Editorial, November 2013
John Joseph Adams

Welcome to issue forty-two of Lightspeed!

The World Fantasy Awards are being presented at the World Fantasy Convention, being held this year in Brighton, England, Oct. 31 – Nov. 3. As we mentioned previously, Kat Howard’s story, “Breaking the Frame” (Lightspeed, August 2012), is a finalist for the award this year, as is your humble editor (now for the fifth time), this time in the Best Anthology category, for Epic: Legends of Fantasy. Unfortunately our editorial lead time prevents us from being able to report the results to you this month, but if you keep an eye on the Lightspeed Twitter feed, we’ll be reporting the results as they’re announced.

In other news: Just a reminder that over in the Lightspeed ebookstore (lightspeedmagazine.com/store), we now have a number of ebook bundles available: Year One (issues 1-12), Year Two (issues 13-24), Year Three (issues 25-36), and the Supermassive Bundle (issues 1-36).

Buying a Bundle gets you a copy of every issue published during the named period. So if you need to catch up on Lightspeed, that’s a great way to do so.

You can now also buy ebook back issues—and ebook back issue bundles—of Lightspeed’s (now dormant) sister magazine, Fantasy. To check those out, just visit fantasy-magazine.com/store. You can buy each Fantasy bundle for $24.99, or you can buy the complete run of Fantasy Magazine—all 57 issues—for just $114.99 (that’s $10 off buying all the Bundles individually, and more than $55 off the cover price!).

Of course, if you don’t want to buy a Bundle, you can also just purchase an individual ebook issue, or if you’d like to subscribe to Lightspeed directly from us, you can do that, too. All purchases from the Lightspeed (and Fantasy) store are provided in both epub and mobi formats.

And our last bit of news this month before we get to our stories: We’ve once again got a special bonus for you this month: In addition to all of the usual Lightspeed goodness, at the end of this issue, we’re presenting a bonus story from the pages of our sister-magazine, Nightmare. So once you’re done reading the issue proper, please also check out the bonus story—and if you enjoy it, please consider subscribing to Nightmare!

With all of our announcements out of the way, here’s what we’ve got on tap this month:

We have original science fiction by Sean Williams (“Death and the Hobbyist”—a Twinmaker Story) and Beth Revis (“The Turing Test”), along with SF reprints by James Tiptree, Jr. (“And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side”) and James Stoddard (“The Battle of York”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Kelly Barnhill (“The Insect and the Astronomer”) and Matthew Hughes (“Sleeper”—a Kaslo Chronicles tale), and fantasy reprints by Ian McDonald (“Tonight We Fly”) and Maria Dahvana Headley (“Bit-U-Men”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author and artist spotlights, along with feature interviews with NFL punter/über-geek Chris Kluwe and Dinosaur Comics-creator Ryan North.

For our ebook readers, we also have the novella “Holy Places” by Martha Wells, and novel excerpts of Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie and Starhawk by Jack McDevitt.

Our issue this month is sponsored by our friends at 47North. This month, look for SEAL Team 13, by Evan Currie (of which you can also read an excerpt in our ebook edition this month). You can find more from 47North at www.apub.com.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out. And remember, there are several ways you can sign up to be notified of new Lightspeed content:

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Well, that’s all there is to report this month. Thanks for reading!

John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as publisher and editor of Lightspeed, is the bestselling editor of many anthologies, such as The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, Oz Reimagined, Epic:Legends of Fantasy, Other Worlds Than These, Armored, Under the Moons of Mars: New Adventures on Barsoom, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, By Blood We Live, Federations, The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Way of the Wizard. He is a six-time finalist for the Hugo Award and five-time finalist for the World Fantasy Award. He is also the editor of Nightmare Magazine and is the co-host of Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams.

Holy Places
Martha Wells

Even at only eight seasons old, Ilias knew Cineth’s god didn’t really eat children, no matter what his older brother had told him. Castor was only two seasons older and Ilias knew he lied a lot, sometimes to try to frighten Ilias and more often to make himself sound knowledgeable. So when Castor pointed out the new Chosen Vessel at the market, Ilias wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

He was sitting on his heels, watching ants build a nest in the dirt, bored by the adult haggling all around him. The afternoon sun was warm and bright and the market tents were all pitched under the big trees of the plaza. Men and women haggled over bags of grain, amphorae of wine and olive oil, fleeces, goatskins. The further end of the market was where the potters and metal-workers and other crafts spread their blankets to sell pottery and dyed cloth, knives and trinkets of carved wood and copper and polished stone jewelry. Ilias could smell the grilled meat someone was selling down there, and knew there would also be cheese and fruit and flatbread with honey. He also knew if he went for a closer look at any of it, his father would give him a clout to the head. Normally this wouldn’t have stopped him; if Ilias minded clouts to the head he would have never done anything worth doing. But a tension in the air all through the day had told him that his father’s quiet temper had already been pushed to the limit; pushing it further was not a good idea.

