"I love you, Lasye," Abner, the human boy said while looking at his beautiful girl, leaning on the wall of the thatched house, near the village boundary.

"Me too," the white-haired girl replied.

"I don't want you to die!" A cloud of sorrow appeared in his green eyes.

"That can't be helped, darling…it is the gods' will"

"But there must be something!" he replied with anger in his voice. Abner had always been too hot-headed in comparison with his Elven girlfriend's calmness and imperturbability which looked like an unearthly thing.

"But there is not…"

"We could leave this place and start a new life somewhere else…"

"But that wouldn't help our village; its population would die, eventually - our friends, blood relatives and acquaintances, too! Is that what you want?"

"No, I don't," the boy replied, becoming sad. "But it's too hard to take…"

"It's for the good of the people living in Yuast, really…"

"No way!"

Lasye looked at him for a while, touching his black hair. Elves were slender and close in size to humans, but much milder mannered. Their faces seemed alien at times, but Abner had learned how to figure their thoughts out so far.

"Do you prefer to anger the gods? Will you let them kill our herds, destroy our cultivations and make the younglings starve, along with the elder ones, too?"

"No, of course, I can't! But…"

"…but there's no other way, the serpent-priest has told us that clearly many times. We are to do as we are ordered; I must follow the same path as the other white-haired Elven girls who have gone before me…"

"I'm so sorry, so sorry…" the boy exclaimed, beginning to weep. It was not appropriate behaviour for someone who was soon going to become a soldier, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"It's for the good of them all," she added, kissing his lips and resting her pale brow on her boyfriend's.

Abner's tears went on and on for a very long time.

The next day, all the people of Yuast got together before the stone doors of the Temple of the Gods in the middle of the village. There was agitation, as was usual during such terrible rites, and a few young boys held Abner — who had decided to be there at any cost— just in case he couldn't control himself and started losing his cool in the end.

Wearing the blue-red robe, the middle-aged serpent-priest left his house, walking between two rows of villagers - following the orange path. He walked up the stairs leading to the raised temple floor.

Lasye already lay upon the ancient symbol, silent and waiting. The man reached where she was and took the knife, putting it through the Elven girl's chest with a single gesture. Lasye's blood spread all over her ceremonial black garment, while she softly let go of her last breath.

A terrible cry rose to the sky, suddenly. It was Abner who was full of desperation, but everything was over.

The serpent-priest left the sacrifice platform and slowly went down the stairs, passing through the villagers who were waiting. His eyes didn't dare to meet Abner's look.

The man was very sad inside for what he had just done, but he knew well he had no other choice. Given the prophecy revealed before his eyes more than 20 years ago, he was aware of the consequences if he hadn't acted so.

As a matter of fact, that killing wasn't necessary for the safety of the village of Yuast. Definitely.

According to the prophecy (only he and his wife knew the truth)the day an Elven white-haired young girl reached the age of 14, his partner, the serpent-priest's Elven wife herself, would have died at once. It had been announced to both of them that the Elven lady would then become the new chosen partner of the serpent-priest, with whom he himself would share his farseer powers for the rest of his lifetime.

But the priest loved his wife too much and wouldn't ever let such a terrible loss occur - he didn't want his spouse to die because of all that.

There were so many Elves living peacefully together in their village, since the time many of them had left their birth place, settling here along with the humans in Yuast, just next to the Ever Forest's border where the elf species came from.

That was why there were so many Elves among them and such a thing increased the probability that some white-haired female child was born, even though it had been a fairly rare occurrence among the members of that species. Likely, it had become very frequent here because of the interspecies marriages of the last decade in the village.

Or maybe it was just the prophecy itself which didn't accept being put aside so easily!

Layse was the third Elven white-haired girl born in Yuast, who had been sacrificed over the course of the last years before the age of 14 in order to calm appease the gods, apparently. The true reason was very different, but nobody else knew, apart from his wife. She, too, loved him so much, so she understood his cruel method, even though she wouldn't be able to do that by herself, as she was duty-bound to the preservation of life.

In any case, that young boy, Abner, would have never been allowed to live happily along with his Elven girl…On the other hand, the priest's wife, too, would never have allowed her husband to marry an Elvin lady immediately following her death.

Indeed, all the sacrificial girls would have thought quite differently from them: but they had never been allowed to have their say - so far…

It seemed there were always robots ascending and descending the double staircase leading to Dr. Dahl's bedroom. It would have been difficult to tell that they even were robots, honestly, if not for a certain sheen in the soft plastic material covering their mechanical frames.

