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Not a footstep, not a voice, could be heard in Paradoxia. The scars of combat were visible everywhere; the old church with its blasted out windows, the dug-in positions littered throughout the town, the weathered face of the men filling them. Smoke still rose from a block just to the east, taken in a costly charge the day before, but the fires themselves had gone out. On the cusp of an assault that would surely shatter this eerie battlefield peace, one would be forgiven for taking in the sounds of the town and thinking it abandoned.

Three days ago it was different. Though never large, Paradoxia had always been something of a destination for those seeking the knowledge of its most distinguished resident, James Malt. A renowned polymath, fluent in both literature and economics, Malt had long insisted that those seeking his guidance approach him in his small hamlet. He had something of a distaste for the city, where the scholars, bureaucrats, and captains of industry who hoped to learn from him resided, and thus it was not an uncommon occurrence to have the quiet Paradoxian routine broken by the arrival of this minister or that executive, coming with a shiny sedan or, on several occasions, a helicopter.

This disturbance was different.