He had noticed the family long before Castor pointed them out because they were standing near the edge of the plaza, talking to some of the merchants who bought crops. The woman was young, her tawny hair braided with beads, and she wore a rich blue silk stole over her gown. The man with her wasn’t wearing a sword, but then nobody but travelers carried serious weapons to market. He was tall, olive-skinned, with red-brown hair, like the Syprians who had always lived on the coast, and was dressed in worn leather boots stamped with gold and a sun-faded green shirt over pants trimmed with leather. Though his hair was more than touched with gray he still wore it in a long queue past his shoulders, and it tangled in his copper earrings. Ilias thought he must be a warrior, to attract such a young wife. Even though she wasn’t as pretty as Ilias’ mother, she looked wealthy, and could easily have bought younger husbands.

The only boy in the group was a little younger than Ilias; shouting with excitement, he ran past the man and was scooped up and captured, laughing delightedly. An older girl ran up to show the woman a beaded bracelet she must have just bought. The woman took the girl’s hand to examine it, and the man leaned over to give it serious attention, the struggling boy still tucked easily under one arm.

Watching them, Ilias was torn between cynicism and a twist of bitter envy that soured his stomach, though he wasn’t sure where it had come from. The adults actually seemed to be enjoying the company of the children, something he viewed with equal parts fascination and skepticism.

Castor’s sandaled feet suddenly appeared and his brother said, “There he is. That’s the new Chosen Vessel.”

Ilias pushed to his feet, shaking dusty hair out of his eyes, frowning. He and Castor both came from inland Syprian lines, with light-colored hair and short stocky frames. Except Ilias had always been judged prettier by everyone in the family. His hair made long curls even when it was dirty, and Castor just looked like he was wearing a dusty mop. “Him?” he said with cautious approval, eyeing the man across the plaza.

The old Chosen Vessel, Livia, had been killed last year. Ilias had only known her well enough to recognize her in the market, but she had been Chosen Vessel his whole life, and he had hidden under his and Castor’s bed and cried the night the word had come of her death. He had heard the poets’ stories and knew the Chosen Vessel was given to the city by the local god. Its gift to the Vessel was the ability to see curses and track them back to the wizards who came to kill and snatch people away. Even Livia’s presence in the town had been enough to keep away the dark creatures, the curselings the wizards created to come out in the night and destroy whole villages. Her death had made going out at dusk to help get the sheep and goats into the pens a test of Ilias’ courage; every moment he had expected something horrible to jump out of the brush, either to eat him or carry his family off to be a wizard’s slaves. That was a fate he didn’t even wish on Castor or his oldest sister Niale.

It hadn’t been until days later that someone had finally explained that Menander, the Chosen Vessel from the Uplands, would protect Cineth until the new Vessel was ready to take up Livia’s duties, and that it was the god’s presence that kept the curselings away. Ilias had been relieved and desperate to hide it from Castor. Pretending he knew what he was talking about, he said now, “He looks like a good one.”

“Not the man, shithead. That’s Ranior, he was lawgiver years ago. The boy’s the new Vessel.” Castor looked down at him with utter contempt. “The god doesn’t choose Vessels that are already grown.”

Ilias rolled his eyes in exasperation, pretending he knew that. He had known it, actually, but in his limited experience Chosen Vessels were like lawgivers and warleaders; older people, with gray hair and lines on their faces. It was hard to remember that the new Chosen Vessel would start out as a child. “I know that. I meant the boy.”

“Did not.” Castor aimed a shove at him, which Ilias easily ducked. Castor’s natural instinct to bully his younger siblings had been thwarted; though Ilias was smaller, he was already stronger, as Castor had been sickly for the first years of his life. Ilias was also an expert in dirty fighting; his cousin Amari, who had three elder sisters who had apparently been trying to murder her since birth, had taught him everything she knew. Ilias’ older sisters were all too old to bully their youngest brother, but it helped keep Castor humble.

