“That copse looks difficult to push through,” Angie said, indicating one border of their new, temporary backyard. “Any invaders will have to circle around to those trees over there. So we’ll put the bear traps there.”

Natalie furrowed her brow, looking at the pile of unpleasant, betoothed surprises in the wheelbarrow, but kept pushing.

“I don’t feel great about this,” she said for the eleventh time.

“Neither will they,” Angie said. “Look, Nat, we don’t know what’s out here. That nasty god implied that everyone here fights all the time, and even if they don’t, this is a forest. There could be bears! That’s what bear traps are for!”

“I just don’t want to bear trap the neighbors on accident,” Nat said. “That would be a horrible first impression.”

“We’re not going to be here that long,” said Angie, with a long-suffering look at her partner. “I’m not sure we even have neighbors.”

“Let’s at least put some signs up,” Nat insisted.

“That ruins the point of the bear traps!”

Nat returned Angie’s look with a very even one of her own. “I thought bears can’t read.”

Angie huffed. “Fine.”

They remained silent until they reached their destination. Angie pointed out the best places for the traps—for the bears, of course—and the grandmothers set to work.

Hefting the vicious steel traps was surprisingly easy, thanks to whatever magic this System of theirs was doing in their bodies. Both of them felt better than they had in years—decades, even. Despite the uncertain moral nature of the work, they soon found themselves tossing the traps to each other and giggling like they were schoolgirls again.

Until Nat took a wrong step and Angie screamed “STOP!”

Nat froze.

“Don’t move,” Angie said, inching closer. “Look down there. By your foot.”

Nat looked. Cleverly hidden in the shade of the forest, a thin tripwire stretched out in front of her shin. It was hard to determine what it was made of, but she thought it might be some kind of silk, dyed a mottled brown to blend in with the undergrowth.

“Bears can’t do that,” she said at last. “I guess we have neighbors after all.”

“Hmph,” Angie said. “You were right. Trapping the place makes a horrible first impression.”

“I’m just—I’m gonna—yeah,” Nat said, carefully stepping back. She looked down at the bear trap in her hands. “I guess these are redundant now. What do you think would have happened if I’d tripped it?”

“Hard to say,” Angie said, peering closely at it. “Could be magic. If you’ve got a skill that gives you unlimited bullets, maybe there’s a skill that makes magical traps?”

“I think we should go home,” Nat said quietly.

“I think that’s a good idea.” Angie turned to head back to the wheelbarrow, then stopped. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Nat followed her line of vision and took a short, sharp breath. It had been positioned so that they missed it on the way out, but heading back to the clearing, it was blatant.

The sign was nailed to a prominent branch above the path. It read:

SECURE AREA

HUMANS NOT WELCOME

There was a skull dangling from it.

“That’s awful,” Nat breathed. “How long has that poor person’s skull been swinging up there?”

“No idea,” Angie said, and drew her semiautomatic. She braced herself, sighted at the sign, and fired twice. The crack, crack of the gunshots caused a riot of activity in the undergrowth as the local wildlife made a break for it.

Angie was an excellent shot. The word “NOT” in the sign had been mostly punched out by the bullets.

“Hearthkeeper,” she muttered grouchily to herself.

“Oh, I like that much better,” said Nat.

“Can’t let my wife go crazy from a lack of tea parties,” Angie said with a roguish smile that lit up her wrinkled face. Nat fell in love with her just a little bit more.

“Let’s get that skull down too,” she said.

“I ain’t Clint Eastwood. Trying to shoot it down’s gonna end in tears. Let’s come back after lunch with a ladder for this guy.”

“You wait right there,” Nat told the skull. “We’ll be back soon.”

*

The black-clad intelligence officer surveyed the area, noting footprints, wagon tracks, and finally the warning sign and the creative edits made to it by the trespassers.

“‘Humans welcome,’” Garmo mused, flicking red eyes to the spring-loaded traps scattered along the trail. “But they left all of these. Bit of a mixed message, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the head of the scout team who’d discovered the disturbance. “System forensics didn’t turn up any sign of skill use, by the way. Whatever they did to the sign used a weapon, not a skill.”

Garmo eyed the scout sidelong. He was dressed in regulation greens and browns, with brown splotches on his face that were partially covered by the emerald lenses designed to block the red glow of goblin eyes. His body language was alert to the forest, but not particularly intent on Garmo. If he was lying, it wasn’t on purpose.

“You’re trollshitting me,” he said anyway.

“Best inference,” the scout shrugged. “The scout who detected it was using [Farscan] and reported two loud noises, which he described as ferocious whipcracks. There are two holes in the sign. If you look at the underside of the branch, there’s scoring along the bark, as though a projectile penetrated the sign and kept going.”

“I’ve seen archery skills do that,” Garmo said.

“That’s why I thought you’d want to know that no one used a skill.”

Garmo absentmindedly drew his service knife and began flicking the blade with the claws on his other hand, one finger at a time. Ping. Pang. Poing.

