WRITER charles roberts


They called the fanships “flapjacks,” because they look like pancakes. Pancakes made of baked silver.

The fanship’s net neuralized with him, video-goggles wrapped with precision around his long, dark hair. He concentrated playfully, thinking what he wanted of the old pancake, and directed the ducted fans to race, rising in pitch until the air roared through their sheltered blades, forcing the ship gently upward, slipping sideways a bit on the fountain of rushing air below. It felt like riding atop an invisible bubble, and the silver platter gently tipped to one side of it, began to slide off the bubble, fall downward. Up increased fanspeed, compensated to press forward, taking its passengers higher into the still morning air.
Fan blades roared and bellowed in the smooth manner of ancient power, and the bubble lifted them...


Where do you go from up? Armed with answers to a question they never asked, six people become action. Through fire and ice, racing for heroes and listening to fools, will they ever know themselves as masters?
Mysteries tease them for sacred answers, and
by the Founders, they shall have them!

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