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He rubs the back of one hand, as if in memory of scars, although you see none there. “You did well,” he adds, as if that could make up for the people you killed, those he put into harm’s way. “You passed. I hope you continue to pass. Because this is one test you don’t stop taking.”

“You wouldn’t have passed,” you say, because someone has to.

“No,” he says. For a moment you glimpse the shadows he lives with, all of them self-inflicted. “I’ve always been an excellent killer. It’s not too late for you to do more with your career than I did with mine. You’ll make an excellent officer. I’m recommending you for the invasion swarm.”

You inhale sharply, and regret it when pain stabs through your side in spite of the painkillers. “I’m not sure you should”—more candor than is safe, but you’re beyond caring—“because after we deal with the Taurags, I’m coming for you.”

The instructor salutes you Kel-style, with just a touch of irony. You don’t return the gesture. “I look forward to it,” he says.

Yoon Ha Lee was introduced to video games by way of a Commodore 64, became the world’s worst FPS player in high school after encountering
Wolfenstein 3D
, and is currently in extended mourning for the
Crysis Wars
mod
MechWarrior: Living Legends
. (Favorite mech: Shadowcat A.) He authored the StoryNexus game
Winterstrike
for Failbetter Games, wrote the IF game
The Moonlit Tower
in Inform 6 after being sucked into the genre, and outsources CRPG min-maxing to his husband. His collection
Conservation of Shadows
came out from Prime Books in 2013. Other works have appeared in venues such as
Lightspeed
,
Clarkesworld
, Tor.com, and the
Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
. Lee lives in Louisiana with family and has not yet been eaten by gators.

“Go,” Alex said. “If you remember to keep a low profile, neither your father nor his enemies will ever find you here.”

The ship had landed in the middle of the jungle, miles away from the closest settlement. Alara was a backwater, barely inhabited, and insignificant to galactic politics. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to walk out of here, stumble into a few colonists, and pretend to be near starvation. Enough time to make up any backstory and make it believable.

Ryder flexed his slender arms and stretched, the movements graceful, dancelike. The strict manner in which he had been bound during the ship’s last jump through hyperspace didn’t seem to have any lasting ill effects.

He gave Alex a long, appraising look. “What will you tell my father?”

She shrugged. “I’ll give him his money back.”

“You’ve never failed before, have you?”

“There’s always a first time. I’m human. I’m not perfect.” She began to climb back into the ship.

“That’s it?”

She stopped halfway up the ladder and looked down at him.

“You don’t want to be sure?” he asked, that characteristic smirk playing at the corners of his delicate mouth again. “Don’t you want to ask to see me as I really am?”

She considered this. “No. I’ve already decided to believe you. Trying to make sure can only make things worse. If I find out that you’re telling the truth, then I will have ruined this moment, when I can still believe I’m capable of being decent, of trust. If I find out you’re lying, then I’ll have to consider myself a fool.”

“So, again you choose faith before knowledge.”

This time, she didn’t stop climbing. When she was at the air-lock door, she turned around. “Faith is just another name for self-knowledge. You’ve succeeded, Scheherazade. When you tell your own story, you seize life. Now it’s my turn to tell myself a good story, about myself. I know enough. Good-bye.”

Ryder watched as the ship rose, shrank, and disappeared into the evening sky. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Then he set off into the dark jungle, just another wanderer, a lonely will etching his way across the wilderness.

A few hours earlier:

“THE CLOCKWORK SOLDIER”

A short interactive text adventure by Ryder

You sleep, a smile at the corners of your mouth.

In your dreams, the concentric layers of carp-scale shingles on the Palace’s roof reflect the golden light so brilliantly that visitors to Chrysanthemum know right away how the city got its name.

THE PRINCESS’S BEDROOM

You open your eyes and find yourself in bed. The blanket is silky smooth and the mattress soft.

Like most rooms in the Palace, this one is lined with colorful tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the Hegemons of the Pan-Flores League. Through a narrow slit-window high off the floor, the brilliant morning sunlight diffuses into the room, as does the chittering of birds and the smell of a thousand blooming flowers in the garden. The door to the hallway is closed right now.

Next to the bed is your clockwork soldier, Spring, standing at attention.

> examine soldier

Your faithful companion Spring has been with you as long as you can remember. He’s six feet tall and looks like a living suit of armor. You remember once opening him up when you were younger and being amazed at the thousands upon thousands of whirling gears and ticking governors and tightly wound springs inside.