“Did Varz do that analysis?”

The scout cracked a smile. “No, sir. Hurbaz.”

“Shit.” Hurbaz did good work. It was probably genuine, then. “I see two holes. Did both projectiles punch through?”

“Just one, looks like.”

“Great. Get someone to dig out the other one. See what we’re working with.”

“Mm.”

Pong.

“Right,” Garmo said, putting the knife away. “Guess I’d better go talk to them.”

“To the people with the terrifying projectile weapon?” the scout said.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Garmo shot him a grin full of teeth sharper than the traps littering the ground. “I’m a talker, Ungor. It’s what I do. And besides, someone around here needs to tell me what happened to my bleeding facility.”

“I’ll pack you a gift basket,” Ungor said blandly.

“Put some cakes in there,” Garmo said. “Humans love cakes.”

*

Nat and Angie were enjoying some fresh cucumber sandwiches and homemade lemonade when there was a knock on their door for the second time that day. Nat looked up sharply at the door. Angie’s hand went to her holster.

With mutual murmured recriminations—you don’t need your gun for this—be sensible, that god said this place wasn’t safe—they’re knocking politely, Angie—the old women crept to the door and took turns peeking outside.

“There’s no one out there,” Angie said.

“Maybe it’s a prank,” Nat suggested.

The knock at the door came again.

“A real creative prank,” Angie muttered.

“Hello?” a guttural voice spoke outside. “I hear voices. I’m here to introduce myself.”

“Let’s talk to him!” Natalie said, reaching for the padlock on the door.

“Nat—” Angie started, then gave up in a huff. “Honestly, what’s the point of even having these locks if you’re just going to open them for every stranger that asks politely to come in?”

Nat threw the door open, revealing a person the size of a child with green skin and a faint red glow behind his sunglasses. His suit was anything but childlike, however, and he grinned a grin full of sharp teeth as he pulled off the sunglasses.

“Lady’s right, you know. Could be any manner of nefarious stranger out here in the woods,” he said, lifting a basket. “Commandant Garmo, Zarvog Confederacy Intelligence. I brought cake.”

Despite the initial surprise of meeting their first goblin, Nat’s lifetime of experience as a hostess didn’t fail her. Within minutes, the intelligence officer had been ensconced at the kitchen table with a plate heaped with cucumber sandwiches and a fresh cup of earl grey—two sugars, no cream. The basket of cakes had been unwrapped and subjected to the appropriate duration of cooing, which Commandant Garmo seemed to take in stride.

Angie, meanwhile, watched the goblin through narrowed eyes.

“So,” she said. “Garmo, was it?”

“If oo please,” he said through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich.

“What do you do?” she said.

“Fis suff is real gooh,” he said, then swallowed. “And to answer your question, ma’am, I’m just a simple torturer.”

Nat, preparing another plate of sandwiches over at the counter, jerked her head up from her work to stare at him.

“Torture, eh?” Angie said with some amount of grim satisfaction. She jabbed a knobbly, wrinkled finger at him. “I don’t trust government men.”

Garmo shrugged. “That’s fine. Probably a good idea, if I’m honest—which is rarely.” He winked and took another bite of his sandwich.

A frown was growing on Nat’s face like a balloon animal being inflated by a depressed clown.

“I don’t approve of torture, young man,” she said.

“I’m a hundred and sixty three,” Garmo said.

“Don’t you change the subject, young man” she said, crossing her arms. “Those people have feelings too, you know. When you put them in thumbscrews, you’re making them sad just like you get sad.”

Garmo blinked once, then his eyes widened in realization.

“Thumbscrews!” he chuckled. “Ma’am, I’m sure the human tribes still use thumbscrews, but I’m an officer of the Zarvog Confederacy. We don’t do that here.”

This seemed to confuse Nat more than mollify her, but Angie leaned in.

“So you waterboard them instead?” she asked.

“Never heard of it,” Garmo said, waving a hand impatiently. “Listen, torture gets a bad rap. I can tell you’ve never talked to a professional, because most people never get past the stage of hurting people until they comply. You can’t do that. It gets you bad information, plus it makes them hate you. A real torturer is in the business of building alliances.”

“I don’t buy it,” Angie said.

“You’re a smart lady,” Garmo said, tapping his temple. “Let me put it to you like this. If you’re my client, we’ve both got something we want, right?”

“You have… torture clients?” Nat said disbelievingly.

“My department emphasizes treating the client with respect and dignity, and the language we use is an important stepping stone toward that goal,” said the goblin torturer without any trace of irony. “Let’s say I’m working with you two. I’ve got to learn about your situation to report back to my bosses, and you’ve got your tribe back home with its goals. You want to get out so you can get back to work on those. So we can do a little bridge building to make sure we’re both on the same page.”

“About the torture,” Angie said flatly.

