what form the bid must be made in. Can anyone match the value of ten Westminster Brides?” It was a pointless question. Who on the Globe could have matched the value of even one Westminster Bride? Let alone ten! “Very well. If there are no more bids, I will close the auction.” 

Solanio paused for the delegates to respond. 

Egeus shook his head, his eyes already scanning for the nearest pub to get something to eat. 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern steamed, but their hands remained firmly in their laps. 

Solanio clapped his hands together three times. “Sold. The eye belongs to the brothers Sebastian and Gonzalo, representing Westminster. Congratulations, gentlemen.” 

Sebastian and Gonzalo bowed and waved to the crowd. A round of uncomfortable applause broke out among those who had gathered to view the auction. 

“As agreed prior to the sale, I shall arrange transport of the eye to Westminster,” Solanio said. 

“Thank you, Solanio. We are most grateful that you accepted our bid. You and the Guild will not be disappointed.” Sebastian placed his hand on his heart in an exaggerated gesture of sincerity. 

“This concludes the auction. Peace be with you all.” Solanio exited the stage, and Prospero was the first to greet him. 

“It sold for more than any of us had hoped for. A fine performance, Solanio, despite the interruption.” Prospero glanced at Ward, who stood and marched directly towards them. 

She carried herself with an assassin’s deliberation, deadly as a bullet. 

Solanio puffed out his chest. The other cities were willing to pay such a high price for the eye. Surely she could see how valuable the Guild’s cooperation would be to the Polity. How valuable he might be. This was a victory even she would have to concede. With the riches this haul of pollium had drawn, Newlondon would no longer be the city on the edge of the world. It would emerge from the shadows as a beacon to the Globe. A lighthouse on the shore. And Solanio would be at the heart of the resurgence, casting the light where he wished. 

“Captain Ward,” Solanio bowed. “We meet again. How did you enjoy our little gathering? I trust you found it . . . educational.”  

Leonardo hurried behind her. “But there’s so much they can do,” he said. “You don’t need to go through with it. Newlondon is rich in—” 

“Pack it in, Leonardo,” Ward snapped, batting him away like an insect. Her men swarmed around her, hands on their weapons. She glared at Solanio with a look so sharp it could cut a kraken’s hide. “Gather your leaders.” Her voice boomed with the authority of thunder. “We need to talk.” 


Balthasar watched the commotion unfold on the shore until Solanio clapped thrice. The woman in the sleek white uniform–the one from the Polity flier–marched towards Solanio. 

The Guild members followed Solanio out of the amphitheater, down the pier and into the Guild Hall, towing Polity soldiers in their wake. Balthasar did not know Solanio well, but everyone in Newlondon knew everyone else to some degree. He always thought Solanio smiled too much; had never fully trusted the man. Clearly, Solanio had risen in station lately.

Balthasar tracked the green eye. Men packed it in a crate and lifted it from its pedestal. 

Two purple-eyed men signed a contract, and handed over bag after bag of doubloons. 

The crowd dispersed along the harbor wall, and from a window above them, Balthasar spotted the outline of a giant peering down at the dock. A bandit. His scarred face glowered at the crate which held Balthasar’s target. 

Balthasar reached for his blade but checked his hand. He could afford to wait. The time would come for the storm he carried within his palms to break. But not yet. Now was the time for stealth, the time for shadow. 

In the distance, on the horizon, the air grew hot. He closed his eyes and sensed the war between sky and sea. He felt it on his skin, on his breath, on his blade. The coming storm. 

“The wind obeys me,” he whispered to himself, and he opened his eyes, cemented them on the crate, and waited for the thunder. 

Dark waves crash beneath a glowering sky of clouds.
Photo by Charl Folscher.

If you enjoyed Shanel and Frasier’s story, feel free to leave comments below.

And in just two more days, on Wednesday, we’ll bring you Part 2 of “Out of Shadows” and on Friday, we reveal the exciting conclusion in Part 3!

If you would like to read more about Newlondon right now, try “The Beast Below” which kicked off the Newlondon stories in the Globe Folio series.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Now you’re all caught up. But don’t worry, we have more stories from the Globe on the way soon!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

Negotiations are more beastly than you would think

The Head on the Wall

By Matthew Cross

Capt. Ward landed her flier in the plaza in front of the domed building that served as the seat of government of Finsbury. The Globers called Finsbury a city, one of the five cities of the Globe, but the farmlands of Finsbury spread for hectares on either side of the Elizabeth River. Should it be called a county or a shire, she wondered.

Ward’s two escorts, Marines piloting their own fliers, quickly strode up on either side of her, eyes scanning the building ahead and the busy marketplace behind for dangers. Ward had already made her own preliminary threat assessment out of sheer habit and removed her helmet. She doubted there was any danger she could not handle on her own, and with two Polity Marines at her back, she knew only a Republic Special Forces team could match her. Nothing on the Globe, a sleepy, little, blue planet, frightened her.

That was not true. Failure frightened her. She feared not completing her mission successfully. And, unfortunately, what was needed here to extract the Globe’s resources for the Polity was diplomacy, Ward’s weakest skill.

She crossed the plaza to meet with the Finsbury contingent, led by Councilor Calpurnia, whom Ward had met at Whitehall on the now infamous “Kite Night.” Many Globers also called it the “Night of the Rocket.”

