seventeen, he had risen through
the ranks of his birth tribe, the Onu, to become Boarderland’s
first
sovereign. Before his ascension, the country’s nomadic tribes had been completely independent, with nothing in common other than the landscape over which they traveled. He had forced them into having something else in common: the honor, respect, and obedience they showed to him. This, he often reminded his ministers, was what united the tribes of Boarderland. His subjugation of them gave the nation its identity, its focus and culture. “I’m a uniter, not a divider,” he would laugh. By the time he crowned himself, he had amassed his own tribe, the Doomsines, having siphoned off from the Onu and others the most skilled fighters, the smartest intel ministers, the most beautiful females to become his wives and servants. He had also recruited numerous wayward souls and misfits from Boarderton, Boarderland’s de facto capital city. Among the Boarderton recruits: Ripkins and Blister. “Leave us,” he ordered, shooing his wives toward the exit. Promptly, and with a tinkling of jewelry, the women removed themselves from the tent. “You are to enter Wonderland and capture a Glass Eye,” he commanded Ripkins and Blister. “I want it fully intact or it will be useless to me. That means every pore of its engineered skin, every swath of its manufactured muscle and tissue, every nanochip and filament in its brain: all undamaged so as to be properly dissected and understood. You must bring back a live one.” Ripkins nodded, but Blister stared coldly at nothing. Impossible to know what he was thinking. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Blister?” “I understand.”
It had been an annoyingly peaceful time in Boarderland, Blister cranky and depressed because he hadn’t filled anyone with pus for nearly an entire lunar cycle. Only the previous day, Arch had found him in a spirit-dane corral, blistering the creatures to the point of death, such was his need to touch and destroy. “No one can know of your mission,” Arch said. “You must remain absolutely invisible. It’s necessary for Alyss and her people to believe they will have cleansed the realm of Glass Eyes. I intend to manufacture my own army of them, using the one you bring me as the model from which the rest will be cloned.” Following Ripkins out of the tent, Blister sulkily pinched the blade of a silver-leafed palm between finger and thumb. The blade bubbled, swelled. Then another and another. The longer he held on to the plant, the more it suffered until—
Swollen to bursting, it leaked yellow liquid from every blade, and died, a wilted husk of a thing. “Intact, Blister,” Arch warned.
Blister bowed, was gone.
sovereign. Before his ascension, the country’s nomadic tribes had been completely independent, with nothing in common other than the landscape over which they traveled. He had forced them into having something else in common: the honor, respect, and obedience they showed to him. This, he often reminded his ministers, was what united the tribes of Boarderland. His subjugation of them gave the nation its identity, its focus and culture. “I’m a uniter, not a divider,” he would laugh. By the time he crowned himself, he had amassed his own tribe, the Doomsines, having siphoned off from the Onu and others the most skilled fighters, the smartest intel ministers, the most beautiful females to become his wives and servants. He had also recruited numerous wayward souls and misfits from Boarderton, Boarderland’s de facto capital city. Among the Boarderton recruits: Ripkins and Blister. “Leave us,” he ordered, shooing his wives toward the exit. Promptly, and with a tinkling of jewelry, the women removed themselves from the tent. “You are to enter Wonderland and capture a Glass Eye,” he commanded Ripkins and Blister. “I want it fully intact or it will be useless to me. That means every pore of its engineered skin, every swath of its manufactured muscle and tissue, every nanochip and filament in its brain: all undamaged so as to be properly dissected and understood. You must bring back a live one.” Ripkins nodded, but Blister stared coldly at nothing. Impossible to know what he was thinking. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Blister?” “I understand.”
It had been an annoyingly peaceful time in Boarderland, Blister cranky and depressed because he hadn’t filled anyone with pus for nearly an entire lunar cycle. Only the previous day, Arch had found him in a spirit-dane corral, blistering the creatures to the point of death, such was his need to touch and destroy. “No one can know of your mission,” Arch said. “You must remain absolutely invisible. It’s necessary for Alyss and her people to believe they will have cleansed the realm of Glass Eyes. I intend to manufacture my own army of them, using the one you bring me as the model from which the rest will be cloned.” Following Ripkins out of the tent, Blister sulkily pinched the blade of a silver-leafed palm between finger and thumb. The blade bubbled, swelled. Then another and another. The longer he held on to the plant, the more it suffered until—
Swollen to bursting, it leaked yellow liquid from every blade, and died, a wilted husk of a thing. “Intact, Blister,” Arch warned.
Blister bowed, was gone.
Crossing into Wonderland was, for the average citizen, a tedious way to spend several hours. One had to wait in long lines, undergo elaborate security searches, sit through mild or not-so-mild interrogations conducted by overworked officials. What is the purpose of your visit? The expected length of your stay? But Ripkins and Blister had a difficult time blending in with average citizens and so they chose to cross into Alyss’ territory, not at one of the official checkpoints, but at an unpopulated spot between a silty