Garmo snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Exactly! You can’t just use an adversarial model of torture any more, it’s got to be collaborative. Both the technician and the client should be working toward the shared goal of aligning their political objectives to secure a release and reintegration for the client that fits the objectives of both parties.”

“I ain’t collaborating with anyone who takes away my freedom,” Angie said.

“Can’t be helped,” Garmo said with a shrug. “Practicalities of war, I’m afraid. Sometimes you just end up in a situation where we can’t afford to let you run around armed. That weapon you’re carrying, by the way—is that what you used on the sign?”

“What’s it to you?” Angie asked, leaning in confrontationally.

“You’ve got fantastic aim,” Garmo said. “I know a master at work when I see one.”

Angie shifted a little with the praise, her expression loosening up a bit.

“Anyway, I’m sure you can agree that as long as you’re taking prisoners, you gotta do it humanely, right? So that means decent quarters, nutritional food, and adequate companionship. And we also want to give you up to date information on your sociopolitical context so you’ll be prepared to re-integrate once your incarceration is done. You wouldn’t want to get out of detainment and end up with a culture shock, would you?”

Nat scratched her nose thoughtfully. “I suppose not…”

“Exactly. But to help you with that process, we also need to know the sociopolitical concerns you have about your party in the conflict so we can help personalize the feed of information we deliver while you’re confined to your room. Here, I’ll show you. What’s a big societal problem you’re dealing with in your culture of origin?”

Nat and Angie looked at each other.

“The election,” they said in unison.

“Gotcha, gotcha.” Garmo seemed to stare off into space for a moment, as though reading on a screen only he could see. “Okay, so I’m seeing you live in something called a ‘swing state’? You’re not really from around here, are you?”

“No,” said Angie, “and that’s none of your business.”

“Easy, easy,” Garmo said, holding his hands up. “I’m just talking. It’s what I do. Stop me if I poke a sensitive bit, there’ll be no hard feelings. Anyway, I’ve got some bad news for you. Your guy just had a debate with the other guy and he did real bad. Like, people on your side are jumping ship, kind of bad.”

“Idiots,” Angie hissed. “Don’t they know the alternative is worse?”

“Sounds like your side needs to do more canvassing, yeah,” said Garmo. “Of course, right now there’s a lot of pressure on… what’s an internet?”

“It’s how we talk to each other over long distances,” Nat said.

“Gotcha,” Garmo said, nodding. “Yeah, anyway, it’s a shame you’re stuck here in this room when your side needs everyone to mobilize and regain some ground.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that,” Nat said, carrying her completed tray of sandwiches to the table. “I always have to get off Facebook during election season because everyone’s talking like that all the time. Always ‘urgent, urgent, act now!’”

“Tell me off!” Garmo laughed. “I did say you could! I’m not trying to stress you out, ladies, it just sounds like there’s an inherently stressful political situation back home and you need to get back to it. I’m not trying to make it any worse than it is, because wowie, it sure sounds bad.”

“Well, we can’t,” Angie snapped.

“Easy,” Garmo said. “We’re all on the same team here. I brought you cake! Why can’t you go back, if you don’t mind me asking? Maybe I could help.”

“You can’t,” Nat said, anxiously twisting a cloth napkin. “Someone going by Olorus—he said he was a god, can you believe it?—said that we’d been transplanted from our world to here, and they were going to fix it in a few days. A couple of days couldn’t hurt that much back home, could it?”

Garmo stared blankly at her, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s a new one.”

“We’ll be fine,” Angie reassured Nat, then turned to Garmo. “Look here, you little green spook. You’re abusing Nat’s hospitality. First you corner us in our own kitchen, then you stress us out by talking politics while asking about us. This is your twisted idea of torture, isn’t it?”

Garmo grinned sheepishly. “Guilty as charged.” His smile dropped. “You’ll have to forgive me. I couldn’t leave the matter to chance.”

“I don’t have to forgive nothing,” Angie said. She drew her revolver from her holster, but didn’t take the safety off and kept it pointing at the ground. “I think you should leave.”

Garmo’s eyes flicked to the revolver before returning to Angie. “I suppose you’re right. Word of advice before I go, though.”

Angie jerked her head toward the door. “Walk and talk, buddy.”

Garmo nodded graciously, standing up from the kitchen table. He hesitated, then snatched another sandwich.

“Olorus…” he started, allowing Angie to crowd him out of the room. “Well, he’s a devious little shit, to tell you the truth. There was a torture facility here before you showed up, and we had a meeting scheduled here in two days. The human tribes are showing up to get some of their prisoners back and negotiate a peace treaty. With you here, that’s probably all going to shit.”

He stepped out the front door. “So we’ll probably need to—”

Angie slammed the door behind him.

He stared bemusedly at the door as the sound of various locks and security devices sounded from the other side.

“...coordinate,” he said.

Angie’s muffled voice yelled from the other side of the door. “Don’t come back!”

Garmo shrugged, took a bite of his sandwich, and headed back the way he came.