Councilor Calpurnia was a large woman. She wore a heavy layer of fat, but underneath that Ward noted strong muscles, probably earned from hard work in the woman’s youth. Calpurnia curtsied and Ward bowed. The men behind Calpurnia bowed. Ward surmised that Calpurnia was no token or figurehead. She had probably fought and clawed her way to the top of this men’s club, and Ward would not underestimate her.

Ward wore her dress whites, but the City Council of Finsbury all wore more casual, loose-fitting clothing, like nothing she had seen in Whitehall, where opulent and outrageous fashions ruled. All their clothing also had similar prints in mottled greens that Ward assumed was camouflage. To Ward, camouflage clothing meant military exercises, and she wondered what it meant in Finsbury.

After introductions were made, Calpurnia turned to Ward. “Captain, I bet you’re real good with a gun. Have you ever been hunting?”

Ward frowned, thinking. “I once tracked a Republic Special Forces unit across a frozen moon. I shot one and killed the second with my knife, but the third had frozen by the time I reached him.”

The councilors all stared at Ward. One with his mouth hanging open. Had she made another diplomatic error or perhaps a breach of protocol?

Calpurnia laughed, but it sounded strained. “Well, then, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble hunting the beasts with us today, Captain. The beasts don’t shoot back.”

Calpurnia laughed and the other councilors laughed with her.

“Let’s find you some suitable clothes, Captain. We don’t want a beast to bleed on your pretty, white duds.”


It took a squadron of hovers of all shapes and sizes to transport the councilors, their assistants, and all their gear into the countryside. Calpurnia insisted on driving Ward in her own personal hover, a sleek, emerald-green capsule that looked like it came from Whitehall. No one else among Finsbury’s leaders had such a luxurious craft, Ward noted. Ward’s escorts piloted their own fliers.

On the way, Calpurnia explained the history of the hunt. Since the founding of Belmont, its leaders, once called the Brethren of Finsbury, had sworn to protect the farmers from the beasts. Before there were force walls, just walls around the houses and wire fences around the fields, the beasts often invaded the farms, threatening farmers and their property. Whenever a farmer sent a drone with a call for help, the Brethren raced to the fields to provide protection.

“Now, the force walls protect us from the beasts. And, of course, Whitehall sends their Vestras to keep the walls running, and the Artemises to hunt down the worst of the beasts,” Calpurnia said. “If we need much protecting these days, it’s from the greed of Whitehall. They won’t share the secrets of the force walls or the power generation, so we’re forced to pay whatever price they demand. It’s our food what keeps them alive, but they set the price of their force walls high and value our food low.”

Calpurnia swept her hand across the windscreen, indicating the green fields before them that stretched to the horizon. “In a land of plenty, we still have children that starve. And now the Polity wants to take more of our food and call it the price of protection.”

Ward listened and held her tongue.”Listen more, and talk less,” said the SEAL Leadership Manual.

The assortment of hovers landed, kicking up thick, brown dust, in a green field bordered by a tall, humming force wall. Calpurnia walked over to a man standing next to a large, green piece of equipment, a cube-shaped vehicle of some type. After the dust cleared, the damage was obvious. The machine lay on its side and one side had been crushed in.

One Councilor whistled. “Stove it right in. And, look, there, horn marks. Gotta be a Sledgebeast.”

The Councilors unloaded wheeled riding vehicles. They drove around the field, tearing up the tender, green plants. The farmer said nothing, just stood there dourly with his arms crossed. After a while, the Councilors formed their vehicles in a half circle, laughing, making crude jokes and drinking canned ales. They checked their various blaster rifles, compared models and bragged of the even larger blasters they had on order from Whitehall.

Ward had only brought her personal sidearm and a few knives, one of them the laser-bladed knife from Vernon. Calpurnia inisted Ward take one of the many rifles on her wheeled vehicle, and nodded at the men. Ward took it as a gesture that she would fit in better if she took the rifle, so she did and examined the crude pulse weapon.

It turned out that “hunting” a Sledgebeast was simple. Drones were sent out to harry it in their direction. They saw a cloud of dust long before they saw the beast. Most of the Councilors took up positions standing up in their open-frame vehicles while a few raced across the fields on either side to flank the beast.

From the base of the dust cloud appeared a wedge of muscle on four hooves. It had a wide head and three long, curved horns. The ground trembled with its hoof beats. The men riding on either side repeatedly fired their pulse weapons at it. The beast veered left and right, but it did not stop. Then it ran into one of the vehicles, turning it over, before scraping a horn along the stacked stones of the inside of the force wall. The beast opened its mouth, but instead of a bellow, it issued a scream. As the beast drew closer, Ward’s assumption that it was a mammal changed. It seemed to be covered in a flowing layer of feathers.

Ward sensed fear and desperation from the beast. It was trapped inside the force wall and probably could not find its way out.

The Councilors in the semicircle had been firing their weapons repeatedly, some even reaching for a second weapon, long before the Sledgebeast was within range. They grinned and called out in their excitement, claiming to have hit it. The beast veered away from the wall, towards the half-ring of vehicles, and into a volley of pulse fire. The weapons definitely had an effect, but they seemed more to enrage than weaken the beast.

The Sledgebeast crashed into the force wall once again, jackknifed and suddenly faced the right flank of the arc of vehicles. It charged, turning over vehicles and throwing the passengers into the dirt. The hunters closest to Ward and Calpurnia managed to drop into their vehicles and speed clear, but Calpurnia stood her ground and fired relentlessly into the beast. With a flick of its thick neck, it threw an empty vehicle into the air, and then glared at Calpurnia. 