Watching Castor glare at him, Ilias could tell “the god eats children” lie was about to make another appearance, as a last-ditch attempt to make Ilias feel young and stupid.

But as Castor opened his mouth, Ilias’ father shouted for them. Both boys flinched. Ilias eyed Castor, delivered the parting shot, “You’re standing in ants,” and ran to catch up with their father.

The days after that were filled with work and Ilias spent most of his time in the herd pens. His mother had sent away the older boys from the neighboring farms who usually helped because she said they were gossiping too much, so there had been that much more work for Ilias, Castor, Amari, and their older sisters and cousins.

The day before had been wonderful; it had been the first time Ilias had been allowed to help with the sheep-shearing, and his father had spent most of his time patiently teaching Ilias and little supervising Castor.

Despite that, dinner was disappointing, not that Ilias saw or ate much of it. A year or so ago their cousins had had a crop fail and lost their farm, and had come to live at Finan House. The old stone house was like most country places, and arranged in a square around the atrium, the rooms facing in to the shaded portico. It still looked big to Ilias, but it was only one story tall, and not made to accommodate so many people. Ilias hadn’t seen the inside of the dining room since the others had arrived. There were no boys in their cousin’s family either, and the influx of extra girls put Ilias and Castor even lower in the family hierarchy.

Now Ilias sat out on the sparse grass in the atrium with Castor, Amari, and his only younger sibling, his sister Taelis, who had just started to walk. “This has nothing in it,” Castor complained, poking at his bowl.

Ilias grimaced in agreement. The grain porridge, without meat, lentils, berries, or honey or anything else that might have made it palatable sat in his stomach like a stone. Niale had taken over the management of the house a season or so ago and she never got the amounts of anything right. “Didn’t they bake bread today?”

“Yes. I saw Niale making it this morning.” Amari was watching the door under the portico that opened into the family dining room, her brow furrowed. “But there won’t be enough for us.”

Castor frowned at her. “Why not?”

“Niale measured the grain wrong, dummy,” Ilias told him, helping Taelis cram porridge into her mouth. She leaned against him, chewing happily, and dripped pasty lumps onto his pants.

There had been arguing all through dinner, the voices too muted for Ilias to quite make out, so he had been just as glad not to be crammed in the too warm dining room, even if there was better food in there. The spring breeze and lengthening twilight made the atrium cool and pleasant, though no one bothered to fill the stone-bordered fountain from the big cistern anymore. The flowerbeds were all overgrown too, except for the patch where the squash and beans were planted. Some of the other girls were eating at the low table on the opposite end of the portico; Amari should have been with them but she didn’t get on with her siblings or Ilias’ older sisters. “There’s no money,” she said, sighing and poking at her own meal. She wasn’t much older than Ilias but her family’s troubles had made her grow up faster. “Your mother didn’t get as much for the fleece as she thought she would. And Niale’s going to need some of it to buy her husband.”

Ilias rolled his eyes. “She would.” Even at his age, it seemed a stupid thing for Niale to do now. To choose this year to demand to be married and to pick a man from a town family who wanted coins instead of another farm family that would have been content with a few sheep and cows on account. And the man wasn’t even a warrior.

Amari shrugged. “He’ll help with the shearing.” But she didn’t sound as if she thought it was a good idea either.

“I do that now,” Ilias said loftily. Castor sneered and Amari ruffled his hair.

They had finished eating and Castor was collecting the bowls. Ilias had picked up Taelis, meaning to take her off to the girls’ quarters to get washed. He had just put a wet noisy kiss on top of her head to make her squeal and giggle, when he looked up and saw his father standing on the portico, staring at him.

Something in his father’s expression made Ilias uneasy. He tucked Taelis up against his chest, while she obliviously pulled at his hair with sticky hands. I didn’t do anything, he thought, I think. He had so many chores he didn’t have time to get into trouble. Oh shit, I was supposed to sweep out the shearing shed. Then his mother came out, furious, hair and bangles flying, and struck his father across the face.

Castor made a faint distressed noise and Amari looked away, her jaw set. Ilias just hefted Taelis and carried her off, hastily crossing the atrium. He found his sister Igenia in the girls’ quarters and deposited Taelis with her, then climbed out the window. He knew his mother hated to be argued with, and he was surprised his father had made the effort, whatever it was about.

