His grandfather didn’t need to explain more about the road. It was an experience that kept giving with every footfall. At one point, Fintan’s grandfather appeared lost when two trails ran parallel to each other, and they had to backtrack to the intersection.

  At first, each step away from the water was like walking through heavy mud, but eventually, Fintan got used to the feeling. He compensated automatically even if he was always aware of the pull.

  His grandfather was huffing by the time they found the intersection. Fintan wanted to reach out and help him. Sweat covered his brow and dripped off of his face, but it disappeared the moment it fell away, and Fintan didn’t believe his grandfather was manifesting the condensation on purpose.

  Physically, his grandfather seemed healthier than ever, but he strained under the burden of walking backward just a little ways.

  They found the path and twisted and turned through the forest until Fintan lost his sense of direction. It was difficult to track the time without the sun, but near what should have been midday, they pushed through large leaves to a manmade opening.

  The small log cabin was picturesque. Not even the free people from home could create something so perfect. The overhanging roof, two windows sculpted on each side of the door with literal carvings in the frames, and matching rocking chairs was the ideal retirement.

  His grandparents had never seen that retirement. Violence wasn’t typical in the Union, but neither was especially long life when you dealt with all the pollution. In his grandparent's time, bubble technology that kept in the fresh air wasn’t as good.

  This was his grandfather’s chance to live in the natural splendor he worked for all his life.

  Someone else had the same idea. The front door was open, and two bandits emerged. They carried possessions in both arms. A little ways past the house, Fintan saw the river. A small wood boat was anchored to the side near the house—an easy getaway.

  When the bandits saw his grandfather, they dropped most of the possessions. They started to run, but instead of running toward the water, they slogged toward the opening in the trees as if fighting the current.

  Fintan grabbed his grandfather’s arm. He was going to pull him to safety, but his grandfather shook away his hand angrily. From within his doctor’s lab coat, he pulled out a sword.

  The long, thin blade was a dichotomy in hands meant to heal. He’d seen pictures of his grandfather with a scalpel. The old man waved the sword with the same precision.

  The bandits didn’t have armor as Fintan considered armor. Ropes around their neck and waist held crude wooden slates over their midsections. They both tried to run around his grandfather, but the old man pinned one against the water.

  When the bandit dodged left and right, the point of the sword followed him, jabbing inward.

  “I call this sword Burst,” his grandfather said to the bandit. “Whatever organ it strikes explodes.”

  The sweating bandit struggled to run metaphorically uphill, but upon his grandfather’s announcement, he blanched and ran toward the boat.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  When he turned his back, the old man lunged. The point slid into the bandit’s back where his right kidney should be.

  “Kidney Rupture!” his grandfather yelled.

  The bandit yelped and fell. He rolled on the ground toward the boat. His pants were wet with urine and blood. Whatever the old man had done had more than ruptured the bandit’s kidneys. Something inside him must have exploded.

  As the bandit rolled, Fintan caught up with him. He slid on the ground to grab the bandit around the neck and pulled him upward. He could secure the bandit, tie him up, and then call a peace officer.

  He dragged the bandit to his feet, expecting blood from his grandfather’s strike, but he found none. The bandit struggled hard, but the blood he’d seen earlier on the bandit’s pants was gone.

  “Hold him steady,” his grandfather said. He lunged forward again in a well-practiced set, striking every organ on the bandit's chest and finally ending with the “Heart Attack!” where he skewered the bandit’s heart.

  The bandit seized and fell out of Fintan’s arms.

  “Let that be a lesson to you,” the old man told the bandit. “Return here, and I will rupture every organ until the pain sends you into the river.”

  The bandit was not so quick to recover, and they waited wordlessly while the sour-faced burglar stumbled to his feet and ran into the forest.

  A picture of Fintan’s grandmother lay on the ground. It must have fallen out of the bandit's hands. Fintan picked up the picture, wondering why anyone would want to steal such a personal possession. They didn’t have many pictures in the Union. It was easier to look at a digital representation. This picture was made of ink and had his grandmother precisely as he remembered her.

  His grandfather took the picture from his hands. He’d sheathed his sword inside his lab coat. Now that Fintan knew it was there, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed before, perhaps because he couldn’t imagine his grandfather with a weapon.

  He couldn’t keep the shock and inquiry from his face.

  “The frame is metal,” his grandfather said. “Metal is expensive. It’s hard to manifest.”

  He took the picture and went to the front of the house. He moved a rock and pulled out a small cloth bag tied with a string. He opened the pouch and counted gilders into his hand. Fintan was surprised to see the Union currency. His grandfather handed him one, and he realized it was the same size and shape as a Union gilder, but the markings were different. He focused his attention on the coin and willed a new one into existence. His forehead grew a little warmer, but it appeared in a second. His coin was a perfect match.

  “That did take effort,” Fintan said. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Maybe he should have manifested a breeze.

  “But you did it,” his grandfather said. “Not everyone can, and why bother?” His grandfather stared at the gilders in his hand as if he wanted to toss them into the bushes. “This money is almost meaningless.”

  “Why have money at all if you can make anything you want?” Fintan asked.

  “Even in my time, the Union had enough food for everyone. We had robot slaves. In the end, it doesn’t matter because you can’t make everything, and no matter how much you have, someone always wants more.”

  Now, Fintan was confused. This seemed like the utopia the Union always wanted.

  “Everyone comes through the portal equal,” Fintan said. Left unsaid was the fact that you had to die for that equality because everyone died equally, no matter their possessions. “Perfect equality should mean fair outcomes.”

  “You weren’t born equal, and you didn’t die equal,” his grandfather said. “The best we can hope for is equality before the law, and this place doesn’t even have that. Some of the bigger towns have laws, but the countryside is lawless. When people gather together, they fight. Most of them fight to get to the Adversary. They say if you kill him, you can become a God.”

  His grandfather looked at the picture. The glass was cracked, but the crack mended itself. Manifesting meant more than creating entirely new objects. His grandfather could fix things without replacing them, and Fintan was sure he could do the same thing. A tear crept into the old man’s eye as he studied the picture, and Fintan had to ask the obvious question that had bothered him since he found himself in the afterlife with the old man.

  “Where is my grandmother?”