Calpurnia threw her discharged weapon in the dirt and reached for another from behind her seat. The beast raised a screeching cry and charged. Ward leapt from the passenger’s seat with two knives in her hands, one the laser knife from Vernon. She left the useless pulse weapon behind.

The Sledgebeast glared at Ward, and Ward only glared back. Her legs pumped and her knives flashed. Ward’s head-on charge seemed to confuse the Sledgebeast and it’s stride broke. That would not save Ward, who stood no taller than the beast’s shoulder, not unless she dove to the side at the last second. Ward did not think; she allowed her instincts to take over and her body to react with the lightning quickness of fast-twitch muscles.

She raced smoothly towards the beast, noting the long, upward curving horns and the beast’s broad head and broader neck. The head and neck were free of feathers, and she could see foamy sweat ran down its muscled neck and straining tendons. Then she saw them. Distended blood vessels running up from the body and along the neck to the massive head.

The Sledgebeast lowered its horns as it closed on her, but then it could not see straight ahead. She slid under the horns and jabbed upwards fiercely with both arms. Her SEAL knife glanced off the hard flesh but the laser knife found its mark, burning a path down the curved neck as the beast thundered over her. Ward wriggled between the pumping legs and rose to face the beast.

Gouting blood, it stumbled. It’s momentum carried it almost to Calpurnia’s vehicle. The beast’s legs gave out and the mountain of muscle slid through the soft dirt. A horn caught in the dirt, causing the body to spin. Calpurnia leapt free as two of the beast’s legs kicked out and hit the vehicle’s side. Even with only a fraction of the beast’s power behind those kicks, the vehicle jumped a few metes. The door was bashed in and one tire exploded.

Despite the injuries, many of the men were ecstatic and ran over to examine the beast. The assistants sent drones for more help and treated the wounded. Ward, covered in dirt and blood, looked over as her two Marine escorts running up. Despite being the ranking officer on the planet, she would have to explain herself to her chief of security and chief of intelligence. The Polity invested years and massive sums of money in training their officers, and officers could not endanger that investment by being reckless. 


Calpurnia was quiet as she flew the hover back to Southwark, Finsbury’s marketplace and government seat. Ward watched the pattern of the rows and rows of crops flash by and waited patiently.

“I know you saved my life back there,” Calpurnia said finally. “You coulda just jumped clear and left me there. But you risked your own life. I know that.”

“The Polity Navy protects citizens of the Polity. From any danger, seen or unseen,” Ward said.

Calpurnia shook her head. “Naw, Polity don’t care about a City Councilor or the whole City Council for that matter. You coulda let us all die and just bargained with our replacements, I bet.”

Of course, Calpurnia was correct. Ward was not technically required to protect citizens from natural disasters or their own foolishness. Still, Navy SEALs were not the kind to stand by when they could lend a hand.

“But don’t think I’ll bargain my own life against myself or Finsbury. You saved my life. What’s done is done. But I didn’t ask you to,” Calpurnia said.

“The Polity also does not have to bargain with City Councilors,” Ward said mildly. “When we last met in Whitehall, I said I would assess the resources here and determine how the tax will be apportioned. I’m trying to be fair and spread the burden among the cities. As you said, you have food here that the other cities need. I’ll take the ten percent tax of all food traveling north. That leaves the food that stays in Finsbury and even the food traveling south to Newlondon tax free.”

Calpurnia opened her mouth to protest but stopped. She stared straight ahead as she drove.

“Aboard your lander, I asked what choice you gave us,” Calpurnia said. “And then your ship in space showed us how you could rain fire like gods in the sky. And if all your soldiers are like you, we couldn’t even withstand you on our own ground.”

Ward was the only Polity SEAL sent on the mission to the Globe. No one else on the Pacifica had her fighting or tactical abilities. But there was no reason Calpurnia needed to know that.

“Still, if I want to keep my seat at the head of the Council, I need to come away with something,” Calpurnia said slyly.

“What do you want?” Ward asked.

It turned out to be far less than Ward imagined, and a bargain was struck.

Photo by Martin Adams

The Sledgebeast’s head would be mounted on the wall in City Council Hall. It was the largest Sledgebeast anyone had ever seen, and, apparently, the bragging rights meant something in Finsbury. All Ward had to do was allow Calpurnia to take the credit. 

Ward mounted her flier, pleased with the bargain. She now controlled ten percent of the food flowing to Westminster, Belmont and Whitehall. As a boon, she would give that to them for free to ease the burden of the oil and steel she had extracted from them to pay their own taxes to the Polity. That generosity should go a long way to relieve the tensions clearly building in Whitehall from the Polity’s presence.

With the exception of Belmont, things were looking up. Maybe, just maybe, she could change the Glober’s minds about the Polity.

With a sense of optimism, Ward flew back to Whitehall, watching the blood-red Swearing Moon circle the horizon to the north.


If you enjoyed my story, feel free to leave comments below. If you would like to read more about Finsbury, read “The Buried War” which kicked off the Finsbury stories in the Globe Folio series.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Now you’re all caught up. But don’t worry, we have more stories from the Globe on the way soon!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

Will her lost love hear her siren’s song?