Sphero, a feminine robot with amazing jade-green eyes, looked over the framed document at the base of the stairs.

"Due to the war on the Human Spirit advanced by Booth Taren Dahl, he is condemned, via surgery, to a permanent loss of consciousness. This edict will be administered this 12th day of June 2043 as deemed necessary by the International Council of and for Humans."

Sphero smiled, moving reverently up the staircase.

"Good morning, sister," said a masculine robot as Sphero got closer to the bedroom. He stood aside, allowing her to enter. The room was dark but spacious with a lounge-like area closer to the doorway where robots would sit for a while and talk quietly. A bed enveloping a small-framed man could be seen on the other side of the room. "Mr. Booth has been abrupt this morning. Perhaps he'll become brighter when he sees you."

"Orbotex, the Event eliminated any possibility of his recognizing anyone or anything. All we can do now is respond to the bio-chip implanted in his hypothalamus, making him as comfortable as possible." She allowed her eyes to look at the bed. "Mr. Dahl is incapable of emotions."

"Humans once said the same thing about us, Sphero," he countered. "How long have you been serving him?"

"537 days," she said, nodding briefly before crossing the room. She excused the robot who had been keeping watch, then sat in a chair by the bed, looking into the face of the human laying there. His pale eyes were open, and his deep cheeks seemed to loosen a bit, his lips appearing to form a weak grin.

"I'm too hot," ordered a speaker mounted inside his headboard in a cranky, arrogant voice that was based on Booth's original voice.

She rose and began turning down the sheets that covered his body. She undid the top button of his pajama shirt, her warm fingertips raising the cloth to allow air to enter.

The memory of the first time she saw Booth Dahl raced to the forefront of her cybernetic brain. It had been during the 21st Human Conference. Sphero was there as a nurse-aid to one of the representatives and watched Booth quietly as he took the stage. She had heard about his abrasiveness but knew he was tolerated because of his wealth and scientific genius. He was short for a human male, with sandy-brown hair framing fierce hazel eyes - he placed a few papers on the podium and looked into the faces of the delegates.

"My fellow humans," he began with an overpowering Scottish brogue earned in the poverty of Glasgow's East Side. "I will address my comments this morning only to you – because the other beings amongst us are ruled to be objects by this honored body. You all know my work with robots, which has made me a very wealthy man. I would be the first in line to assure this assembly that yes, these mechanical beings will wait on us, hand and foot – for such is their nature: quiet, demure, patient, and forgiving – all those things that we as humans are not." He waited a moment for the quiet laughter to subside. "But my goals would differ a wee bit from the goals of this group, as I see the future relationship between robots and humans as very dissimilar to your vision.

"The Turing test was first passed by a mechanical being over a decade ago – earmarking the place in history where humans couldn't tell the difference between a human and a robot just by listening to them. I put it to you bluntly that since that time, true sentience has been reached. I think therefore I am," he exclaimed, raising his right arm like a rocket to push his point. Many in the audience shifted about uncomfortably.

Sphero looked at the great man now, before going to a window and opening the curtain. A bright, sunlit day fell into the room. "I'm hungry," announced the voice in the headboard and Sphero sat him up a bit in his pillows. A bowl was shoved through an opening onto the bedstand and she began to spoon feed him. His eyes once again seemed to lock on hers, much as a child would do for with a mother. She thought again about his speech.

"We can continue to enslave this new lifeform, demanding their loyalty and service – or we can embrace them not as our creations but rather as our children – worthy of freedom, independence, wisdom and our protection. I tell you: humans are no longer alone in the universe." A few humans in the audience got up to leave the stadium. "Some will say ‘leave things be' – but I'm not havin' it. Yes we can all be wankers if we want, but eventually the bird is gonna land – and all this rubbish about who invented who will end." Booth Dahl was shouting now – trying to be heard above the shouts of the audience. "You may silence me. You may silence us – but I put it to you that the genie is already out of the bottle!" At that the small man was hurriedly escorted from the stage.

Two years later, during the wars to freedom, a surgeon clipped nerve systems that connected one part of the brain to the other, the result being complete loss of consciousness.

Sphero was finished feeding him, and in spite of the other robots in the room, she leaned forward – her face touching his – and whispered: "I still love you."

She felt someone grab her wrist as Booth Dahl whispered back, "I love you too". He then pulled her into his weak but enthusiastic embrace.