Outside the shelter of the house the wind was turning cold. In the growing dark, Ilias ran across the dirt-packed yard down to the big shed. It was just a big wooden building, its roof rounded planks, the beams supporting it anchored by stone blocks. It was too dark to see inside it and he found flint and tinder in the light box and got an old clay oil lamp lit, wrinkling his nose at the rancid scent of olive oil gone bad. By its light he found a broom and carefully swept out the shed, though he didn’t think it looked that dirty. That done, he put out the lamp and wandered outside.

It was full dark now, too dark to see the tree-covered hills or the fields though the cool wind carried the strong scent of pine and the not so distant sea. He washed his feet in the cold water of the trough and then sat on the edge, listening to crickets sing for a time. Then he remembered wizards and curselings, and the dark didn’t feel so friendly anymore. Not long ago, he had heard a story in the market, of an isolated village where a wizard had come and cursed everyone to follow him away into the Barrens. The Chosen Vessel for Thalmyris had followed and managed to kill the wizard, but was only able to bring back a few survivors. The wizard had forced them to kill and eat the people who couldn’t keep the pace, and once released from the curse by the Vessel, most had killed themselves in horror.

Ilias decided to go inside; even though the god was supposed to be watching for wizards, the Chosen Vessel was still only a boy.

He didn’t bother going to the front door with its big stone porch; that was only for visitors. He went to the window in the small room off the kitchen that he and Castor shared. The room was barely large enough for a narrow wooden bedstead; it had originally stored amphorae for the kitchen and still smelled like it.

Ilias scrambled over the stone sill into the nearly pitch dark room. Castor said nothing, though from the lack of snoring Ilias could tell he was still awake. He sat on the thin little rug to untie his sandals, feeling the cold stone through the cloth, then stripped off his shirt and pants.

He climbed up into the bed and groped for the blanket when a hard shove to the ribs caught him by surprise. He fell back out of the bed, landing on the hard floor with a thump. Angry, he scrambled to his feet, glancing worriedly toward the uncurtained door. It led into the big echoing kitchen, which had an archway out onto the portico, and he knew the sound carried right out to the bedrooms. “Stop it,” he whispered harshly. “You want to wake somebody up?”

“Get away,” Castor whispered back.

Ilias flung his arms up in bewildered fury. “I’m supposed to sleep here, shithead.”

“Not anymore.” He heard the bed squeak and blankets rustle as Castor must have rolled over to face the wall.

Ilias stood there a moment, baffled. Castor hated to sleep alone. Most people did, but Castor had nightmares and cried. And Ilias’ blanket was on the bed, the one his mother had woven for him when he was born, with the colors worked into galleys and whales and leviathans. It was a symbol of Ilias’ status in the family, such as it was, and the one thing he would take with him when someone finally bought him for a marriage. An event that couldn’t happen fast enough as far as he was concerned at the moment. “Give me my blanket.”

“It’s not here.” Castor’s voice came out of the dark, rough and angry. “Niale took it.”

Ilias sneered, doubting it. If Niale had actually stirred herself to help with the washing, it would have been the talk of dinner. But he was tired and Castor would get paid back for this in the morning. “Fine,” he said finally, “You stink anyway.”

Stiff with fury, he pulled his shirt and pants back on and went out through the kitchen. He padded along the portico to the younger girls’ room and slipped inside the door. The room was warmer and he could hear a lot of sleepy breathing and Igenia’s snoring. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, he made out the dim shapes of the three beds, the clothes chests and baskets. Stumbling over piles of fabric and stubbing his toes on invisible objects he made his way to the bed Amari shared with Belia and Sirae. Fortunately, Amari slept on the outside. He poked her tentatively.

Her head lifted, hair tousled with sleep. “What’s the matter?” she whispered, blinking.

“Castor kicked me out of bed.”

Amari lifted the blanket, saying tiredly, “Come on.”

He climbed into the warm bed, snuggling up to her side, telling himself this was better anyway. This bed had a feather-stuffed mattress and his and Castor’s was filled with hay, which poked out through the cloth cover and itched. And Amari smelled pleasantly of a recent bath and gladiolus oil. But he couldn’t help whispering, “Was there another fight? Why is Castor mad at me?”

Amari shifted to make more room for him, causing muttering and grumbles from the bed’s other occupants. She wrapped an arm around his waist and sighed into his hair. “No. Your mother called him in with the others to talk, but there wasn’t any shouting. I don’t know what they said.”

Ilias put it down to Castor’s moodiness and subsided into sleep.