Bianca stands atop the seaside cliffs of Newlondon

Siren’s Song

BY SHANEL WILSON

PART ONE

The cliff-top grasses swayed in the swirling wind. Waves violently crashed against the jagged rocks. The scent of salt and sea accosted Bianca’s senses, her heart filled with dread. The knots in her stomach warned that the coming storm wasn’t the only trouble brewing in the Globe’s waters. Bianca tucked a strand of her long, curly locks behind her ear, her eyes narrowed against the spray. Her fingers found the small piece of twine that encircled her ring finger. She sang, 

Storm’s a-coming, the gale will blow,
Yohoho, row nonny, row.
Thunder claps and rain clouds grow,
The squall will turn friend into foe,
Yohoho, row nonny, row.

The blue crystal eye of the eel medallion she wore blinked. Bianca closed her eyes and squeezed the center of the medallion. The automated voice relayed the message her sister, Valentine, had sent.

It’s time. Swift as shadow.

“Short as any dream! My dear Antonio, you will wait no longer.” Bianca’s pulse pounded as she raced down the cliff side towards the harbor.

Carve the waves to save my beau,
It’s time to change this tale of woe,
Yohoho, row nonny, row.
The scent of salt and sea accosted Bianca’s senses, her heart filled with dread. Photo by Gary Yost.

Tendrils of mist curled around Bianca’s feet as she strode the familiar path to her father’s merchant office overlooking the marina. She knew each cobble from years of racing Valentine to be the first to help Father open the office. The harsh shouts of the crews echoing around the harbor was the melody of her morning routine. Unlike every other morning, Bianca’s heart raced as she reached into her satchel to retrieve her key to the shop.

She knew each cobble from years of racing Valentine to be the first to help Father open the office.
Photo by Niklas Hamann.

The face of her beloved Antonio danced across her thoughts. Her wistfulness broke, knowing he was locked in some dark cell deep in Whitehall for a crime he didn’t commit. Valentine, with the help of her new love, Emilia, had vowed to help Bianca rescue Antonio. The trio had worked hard over the past week to devise a plan to rescue him. And today, that plan finally was set in motion. 

In the early morning mists of a secret estuary, Bianca and Valentine saw Emilia off as she headed upriver to Whitehall. Emilia’s ability to access areas of Whitehall as a Westminster Bride would be vital if they had any hopes to rescue Antonio without being captured themselves. Bianca remembered watching her sister say goodbye to her new flame. A bittersweet tug pulled at Bianca’s insides, knowing her sister had to part with her love in order to save Bianca’s own. Though both Valentine and Bianca had only met Emilia a week ago, Bianca could tell her sister was inextricably connected to the intelligent, brave yet trusting woman. Emilia seemed to have a knack for endearing herself to all she met, becoming fast friends with Bianca as well. Bianca still marveled that Emilia agreed without hesitation to help a group of strangers in a dangerous mission. 

The ocean breeze blew the memory of the morning out of Bianca’s mind. Bianca felt a wet splat on her head. A fat dew droplet had fallen from the wooden sign that hung above the office door. 

“Thanks for that.” Bianca raised an eyebrow to the swaying sign. 

The sign was a carved eel that circled back onto itself. Most residents of Newlondon had no idea that the nautical crest doubled as the secret symbol of the Shadow Walkers. Bianca’s father, Leonato, was the leader of the group of warriors and protectors who vowed to keep the peace of the Globe secretly from the shadows. Leonato used his merchant business as a reputable front to coordinate the Shadow Walkers’ missions under the watchful eye of the corrupt Guild. 

Bianca and Valentine grew up helping their father run the office, covering for him when he would be called out for a “meeting.” When they weren’t needed at the office, they would steal away into the misty woods or sneak out on their father’s skiv to explore and learn all they could from the Shadow Walkers. As they grew older, their paths diverged. Valentine became a Newlondon Guide–hired by residents of the Globe to provide safe passage in their travels to other cities–with hopes of someday becoming a full-fledged Shadow Walker. Bianca remained in Newlondon, running the merchant office, where she fell in love with Antonio, one of the traders her father hired. 

She brushed the water from her hair and unlocked the door. The door chimed, announcing her arrival. The musty smell of salty wood mingled with sea rose blossoms she had arranged on the front desk the day before. 

Photo by Rachael 🪐.

“Hello, Meg. Opening mode, please,” said Bianca to the automated digital assistant her father created to operate the controls in the office.

“Good morrow, Lady Bianca,” replied the AI assistant’s disembodied voice as it switched on the overhead lights. 

Bianca heaved a sigh as she rounded the front desk to begin sorting the invoices and logs left from the day prior. 

“What can I do for M’lady today?” Meg’s voice intoned happily.

“Normal operations protocols, Meg. Just another day at the shop.” Bianca tossed the stack of papers she had gathered into the box on the corner of the desk. 

But it’s not just another day, she thought. 

“Of course, M’lady,” Meg chirped.

Bianca shuffled to her desk in front of Leonato’s private office in the back and flopped into her chair. Bianca fiddled with the medallion around her neck. The design of the medallion was the same eel as the carved sign out front. Each Shadow Walker carried one as a means of communicating with the others around the Globe. Valentine had repurposed broken ones she had found in Father’s office so that she and Bianca could have their own private way to communicate. The crystal eye of the eel was dull and gray. It would blink a brilliant blue when Valentine sent a message. Bianca knew it was too early to expect any news, but patience had never been her strong suit. 

Emilia had set off on her mission, and Valentine was with the Shadow Walkers doing their part to prepare for Antonio’s rescue. All Bianca could do was go about her daily life and wait. It was only through the Shadow Walkers that they learned of Antonio’s imprisonment at the hands of his best friend, Solanio, and the Guild in the first place. It was decided that it would be best for Bianca to act the part of the innocent maiden waiting for her love to return from sea so that the Guild and Solanio believed their plan had succeeded. 