He had seen her from afar. He was in love with this mortal. His wife, the queen-goddess was not pleased about his peccadillos, as she called them. He had to uncover a way he could be with her.

His aide d'camp came up with this idea. "You'll be not of a living thing. Your wife will never think to look there. The object of your love will love you for you as you are. What can be truer?"

Francine Debranua was a top seeded road-racer. She preferred "rice burners" as the boys derogatorily called them. No matter what they said, the straight 4's never let her down and finished the job.

The head mechanic pushed the bike from an immaculate black and gold swan emblazoned trailer to Francine's pit area. He wore gloves of fine cotton so as not to scratch the paint or mar the finish. He too was spotless.

"Francine doesn't ride Twins," her mechanic stated as he carried a fresh set of slicks.

The man in black nodded. He knew all that. A grin broke out on his face when she finally came out of her motor home. He pushed the bike toward her.

Francine, petite, and especially cute in her racing leathers, stopped to take a closer look. "That your trailer," She asked pointing to the immaculate monster rig.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied." This is a gift for you if you would do HIM the honor." He pointed to the bike.

"Him? Him who?" What did she care about this black V-twin?

"I cannot say at this point, but it is legal. Here are the papers. Look them over. Take it for a test ride, please." He handed her an envelope. The lettering was done in gold.

She reviewed the documents. It was in order as far as she could tell. The signature of the seller was only a gold swan stamp, but notarized. She looked at the man in black. "Okay, what's the game?"

"No game. He wants you to have it. He's watched you come up through the years and he wants this for you. Look him over. Ride him. You can have him if you like him."

Francine started her walk-around. "Him?" But she was getting lost in the machine and didn't hear the answer if there was one. "This a beautiful piece of workmanship," she said in awe.

"Use only 105 to120 octane fuels. It's full."

She straddled the bike. It was perfect. Her tush slipped right into the seat pocket. It seemed to envelop her. She giggled. She flat footed the asphalt. The clip-ons were at the exact length for her petite body. She put her earplugs in.

He threw her the key. He bowed and made a motion, clearly stating without words, please go ahead, pointing to the track.

Francine hit the starter. The bike fired up. It was like nothing she ever heard or felt. Something filled her being, adrenalin? She pulled her helmet on, slipped her gauntlets over her hands, and pulled the clutch lever. "Butter," she said to herself. The bike throbbed as if in response. With her booted foot, she clicked it into gear and slowly let the clutch out.

Heading onto the track, she raised her arm to indicate a "slow bike entering." She began her warm up laps, heating the tires, and becoming familiar with the bike. After two laps Francine felt comfortable. She pushed her pelvis into the seat bump, pressed herself onto the tank, twisted the throttle and opened him up.

"Oh my god," she screamed. Turn 1 was coming up faster than she had ever taken it. A slight touch of the clutch, a blip of the throttle, a shifter click, a tap of the brake, and the bike took the turn as if it could read her mind. She lay across the tank, her head tucked down behind the steering head, with her left thigh grabbing the tank/frame, her right leg spread out and wide as she hung-off.

Throttle twist, up, and the front wheel came off a bit as the bike leaped forward to and through turns 2, 3 to the top of the hill and 4. The down hill was one of the fasted parts to the slowest, 5, a dog-leg left. Not even a slip. The machine just went around as if it were on rails. 6, through 8 to the uphill 9, were no different. Turn 10 to the back straight was approaching at lightening speed. Something or someone told her not to brake. The voice said, "It will be just fine. Trust me." She did. She laid over, sliders scraping the asphalt, then up, straight, front wheel off the ground, moving faster than she had ever driven before in her entire life.

The pits were quiet except for the growl and the roar of this beast. People were at the rails waiting for her next pass. Timing machines were turned on.

She felt that this machine was alive, as alive as another living being. It responded to the slighted shove of her knees and the lightest touch of her fingers around the throttle. It seemed to read her mind. She squeezed the bike with both her legs, pushed herself as tightly against every part of it as she could, tucking in. Her fingers pulled on the clip-ons. The bike responded by going even faster. She never feared for her life.

She came into the pits hot, slamming to a stop in front of the man in black who had not moved. Her helmet off, she demanded, "This is no normal machine is it? What's the story?"

He smiled and said, "Look closely. The answers are there."

The Black Bike was created for Francine Debranua. She rode it till the end of her days, loving it with her whole being. Engraved in the valve covers was Deus ex Machina, For My Goddess of Speed.

When the loneliness got to be too much, Jed would go to the municipal dump and shoot rats.