You giggle as you remember the many adventures you’ve shared together over the years. You’ve taught Spring everything he knows, and he’s saved you from too many scrapes to count.

> get up

You get out of the bed.

> say “hello”

(to Spring)

“Good morning,” says Spring. “I know that sometimes you like to go by a different name for fun. What name would you like to go by today?”

(Please enter your name)

> Alex

“Alex it is,” Spring says. His voice sounds…rusty, lugubrious. He shuffles in place, the gears inside him clanging and scraping against each other. “I’m sorry that I seem to be in a bad mood today.”

> ask about mood

“Why are you feeling down?” you ask. A good princess needs to be concerned about the state of mind of her subjects—er, toys.

“I’m not sure. I just feel…like a part of me is missing.”

“Did a bolt loosen and fall out? Were you not oiled properly? Did I forget to wind you last night?”

“No. It’s none of those things. I can’t explain it.”

> look under bed

A few dust bunnies scurry out of your way.

> look behind tapestries

The walls are made of solid stone. No hidden passages, as far as you can see.

> examine Spring

He looks fine, if a bit morose.

> cheer up Spring

“Why don’t we have an adventure today?” you ask. “Maybe we’ll find what you want in the rest of the Palace?”

Spring nods. “As you wish.”

> exit bedroom

HALLWAY

The hallway is lit by torches along the wall. To the east is the grand staircase. To the west, some distance down the dimly lit hallway, are two doors.

Spring follows you into the hallway, the loud clangs of his footsteps echoing around the stone walls.

> ask Spring for direction

“You decide,” says Spring. “You always do.”

> west

HALLWAY

Spring clangs after you.

> west

HALLWAY

Spring clangs after you. Then he sighs, sounding like steel wool being rubbed against a grille.

> ask Spring about sigh

“Don’t you like following me around?” you ask.

“Following you around today has not activated as many microlevers inside me as usual.” Spring pauses, the gears humming and grinding inside him. “I suppose, logically, we can try having me lead instead of follow.”

(Allow Spring to lead?)

> yes

“Why do you tantalize me with the impossible?” Spring says. “We both know I can’t. I’m an automaton.”

Spring shakes his head from side to side, and the loud grinding noise makes you cover your ears.

“I am so sad that I can no longer move,” Spring says.

> examine

The hallway is narrow and windowless but not damp or dark. The torches in the walls provide flickering illumination. The smell of rose otto permeates the air.

> west

HALLWAY

Spring stays behind, immobile.

> east

HALLWAY

You see Spring in the middle of the hallway, looking like a heap of rusty metal.

> inventory

You are empty-handed.

> look for oil

There is no clockwork oil in the hallway.

(Come on. First puzzles in interactive text adventures are often easy, but not
this
easy.)

> look for source of rose otto

The fragrance of rose otto permeates the air.

The essence of rose is distilled from the garden outside the Palace by the gardener and his helpers every morning. The Castellan, your father’s head clockwork servant, applies it liberally to combat the problem of mildew in enclosed spaces around the Palace. When activated by heat, it can make any place smell fresh and comfortable.

> pick up a torch

You take one of the torches out of the sconces on the wall.

> examine torch

You lean in close to look at the torch, and the fire singes your lovely chestnut hair.

Spring groans.

> put out torch against the floor

You extinguish the torch. The hallway is now fractionally cooler.

> examine torch

The torch is cleverly designed by the Royal Artificer. The body of the torch is hollow to hold the slow-burning oil, and a smaller compartment near the top holds rose otto.

> get oil from torch

You stick your hand into the hollow body of the torch and…

“Ow! Ow!” You hop around. Your hand is covered in hot oil. You’re likely to injure your hand if you don’t get rid of it quickly.

> apply oil to Spring

You slather the hot oil over the joints in Spring’s face and torso.

Spring stands up.

> ask Spring about mood

“You’re welcome,” you say, since Spring doesn’t seem inclined to thank you. That’s very uncharacteristic of him, but maybe he’s still feeling down.

“Thank you,” Spring says. The voice is smooth, but you detect a hint of resentment. “I just wish I had decided to get the oil myself.”

“I can order the Royal Artificer to modify your tape and give you the instructions to get oil when you feel rusty,” you say.

“That’s not what I meant. I wish I had come up with the idea myself. I wish I could punch my own instruction tape.”

Fear, or maybe it’s an appetite for thrill, rises in you. “Are you suggesting that you wish to be endowed with the Augustine Module and cross the Cartesian Limit? You know that’s forbidden, and any automata found to have crossed the line must be destroyed.”