The mere thought of Solanio made Bianca’s stomach turn. Bianca’s cheeks burned as she gritted her teeth. She pushed back against her desk and strode over to the windows. The steady sway of tall ship masts filled her view. At the end of the main dock, workers scurried, carrying along wood planks and chairs. What are they up to? Bianca wondered.

Then she spotted the scoundrel. Solanio slunk around the workers, inspecting their every move. They must have been constructing an amphitheater for the auction of the kraken eye happening at the end of the week. Her fingers subconsciously found the twine on her finger. Her beloved Antonio bravely fought the kraken for that eye after Solanio locked him on a deathship. Then that snake, Solanio, ensured Antonio’s wrongful imprisonment. 

“That poisonous, bunched-back toad,” Bianca spat under her breath.

“Which mode would you like to set, M’lady?” Meg’s cheerful voice asked.

“Disregard, Meg. I was talking to myself.” Bianca shook her head.

“If you need a companion to speak with, you are welcome to speak to me. Lord Leonato programmed me with conversational capabilities.”

“Yes, I know, Meg. No, it’s fine. I’m just a little on edge today. Let’s get back to work.” 

“Of course, M’lady.” 

Bianca walked back to her desk, thankful it was so far away from the front window.


Bianca fell into her normal routine after a couple of days. Business at the merchant office picked up because of the Polity’s arrival, but there was a shortage of vessels because so many people ran to Whitehall to get a glimpse of the Polity soldiers and their lander. Everyone else was stockpiling as much as they could in case there was sudden demand for something the Polity might deem valuable. Bianca was grateful for the distraction of trying to coordinate traders and their runs to cover the new demand. Though, she couldn’t help feeling a sting each time she passed Antonio’s name on the roster. 

Each evening, Bianca would race home, hoping to catch Valentine as she returned from her day. Valentine filled in Bianca on all that her team of Shadow Walkers did for the day. After dinner, Bianca would help Valentine reassemble her pack just as Bianca had done for Father when she was young. Before turning in for the night, Bianca would anxiously wait on the edge of Valentine’s bed to hear the latest update from Emilia. When no new news came, Bianca would give her sister a hug and quietly pad back to her room. 

Before turning in for the night, Bianca would anxiously wait on the edge of Valentine’s bed to hear the latest update from Emilia.
Photo by Annie Spratt.

“This plan is going to work. We’ll get him, Bianca.” Valentine grasped Bianca’s hand as Bianca turned to leave one evening. 

“I know.” Bianca still faced the door, unable to face her sister.

“Come here. Staring out your window can wait for a few more minutes.” Valentine tugged Bianca back onto the bed. 

“That’s not what I have been doing!” Bianca pulled her hand away but stayed next to Valentine.

“I can see how you could forget since it’s only been a few days, but your sister is a Shadow Walker. We know things.” Valentine preened.

“How could I forget?” Bianca cracked a smile. “You only remind me every second you get a chance, Lady Shadow!” 

They broke into a fit of laughter. Bianca felt her shoulders relax as the giggles died down. 

“There’s my sister! I knew she was somewhere under that forlorn facade.” Valentine moved a strand of hair out of Bianca’s face. 

Bianca looked about Valentine’s room. Emilia’s hover trunk was at the foot of the bed. The glass iris Emilia had given Valentine rested on the desk below the simple paintings Valentine had created from her trips around the Globe. The piece of twine around Bianca’s finger began to burn as she twisted it absentmindedly. 

“Nothing will be the same now, will it? I mean, I knew things were changing. I was to be married and you were to become this great Shadow Walker. Each sister on her own path. But now, I’m not ready for any of it. Why can’t we just be girls again, playing our pretend games in the harbor’s shadows?” 

“I will always be your sister. That will never change.” Valentine looked Bianca in the eyes. “Besides, you will still be married. And you will be the most beautiful bride Newlondon has ever seen. Until I get married, that is.”

Bianca scowled but laughed. Valentine was right. Valentine was always there, no matter how far her travels had taken her. Their bond was stronger than even the most masterful knot tied by the finest Newlondon sailor. It was the world around them that was fraying. Once Antonio and Emilia were back with them, they could begin tying up all the loose ends and chase the life they all dreamed of.

“Then you better get more beauty rest, dear sister. You need it,” Bianca teased while wrapping Valentine in a warm hug. 

“I love you,” Valentine whispered.

“I love you, too.” Bianca gave Valentine a final squeeze and slipped into her own room. She sat in the window, staring at the sea, waiting for her love to return.

She sat in the window, staring at the sea, waiting for her love to return.
Photo by Zero Take.

If you enjoyed Shanel’s story, feel free to leave comments below. And please return on Friday, when we’ll unveil “Siren’s Song–Part II.” In the meantime, if you would like to read more about Newlondon, read “The Beast Below,” which kicked off the Newlondon stories in the Globe Folio series.Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Now you’re all caught up. But don’t worry, we have more stories from the Globe on the way soon!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

Civil unrest grows, leaving new power up for grabs

A Matter of Details

BY MATTHEW CROSS

The Right Honorable Flavius, Mayor of Whitehall, Protector of the Gates and Keeper of the Seals, picked his nose thoughtfully. Ever since tramping outside the walls to that godforsaken Polity lander in the savagelands, his allergies had been acting up. He had a headache, his sinuses were clogged, and he was in an overall foul temper. As Whitehallers say, no good comes from leaving the gates of the First City.