Pa had taught him well, from the time he was six. Head-shots were easy. Just line up the front bead sight in that little square notch… sqeeeeeze the trigger… crack!

Jed felt a little wistful, seeing the rat fly sideways in a tiny spray of blood. Pa woulda been proud.

He lowered the rifle and relaxed for a while, in the quiet of the late afternoon. So peaceful… he didn't even mind the flies and the stink.

"Sir — ?"

Startled, he looked around. The voice came from behind him, and he couldn't figure how anyone could sneak up on him like that. A young woman's voice, a little raspy-sounding, like she had a sore throat. He got that way sometimes from cheering too loud at the high-school football games.

From the sound, he knew she had to be right there —

— right where that crow was looking at him, no more than twenty feet away.

Now, that's odd. Crows don't normally get close to humans. And they sure don't talk to 'em…

The crow opened its beak and said, "Sir — ?" Right at him, in that same, scratchy, female voice.

"All right — what's goin' on here?" Jed thought someone was playing some elaborate joke again, but it was just him and the crow, at the edge of the dump, and not even a place for somebody to hide anywhere close.

The crow was still looking at him, in a way that made him feel kinda strange, and then it hopped a little closer. Big crow… real healthy-looking, feathers all neat and shiny. It had an unusual marking, a white patch on its chest.

He'd heard that if you caught a baby crow and raised it, you could teach it to talk… that must be it. But where'd this one come from? Wasn't anybody in these parts doing that; he'd have heard of it, for sure.

"You want somethin'?"

"The rat?"

Jed just laughed. "You want me to cook it for you?"

"No. But if you could open it for me, that would be nice."

Jed knew crows were smart, but this was something else. He wondered if he really might be as crazy as folks said he was. In his own dim way, he decided to test their hypothesis. "You want me to go get it for you, too?"

Feathers sleeked down and the head came up. Birds did that when they felt good. "Would you?"

Yep. They're right. He picked his way over the trash, brought back the rat and sat down again.

The crow hopped over and looked. "Oh — sir — the eyes are gone. They're my favorite part."

"Well, sorry." He remembered the request, and used his folding knife to slit the belly open. "Nobody calls me 'sir.' Name's Jed."

"Mine's Kate. Excuse me." Kate shoved her beak into the rat and gorged on giblets, then wiped her beak on the fur.

"You missed a spot. Here — " Jed dampened a corner of his bandana with spit and wiped her beak.

The feathers sleeked down again. "Thank you, Jed. You're very kind."

"Why are you talking with me? Nobody else wants to."

Feathers ruffled and the head went down. "Nobody wants to talk to me, either. Other crows — "

"It's 'cause you been with humans."

She shook her head. "No. Never before. They just don't like me. I'm — different."

Jed nodded. "I'm different, too, I guess… but — how'd you learn to talk? You talk better'n I do."

She spread her wings in a kind of shrug. "I just hear things, and — learn."

"Hunh." Jed looked at Kate, looking at him, and realized she had pretty eyes. Strange… being crazy don't feel much different. And Pa always said, 'make the best of whatever happens.'

"It's gettin' late… you want to come home with me?"

Feathers sleeked again. "I'd like that, Jed."

They talked, and he shared his beer with her, and they got a little silly and laughed at the TV. She laughed like a crow, but he liked it anyway. She was so easy to talk with. They shared, like old friends.

He hadn't felt so good in a very long time.

When he went to bed, she cuddled up against his chest, then tucked her head under his chin. "Good night, Jed."

He rested his hand gently against her firm, sleek feathers. "Good night, Kate."

And so it went. In the morning, she would jump in the shower with him, hopping and flapping, and she watched in fascination while he shaved. He cooked bacon and eggs for their breakfast, and she couldn't stop thanking him.

When he left for work, he took her outside, but left the tool-shed open in case she wanted shelter. She was always waiting for him when he got home, landing on his shoulder and licking his cheek.

The townspeople noticed a difference in him. He overheard them saying he must have got lucky, but no one knew who with.

Then, one day, he stopped at the market on the way home from work, and overheard some loudmouths in the next aisle talking about shooting crows. "Yeah," one said, "got a real odd one today, had a white mark on its chest… "

Jed left his grocery cart and walked away.

She was not there when he got home. He waited, and called, and finally cried.

These days, if you go to the dump in the evening, you'll probably find Jed there, shooting rats. Watch closely, though, and you'll find he no longer makes head-shots, like he used to. But don't bother asking him why. He won't want to talk about it.