Spring says nothing.

“But maybe what you’re missing is a chance to do the forbidden,” you muse to yourself.

> west

OUTSIDE THE KING’S AND QUEEN’S BEDROOMS

The door to the King’s bedroom (in the northern wall) is made of solid oak. Carved into the door is the figure of a man with two faces—one laughing, one crying. The four eyes on the two faces are inlaid with emeralds.

The door to the Queen’s bedroom (in the southern wall) is made of pale ash. The figure of a leaping hare is carved into it. Your mother died when you were born, and the room has been sealed off for as long as you can remember. It’s too painful for the King to set foot inside.

Spring clangs after you.

> north

The door is locked.

> south

The door is locked.

> knock on door to the north

There is no answer.

Spring shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “You know the King is away at Wolfsbane for the coronation of Prince Ulu, three days’ ride away. All the clockwork servants are away to be maintained by the Royal Artificer this morning. You’re alone in the Palace.”

> kick door to the north

Ouch! The door barely moves, but you’re hopping around on one foot, crying out. Kicking at doors is not something silk slippers are very well suited for.

A series of metallic clangs come from Spring. You can see he’s trying hard to stop his quivering torso.

“Laugh it up,” you say, wincing at the pain. “Laugh it up.”

> ask Spring to open door

Spring lumbers into the door, and it smashes into a million little pieces on contact. Where the door used to be there’s now just a big hole.

“I had in mind something a little less destructive,” you say.

“Just following orders,” Spring says.

Alex whirls around in her chair at the
beep-beep-beep
of the proximity alarm. She sees the slender figure of Ryder in the doorway of the cabin, leaning against the frame.

She’s about to apologize for snooping when she notices the smirk on Ryder’s face.
Why should I apologize? He’s a prisoner on
my
ship.

She stands up from the chair. “I needed to see what you’ve been up to on this computer. You’ve been using it practically nonstop. A security precaution—I’m sure you understand.”

He comes into the small room. Alex reaches down to shut off the proximity alarm so that the rapid beeping stops. He’s about her height, slender of build and with delicate features. That teenaged face, so heartbreakingly beautiful, vulnerable, and young, reminds her of her son. A wave of tenderness surfaces in her before she becomes aware of it and dams it away. She realizes suddenly how little she knows about him, despite chasing after him all these weeks and then capturing him. From time to time, she’s seen him tending to the plants in the herbal garden—a small luxury that she allowed herself—with care, though she has never told him to do it. Other than that, he’s been holed up in his room.

Like with all her prey, she’s been avoiding having much interaction with him.

He’s cargo,
she reminds herself,
worth a lot of money
. A bounty hunter who forgets her job doesn’t last very long.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and starts to move around him to get to the door.

“Wait!” he says. The smirk is gone, replaced by a hesitant, shy smile. “I wanted to tell you that I appreciate your giving me the run of the ship instead of locking me up in a windowless cell or drugging me.” He pauses, and then adds, “Also, thanks for not roughing me up.”

She shrugs. “Your father’s orders were very clear. You’re not to be injured or harmed in any way. Not even a scratch on your skin.”

“My father.” His face becomes expressionless, like a mask. “He told you not to injure me, did he? Well, of course he would.”

Alex gives him a thoughtful but hard gaze. “But if I feel you’re endangering my life, don’t you think for a moment I wouldn’t put you down.”

Ryder lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve been good. I promise.”

“Honestly, you’re not much of a fighter. Besides, it’s not like there’s anywhere for you to go while we’re in hyperspace. Why not let you stretch your legs around the ship?”

“You’re not curious about why I ran away and why my father has gone to so much trouble to catch me?”

“I’m paid to get you back to him in one piece,” Alex says, “not to ask questions. In my profession, being curious is not always a virtue.”
Also,
she adds to herself,
families are impossible for outsiders to understand.

The smirk is back on his face. He points to the terminal that Alex was using. “You were curious about
that
.”

“I told you, a security precaution.”

“You would have found out that it’s nothing dangerous within a few seconds. But you played for a while.”

“I got pulled in,” she says. “It’s a game, and on this little ship, I get as bored as you.”

He laughs. “So, what do you think?”

She considers the question and decides there’s nothing wrong with giving him her honest opinion. A privileged kid like that probably never hears any real criticism. “The setup is good, but the pacing is off. The language is self-indulgent in places, and the Pinocchio story line is a bit clichéd. Still, I think it has potential.”