And the protests did not help. A mob of protestors– an actual mob in Whitehall!–gathered every morning and ranted and raved outside Central Tower until very late at night. Flavius never had to see them in person, of course. He lived in the Mayor’s Mansion in Central Tower and took the elevator down to the Mayor’s Office in Central Tower. But even so, the news vids ran nonstop footage of the protests. 

Flavius flicked the large gob of phlegm at the trash bin. The booger stretched and twisted as it flew and splatted on the trash bin lid. The bin’s automatic sensors should have detected the booger’s flight and opened smoothly to catch the offending gob.

Flavius sighed. He flipped the tiny lever for his desk chair to roll him to the trash bin. From his lace-filled sleeve, he flourished a large, white handkerchief and leaned forward to wipe up the mess. As he bent, he noted the silvery, blinking light from the corner of his eye. He sat up and leaned back in his chair to watch what would happen.

The silvery light cascaded across its surface, expanding in concentric rings from the center.
Photo by Nicolas Picard

In the topmost corner of the coffered ceiling of his spacious office was a spider’s web. The silvery light cascaded across its surface, expanding in concentric rings from the center. Flavius had installed the lights as a notification system. It was unnecessary, of course, because the web also sent a signal to the comp on his desk, but he liked the little touches on his works of art. Details matter. The mechanical spider was already making its way silently down the wall to check out the top of the trash bin.

The spider was his own invention, of course. The web was actually a radio dish that monitored the room, and the spider was a hunter-seeker of bugs. It found spying threats and destroyed them. Not that Flavius was overly worried about microbot spies. After all, he was still the leading microbot scientist in Whitehall. Despite his mayoral duties, he retained an iron grip on the small Microbot Department. If not for him, there would probably be no microbot program in Whitehall Academy.

Microbots had fallen out of favor just as Flavius had managed to ruthlessly climb his way to the top of the Microbot Department. The Energy Department had determined that microbots did not use energy as efficiently as the walking automatons or specialized machinery. He still regarded the Energy Department with great suspicion, but it was one of the Academy’s most powerful departments. As a politician, you cannot hold grudges or make enemies of anyone you cannot swiftly and decisively crush. And despite himself, he liked Leonardo, who now headed the Energy Department. Leonardo was not a politician but a true man of science.

Flavius used his considerable power to keep the Microbot Department alive, focusing its efforts on military applications. The Defense Department was small but very well funded. And he kept a handful of nanobot researchers on staff as well, even though the materials on the Globe were oddly deficient for making truly effective nanobots. And something in the Globe’s air made them deteriorate quickly. Because he was the mayor, Octavius had given him a special dispensation to consult the archive records of the generation ship Shakespeare. Flavius learned that on other planets, his nanobot designs should last for years. On the Globe, where they deteriorated quickly in open air, nanobots were used mostly in one-time medical procedures. 

Photo by Joel Filipe.

His head ached. Even though his office was dozens of stories above the protests and even though it was sound proofed, he felt like he could dimly hear their harsh cries. His assistant, Menenius, assured Flavius it was his imagination. The malfunctioning trash bin lid was just one more irritant. It should have worked. Menenius would have to call the Central Tower technicians. Flavius had a mind to fire one of them over this. The problem was the Central Tower authority would hire the technician right back and just assign them to another government building. The technicians that kept the government offices running were getting older, but none of the young people these days wanted technician jobs. Everybody wanted to be a game designer, a video producer, or a data systems scientist.

But he might still fire a technician today. Even if the technician was rehired, he’d lose his pension, if Flavius insisted.

The door signal chimed. Flavius wiped up the gob of phlegm and raced his chair back behind his ponderous desk. He punched the blinking light on his screen and allowed Menenius to enter.

“Mr. Mayor,” Menenius said briskly, “I have some budget requests for you to approve. And, also, Captain Ward is waiting in the Mayor’s Lobby.”

“Captain Ward?” Flavius asked, alarmed. “How long have you kept her waiting? It better not be long, Menenius, or I’ll have your head.”

“No, she just arrived, Your Honor,” Menenius said. Menenius only used the honorific “Your Honor” when he thought Flavius was being peevish. 

“Stop handling me, Menenius, and help me with my coat.”

Menenius brought Flavius’s crushed velvet coat and helped the round man climb into the coat and arrange the sleeves. Menenius fanned Flavius with the papers he carried and then used a small brush from his pocket to arrange Flavius’s thinning, white hair. Menenius was a talented microbot designer, but he had insisted on serving as Flavius’s Chief of Staff and learning all the campaigning and politicking that came with the job. Sometimes Flavius thought it was a waste of a brilliant scientific mind. But then, the fact that Flavius had had to leave the hard sciences and enter politics himself was the waste of a brilliant scientific mind.

Menenius continued to fan Flavius’s face. Flavius closed his eyes and calmed himself. He imagined the inner workings of his spider hunter-seeker, remembering how he had arranged the hardware to fit just so inside the sleek metal body. The details mattered. The mental exercise centered him. He reopened his eyes. “Thank you, Menenius. I have a dreadful headache today.”

“Still, Mr. Mayor?” Menenius asked, his voice full of earnest sympathy. Menenius saved his sarcasm for outsiders, never using it against Flavius. “Shall I call the chemist and have them send up something stronger?”

Flavius sat up in his chair. “No, no, Menenius. Thank you. You always take such good care of me. I’m sorry I’ve been temperamental today. But that won’t be necessary. We must soldier on. Please show Captain Ward in, would you, and have Volumnia bring some refreshments.”

