A tale of loss. A tale of passion. A tale of obsession.

Voss Foster lives in the middle of the Eastern Washington desert, where he writes science fiction and fantasy from inside a single-wide trailer. He is the author of the Evenstad Media Presents series, The King Jester Trilogy, The Mountains of Good Fortune, and the Immortal Whispers Series. His short fiction has been featured in various magazines and anthologies, including Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine and Apocrypha & Abstractions. When he can be pried away from his keyboard, he can be found singing, practicing photography, cooking, and belly dancing, though rarely all at the same time. More information can be found at http://vossfoster.blogspot.com*

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“Don't go.”

I clutched at the air, a vain attempt to hold onto him. Ethereal. Flitting.

Damn him. Damn me for trying this at all.

“I can't stay more than you can make me stay.”

Nine's voice, heavy and dragging, came from nowhere. It was the rustle of the curtains in front of an open window.

The rush of the AC roaring to life. The twitter of birds dancing on a stray breeze. It was as his own being—categorially not, but ever present. Somehow, he existed.

One through Eight hadn't. Not like this. Not so strong as to scratch themselves into my veins. The thought of him leaving was an ache. It thrummed through my body, bass notes just too deep to hear.

“Please. I can't. I won't… I'll die.”

Every nerve in my body screamed as much. Without him there, somehow in that house, nothing would work. I wouldn't work.

“Nine. You have to stay.”

“You'll make a new one. One that can love you.”

“But you love me.”

I shook as I said it, and the words chopped past my lips.

“You said you loved me.”

“I did…”

His voice trailed away, weaker than ever. And it stayed gone so long. Was he… no. His pressure remained in the air, like a storm about to pass through. For a few more seconds, he remained.

“Please.”

My body ached to move. To throw. To break. Just not to be there and let him vanish. The others had vanished.

Everything vanished.

Finally, his voice crackled back through the air.

“You're so close, Lydia.”

“Close to what?”

“Close to what you want. To your goal. I lasted two weeks. The next might last a year, and who knows how long after that?”

“I don't want another one.”

“You told Eight that, too.”

A fresh gust of wind blew through the window. My whole body tensed when I felt his presence falter. But he spoke on.

“And Seven before him. Six before her. Back to One, when she only lasted a few minutes.”

“I can't do it again.”

I shook my head. Damn it all. I shouldn't have cried.

“You were perfect. Nine.”

“I couldn't have been. I'm fading. You can't stop at me. You can't stop before perfection.” “Perfection is impossible!”

The words scorched out of my throat the way only truth can.

“Perfection won't happen. You were it. You were my success. Nine. Please don't go.”

Another breeze.

“Nine!”

No answer. I knew one could never come. The air was light. Normal. Nine was gone. My knees shook. I reached for the end table, but my legs gave out before I could reach it. My knees crashed against the hardwood.

“Never. Not again.”

Nine was sweet and gentle. He wanted no harm for anyone, anything. Nine was the closest to perfection that could exist. And he lasted two weeks before evaporating. I sobbed into my hands until the salt burned tracks down my cheeks. One had been a failure.

Violent and headstrong. Genocidal. Two, Three, and Four had been average people. Fleeting, but hopeful.

Hopeful this could work. Of course it couldn't. I wasn't God. No mortal could do this. No mortal should attempt it. Yet even as I wept there, I knew it

was hopeless. Unstoppable. I would grieve. I always grieved. Even after One tried to murder me.

It was proof this could happen. It was proof I wasn't insane.

Nine knew me the longest and he knew me the best. And he knew, in the end, I would come through and make Ten. And

Eleven, when they blew away on the breeze as the others had.

My chest screamed in pain. My cries echoed back from the bare walls. Machine gun fire, no longer wet with tears. Yet they wouldn't stop, and my body refused to still.

Nine was gone. I couldn't even say Nine was dead. He'd never lived. To live, he needed a body.

Man was not meant to craft souls. Yet I had. And I would. But on that day… Nine was gone.