Topeagler Review

But the storm was coming. And the machines would return.

A ship. No—a machine . It hovered three feet above the water, supported by spinning rotors of mirrored metal. Its hull was white and seamless, like a tooth. No sails, no oars, no smoke. It was beautiful. And it was heading directly toward her spire.

It was not a bird, though it had feathers like tarnished brass. It was not a fish, though it had gills that pulsed softly behind its jaw. And it was certainly not a mammal, though it nursed its single young with a milk that smelled of riverstone and lightning. The Topeagler was the last stitch in a tapestry of evolution that nature had long since unraveled.

LAST OF YOUR KIND. DO NOT FLEE. WE WISH TO PRESERVE YOU.

And remembering was the Topeagler’s deadliest weapon.