Menenius gave a small bow and swept out. In a moment, Captain Ward filled the doorway. She was tall for a woman, taller than Flavius himself by half a head, and as tall as Governor Octavius. But there was more to it than that. Even when standing completely still, she radiated a strong energy, as if she were barely containing a maelstrom of violence. She smiled and strolled across Flavius’s large office, her movements like that of a prowling catterwaul.

Flavius stood up and smiled broadly, rubbing his hands nervously in front of him. He gave a small bow.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Flavius asked the delicate question.

“How are you faring in your visits with the other cities?” He wanted to know, but he also wanted to draw her attention away from the protests in Whitehall.

She grimaced. “Not well,” she said. “In Belmont, some madman has declared himself king and replaced the council. He killed two of my Marines, but before it’s over I think it will get worse. Can you tell me more than that?”

“No,” Flavius said, shaking his head. He had heard as much himself from his chief of police. And Gov. Octavius had been spreading word of the disaster publicly, blaming Capt. Ward and the Polity all the while that Ward had been gone from the city. He only seemed to quieten down after Ward returned to Whitehall. “I’m afraid Belmont is a closed book to the rest of the Globe. We have no diplomats and not even any sp– . . . er, men on the inside, as it were.”

Belmont had never proved to be a problem before. Flavius hardly even thought of Belmont as a city. It was merely a distant place where steel was made. He knew that every year the governor made a trek to the mountain to negotiate the terms of trade. The Belmontians should have come to Whitehall, of course, but none of them ever left the mountain, so the governor demeaned himself and went to Belmont. Distasteful, but Whitehall needed steel. 

And it was a good arrangement. The same deal was struck every year. The price of steel never changed. Whitehall guaranteed all of Belmont’s supplies from the other cities, and Belmont promised to provide the same volume of steel. The Belmontians must have excellent population control inside that mountain. They always delivered on time and never needed more nor less from the other cities. But if the Council had been violently overthrown, what would happen? His head pounded.

Flavius knew it was impossible, but he swore he could hear the mob below chanting.
Photo by Amir Arabshahi

Flavius knew it was impossible, but he swore he could hear the mob below chanting. If unchanging Belmont could suffer a coup, what could happen in his beloved Whitehall? Out of habit, his hand drifted toward a button that would summon the chief of police, but he drew his hand back and rubbed his hands together. Octavius was the rabble rouser. Once Flavius took care of Octavius, the mob would disappear like a handful of nanobot dust.

The captain brought him back to the present. “The Governor won’t meet with me,” she said. “If I understand Whitehall’s government structure, you govern here in the city and he handles relations with the other cities. And I was counting on his guidance with the leaders of the other cities.”

Once upon a time, the governor of Whitehall did more than handle the relations with the other cities. He governed the other cities as colonies. Over the years, the other cities grew in power and developed their own governments–actually a treasonous act–and the Governor of Whitehall, Protector of the Globe, Unifier of the People, waned in power. But those who know their history remember when Whitehall truly governed the entire Globe.

“What can you do to help?” Ward asked.

Flavius smiled and rubbed his hands nervously. “I wish that I could. I’ve appealed to Octavius numerous times, but he won’t speak even with me.”

Menenius had taken the elevator the ten stories up to the Governor’s office every day, but even the Governor’s staff would not meet with him. Flavius himself had even made the pilgrimage up the elevator once, and returned shamed-faced to his own offices after being turned away. Secretly, he had taken the elevator from his own residence near the top of Central Tower to the very top floor, called the Governor’s Mansion, where Octavius lived. Flavius went late in the evening when he knew Octavius was home and would still be awake. Octavius would not answer his door.

The Governor had an excellent selection of liquors that exceeded even Flavius’s own impressive home bar. Photo by Nick Rickert.

Octavius had refused to speak with Flavius ever since that night. The night they had returned from their first meeting with Captain Ward. The night that people were calling Kite Night. Shaken, Octavius and Flavius had returned to the Governor’s Mansion. They had stayed up late talking and drinking. As usual, Octavius did most of the talking and the drinking. He had an excellent selection of liquors that exceeded even Flavius’s own impressive home bar.

Octavius had raged and railed against the Polity, against the Polity Navy ship in orbit and against Captain Ward, whom Octavius simply called “that insufferable shrew.” The arguments were nothing new. Everyone on the Globe had learned since their first history classes as urchins that the Polity was trouble; that the Globers’ ancestors had fled the Polity aboard a generation ship, the Shakespeare, and settled the Globe far outside Polity space to be free of the Polity and its constant territorial wars. 

Captain Elizabeth–the first Captain Elizabeth of the Shakespeare–had warned them. Flavius silently intoned the words drilled into him since the first days of school. “This is why we can never return to the Polity, why we must remain vigilant to resist their false promises, why we must not look back, but fix our eyes on what lies ahead. The peace of our people depends upon it.”

And, yet, their ancestors had done nothing to protect the Globe from an invading force. Had done nothing to secure the space around the Globe. And that night, Capt. Ward had made sure all of the Globe understood the power of the Polity Navy. The UPS Pacifica’s lasers had destroyed hundreds of Whitehall’s drones in a “celebration.” Yes, Capt. Ward had bought up all the drones from Whitehall’s citizens beforehand and recruited the city’s children to pilot them. But then the Pacifica had destroyed them all in a barbaric show of raw, military power.