Ilias didn’t wake early enough and got trapped into being forced to wash and having his hair combed out and rebraided by Amari and other assorted sisters and cousins. That was the problem with having older girls in the house; either they were hostile like Niale or they wanted to treat him like a practice baby. The benefit was that he got to share their breakfast of pomegranates and bread with honey. It was so good he even let Igenia braid in some red clay beads and a feather. Niale looked in once, her face turning stony when she saw him. She twitched the door curtain closed again and they heard her sandals stamp on the portico, causing Amari to mutter, “Bitch.” Igenia and the others giggled in appreciation.

He escaped finally and walked out onto the portico to find his mother, his father, and Niale standing in the atrium and staring at him. He froze, startled, and his mother motioned for him to come to her.

Ilias went reluctantly, dragging his bare feet in the grass. He had obviously done something. He saw Castor, watching from the other side of the portico, and pointed at him, hoping to deflect attention. “He pushed me out of bed.”

Castor just looked away.

His mother lifted one of his braids, looking at the beads and feather. He looked up at her, proud of the fact that she was far more beautiful than the Chosen Vessel’s mother. She wore a light lavender gown, sleeveless to reveal the olive leaf designs on her copper and silver armbands. Her hair was a rich dark brown, caught up with clasps set with polished purple stones. He knew she liked the girls better and that was the way of the world, but he sensed a chance to ingratiate himself and leaned against her skirts. He knew he was too big to be picked up but he was hoping for something. Instead she stepped away, asking him, “Did you eat this morning?”

“No,” Ilias said earnestly. The only good thing about having so many siblings and cousins was that in the general confusion it was sometimes possible to get fed two or three times for a single meal.

But his mother and father only exchanged an opaque look. His father said quietly, “You’re certain? You won’t change your mind?”

His mother’s expression turned cold. “I’ve told you what I want. If you can’t do it, I’ll send you back to your family and find a man who can.”

His father didn’t reply, and his mother drew her skirts up and walked away. Then his father put a hand on Ilias’ shoulder. “Come on, you can come into town with me.”

Ilias threw an arch look at Castor, but his brother was staring at the paving stones between his feet.

He followed his father down the portico and out through the back entrance of the house. Ilias was surprised to see the gelding already saddled and waiting, its reins looped over the gate that kept the goats out of the other cistern. He ran to pet its nose and it dropped its head to investigate his hands for treats. It had a light brown coat, with a dark pattern of spots speckling its back and rear haunches. It was the horse he had had his first riding lessons on, and he dearly wanted it to be his someday, though realistically he knew it would be Castor’s first.

He waited until his father settled into the light saddle, then reached up to be hauled on behind him. They rode out of the yard, past the herd pens and onto the track through the forest.

The sun broke through the scattered beeches and as the trail curved up the hill, Ilias craned his neck for his first view of the sea.

His father, who seldom said anything to him beyond “go here” and “do this,” said suddenly, “You know you’re not my son.”

Ilias nodded, still trying to get a glimpse of blue water and breakers past the trees. “Yes. Castor and I are Timeron’s sons, mother’s second husband that died.” It was why they looked different from all the others, but Ilias had only the vaguest memory of his birth father. Prominent women might have two or even three husbands. Though she wasn’t particularly prominent, Delniea, Amari’s mother, had two, Vendiead and Safronias. Niale has said it was why Delniea had lost her land, but the two men had been a great help in getting the hay in this season. “But there’s always just been you,” he added with a shrug.

His father made a noise as if he was about to speak, but said nothing.

They didn’t take the quick way into town, but a smaller road that went up into the deep forest over the hills. Without a chance of glimpsing a galley on the open sea heading toward Cineth’s harbor, Ilias drifted off, leaning against his father’s back. He woke up when his father reined in.

They were in a clearing near the rocky top of a hill, surrounded by pine on all sides. His father reached back for his arm, sliding him off the horse and depositing him on the gravelly dirt. “I need to do some business with the hunters. You wait for me here.”

“All right.” Ilias looked up at him, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He wanted to see the hunters too, but he knew appeals like that wouldn’t be welcome. He glanced around at the rocky hilltop, at the pines clinging to the slopes above it. “Where are they?”

“Just past that hill there.” His father pointed, but didn’t look down at him, just turning the gelding and walking it away.

