NOTE: the names are written the way they are listed in Wikipedia, for the sake of consistency. I also tried to incorporate as much text of the series as possible.

Seven centuries have passed since the Earth plunged into Darkness. Kortan, immortal tyrant, came to rule it. What he could reach, at any rate. They who were still free scattered before his armies, and if they tarried, lost everything.

Sometimes, it looked like everything had already been lost. Where green things had bloomed, deserts breathed heat and cold. Where cities had sprawled, rust licked up the metal and stones cracked through. Where electricity had been transferred from power plants to people's homes, people could no longer imagine infrastructure spanning more than several villages, and thought the pylons were skeletons of ugly titans.

The Labs kept working nine to five, five days a week; and the last Friday of December was Remembrance Day, an optional holiday.

We do not mean to say here that in the past seven centuries, The Labs had suffered no setback. Shit happened. There were earthquakes, occasionally, and the tyrant kept sending teams to seize slaves for his imperial city. Vivarium security left much to be desired. But generally, yes, nine to five.

Our story began at about four in the afternoon, in the Cafe. A military engineer by name of Don Vincente Marino Ramirez was rubbing his forehead, trying to pick between two salads and liking none. He had bigger problems anyway.

Ramirez knew he had not much time to eat. He had to meet the Dundee refugees and make them feel welcome in their new home - and to be discreet in his evaluation of them: little Quentin was being raised by the Dundees, if he remembered right, he'd seen that kid once ago. He scowled. The report had said that the tyrant's Hunters erased another settlement. Things were becoming untenable, and he was going to argue at the Council again. The Council was going to overrule him. But things were getting out of hand. This last raid was completely out of the blue.

Ramiorez closed his eyes and picked at random, and of course the other option immediately seemed better. He ate hurriedly, handed his plate to the steward, fiddled with his ponytail ribbon and went to saddle his gavor. The Dundees were probably already being checked for weapons at the entrance.

They weren't. There was only a guard, a slight man in cams. Ramirez tried to spot the other two, without being too obvious, but they had been schooled by Yoshoda.

Sometimes he thought Yoshoda drilled the bushes and the trees, too, and painted some leaves particular colours. In his spare time.

"Eternal power not to Kortan!" said the visible guard, smiling.

"At ease, soldier," he smiled back. "Where are these people? Lost again?"

"Not anywhere within two miles."

"Damn. And no signal?"

Probably being minced right outside the valley. Silently.

"The wind is stronger out there," said the guard with a tinge of worry. "The smoke might be blown off..."

"I'm going."

"Aye aye, sir."

Ramirez hoped this would take less than a day. The dispatcher would contact him if the refugees did show up, or if the scouts found them before him, and technically he had a week until being searched for himself. Yet a heavy feeling spurred him on. Or maybe it was the Sword, he had been thinking about it.

He passed through the forest and then the meadow, let his gavor choose where to splash through the river. At last he turned to the beaten road, putting on his bright cloak which so many people called The Sylvan behind his back.

No Dundees. Gusty wind, no smoke or noise. Rugged terrain. Bright daylight. No vultures circling overhead... but... there was something moving to the south, gone before he could catch it with his field-glass. Could be an ambush. That was a nice little copse, enough for a platoon. He squeezed his earring.

"Brana, come in. Come in."

Static.

"BRANA!"

"Brana here, sorry."

"I'm going south," Ramirez said drily. "Someone's near Spiderstone. Prepare to defend."

Toggles clucked, the dispatcher confirmed orders, and Ramirez cut the connection.

"Gya!"

Teamwork was an asset. It had to be.

But being his own man, even for a da - a Quickening!

The cold washed over him, and old habits rose to the surface. Could be Kortan, but why now? Was he already hunting the Last of McLeods? And there'd been at least two people, he was almost sure. Ramirez spurred his mount.

They traveled on foot, so overtaking them was easy. But it was not Kortan, only a boy and a tiny girl hanging onto a gran. And nobody else.

Two dirty kids with tearstained faces.

Scouts were going to learn to fly when he was finished with them.

"Quentin!" cried the girl. "Is this the nightmare?"

What?

The boy jumped up. Not so little anymore, huh. And he had a boomerang - practical, if he knew how to throw it.

"Do you know your name, child?"

"I am Quentin McLeod," the kid fired back. "And I am not a child!"

Priorities, priorities.

"Throw," commanded Ramirez. Heaven knew he had experience with the breed.

"Why?" Oh this one came from the Highlands, all right.

"I need to see if you can be my student," he said, only just keeping pride out of his voice. "To prepare you for your destiny."

"He's not going to be your student!" the girl piped in furiously. "He's my brother!"

Quentin McLeod gulped. So... he had been told something, but what? And by whom?

"I don't have to go with you, stranger," he muttered, glaring up. "I've got things to do."

"Stranger! Please!" Ramirez leapt down and gave a bow. "I am Don Vincente Marino Ramirez, a Spanish grandee. Currently a humble instructor at the Jettator Labs."

"Jettador?" asked the boy.

"Humble?" asked the girl.

And the gran tried to gnaw at his boots.