And the people had cheered! Flavius could distinctly remember standing next to Octavius on the grassy dunes, looking back at the glowing towers of Whitehall. The acrid smoke from the exploded drones filled the air and stung his nose. And then the people, his citizens, had raised a cheer that could be heard for hundreds of metes. Those fools had cheered!

And that night, for the first time, Flavius and Octavius could not reach agreement on how to govern the Globe together. Octavius raged and swore he would kill Captain Ward and her Marines and pull the Pacifica from the sky and throw it into the Southern Sea. And from the look in Octavius’s eyes, it was clear Octavius truly thought he could snatch the Pacifica from orbit with his bare hands and complete the act himself.

But Flavius knew that the might of the Polity, the Pacifica specifically, was too great for Whitehall to match. Long ago, the Globe had turned away from space and had lost the technology to even fly into the upper atmosphere. There was no choice but to capitulate. But Octavius would not hear it. And when Flavius would not agree to Octavius’s wild plans to overthrow the Polity, Octavius had actually cast Flavius out of the Governor’s Mansion.

Flavius smiled at his enemy across his desk. All he could do was bargain with Capt. Ward. And, on behalf of his people, he would bargain hard. But so far, she had been willing to pay for all her own expenses and to keep the Polity’s tax at 10 percent, as originally promised. And Whitehall could afford that, especially when most of the costs could be passed to the other cities. And even a full 10 percent was a fraction of the cost of a war.

“I’ll have to figure out something there,” Ward said, speaking of Octavius. Thankfully, she said nothing of the fact that Octavius was actually holding rallies throughout the city and drumming up the protests against the Polity. The idiot! That huge bombard of sack!

Something had to be done. Never in the history of Whitehall had the people protested the government. Never!

Flavius knew he had to stop Octavius. Now was the time to broach the subject with Capt. Ward. But it had to be done delicately. As they say, “In a major matter, no details are small.”

“You know,” Flavius said, “at one time, the Governor of the Globe and the Mayor of Whitehall were the same person. Some political scientists have gone so far as to say Whitehall would be stronger and better governed with a single, strong leader.”

Ward looked around the red-curtained room.
Photo by Avinash Kumar

Ward looked around the red-curtained room. Her eyes rested a moment on the spider web high in the coffered ceiling. She seemed distracted.

But Capt. Ward was a sly one. As if reading his mind, Capt. Ward said, “I don’t want to get involved in your internal politics.”

“So, you want me to take care of the problem, then?” Flavius asked, carefully.

“Yes, that would be best,” she said in an absent-minded voice. She was clearly pretending disinterest, distancing herself from an unpleasant matter.

“And . . .  you would trust me to use whatever methods I think best?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, of course,” Ward said. “You’re the Mayor.”

Flavius nodded. Capt. Ward was an occupier, but at least she had the propriety to respect the local leaders. He smiled but quickly suppressed the smile. This was a serious matter. He nodded again and rubbed his hands nervously together.

“Very well, then. I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Flavius changed the subject. They discussed the progress of the giant landing pad and warehouse complex Ward had asked to be built in the grassy dunes near the site of her ship’s landing. Ward did not seem to respect the dangers of the savagelands, but he was grateful she was building the complex outside the walls. She said she did not want the constant sound of rockets disturbing the peace in Whitehall. And space within Whitehall’s walls was always tight.

Even better, Ward was paying Whitehall’s engineers and construction crews to build the complex. So Whitehall had a chance to earn back the tax the Polity collected.


Photo by Petr Magera

Capt. Ward left the Mayor’s Office in a better mood than she had arrived. Despite Gov. Octavius’s public threats to overthrow the Polity, the city was mostly peaceful. Mayor Flavius kept the city running smoothly and construction had already begun on the space port so the taxed resources could be lifted to the Pacifica when it returned to orbit. No one on the Globe knew it, but the Pacifica had left orbit around the Globe to explore the rest of the system for resources valuable to the Polity. That left Ward and her Marines alone on the planet, but only she and the Marines knew that. For all the Globers knew, the Pacifica was right overhead with lasers and missiles at the ready.

Things in Whitehall were going so smoothly that her mind kept wandering back to the disaster in Belmont. A mad usurper king on a throne and two of her Marines dead! And, yet, try as she might, she could not think how she should have handled things differently. She had only introduced herself and the madman had beheaded two of her Marines! A diplomatic rule of first contact is that no one wanted war, at least, not before having a chance to size up the other side. But when dealing with a madman, you had to throw diplomatic rules out the hatch.

Riding the elevator alone to her own quarters in Central Tower, Ward paused and thought back on the conversation with the mayor. She did not want to make any diplomatic mistakes here. She tried to recount the conversation. She realized she had been distracted and lost focus. But everything she could recall seemed in order. Flavius was a nervous man and he clearly feared her. That could be dangerous if he felt cornered, but their interactions were always cordial. She had promised not to interfere with local politics and he would talk to Octavius. If she could just sit down with the governor and pick his brain about the other cities, perhaps she could avoid another disastrous first contact.

As for Flavius, she would let him handle the details.


If you enjoyed my story, feel free to leave comments below. If you would like to read more about Whitehall, read “The Towers of Whitehall” which kicked off the Whitehall stories in the Globe Folio series.

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross

P.S. Now you can enjoy the Globe Folio from the beginning:

Act 1: Night of the Rocket

Act 2: Nights of Revelation

Now you’re all caught up. But don’t worry, we have more stories from the Globe on the way soon!

Be stellar!

Matthew Cross