Ilias hopped a few steps, brushing the gravel off his feet, realizing that nobody had bothered to make him fetch his sandals. He wandered around a little, but the rock-studded outcrop didn’t have much entertainment value about it. The wind pulled at his hair and blew dust, and it would probably be more comfortable down under the trees, but his father had said to stay here. And he didn’t want to miss a chance to go to the market without Castor. He threw pebbles for a while, bored, then became intrigued by some oddly shaped stones and began to build a fort.

Engrossed in it, he constructed the palisade, the boatsheds, and the causeway. Then his stomach grumbled and he noticed the sun had moved to directly overhead. He frowned up at it, squinting, thinking, There’s not going to be much of the day left for the market. And it was time for the noon meal, though he couldn’t smell anything cooking from the direction of the hunters’ camp. His father had probably changed his mind about the market, but Ilias could always lie and tell Castor they went anyway.

Ilias looked around, finding he had run out of stones and pebbles in his immediate area. He dusted his hands off on his equally dusty pants and went to look for sticks to make the war galleys.

He scuffed his feet in the dirt, wandering around the craggy outcrop. Following it around the top of the little hill, he realized he had been in the lee; this side was much windier and seemed to be drawing cold right off the snow-capped tops of the distant mountains. He shivered but the ground here was covered with bleached twigs and sticks, just what he needed.

He stared down for a moment, frowning. No, it’s bones. He sat on his heels, poking at them thoughtfully, picking up one with a delicate curve, like the fastener of a hair clasp. They were animal bones or fish bones, like those the little water lizards left beside streams. He investigated further, poking into nooks and crannies, searching for some evidence of the small predator that lived here. Then he picked up a smooth round rock.

Looking at it, seeing and not seeing the holes for eyes and nose, it seemed a long time before he admitted to himself that what he was holding was a small human skull.

Ilias set it down with care, not wanting to make anything angry. Unburied or unburned bodies meant no rites had been done, and the dead person’s shade must still wander this area. But how could bodies go unburied when the hunters’ camp was so close? He stood up, moving carefully over the gravel and rocks. But he hadn’t heard anyone, couldn’t smell any woodsmoke, and no one had passed by.

He counted six more skulls, none quite as large as his.

He stood still for a long time, biting his lip, then started toward the hill his father had pointed out, where the camp should be. I just want to look at it. I won’t go down and bother him.

It wasn’t a long walk, but the rocks were beginning to hurt his feet, and he should have been wearing boots for it. He had a hand-me-down pair from Castor at home, as useful there as his forgotten sandals. As the hill steepened up into a cliff face the walk became a scramble, and he dug his fingers into the dirt and dried grass. He reached the top, relieved, and looked out over the little valley.

The empty little valley. There was a meadow with high grass, undisturbed by horses or people, and a stream near the far end, spilling over rocks to disappear into the trees down the slope. There hadn’t been a camp here for days, from the look of the undisturbed grass. Ilias shifted uneasily, unwilling to admit that there was a cold chill creeping up his back.

He climbed down and went around the rocks, back to the fort. He sat in the dirt next to it, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His eyes stung from unshed tears though he wouldn’t tell himself why he wanted to cry. It’s a mistake, he repeated, over and over again. Or you didn’t understand. Adults said things all the time that didn’t mean what you thought they meant. He’ll be back. After a time, when the sun had moved further into afternoon, he wiped his nose on his sleeve and went back to work on the fort.

But the afternoon lengthened into twilight and his father didn’t return.

The light was starting to fail, and Ilias’ stomach was cramping with hunger and his throat was dry. He was still pretending to play with the fort when the breeze turned unexpectedly chill, lifting his hair and cutting right through his lightly woven shirt. He looked up, shivering, and saw another boy crouched in the dirt, not ten paces away.

Something told Ilias immediately that he was looking at a shade. The boy was crouched in the lee of a rock, as if trying to find protection from the wind. He was much younger than Ilias, maybe Taelis’ age, if that. His skin was a pearly pale, like the inside of a seashell, but tinged with blue, his hair dark and matted. He wore only a light tunic, grubby and torn. Ilias met his eyes, and they were old and knowing. Those eyes said, You’re big enough to walk down off this hill. I wasn’t.

Ilias jerked his head away, taking a sharp breath. Numb, he pushed to his feet. He tried not to look at the growing pools of shadow under the rocky crags, not wanting to see more small shades looking back at him.

He stood for a long moment, shivering. The forest was dark, the sharp contrast between the sunlight still lingering on the top of the hill and the shadows under the heavy green branches making it look like another world. Then he started to walk.

The ground was softer, but in the deep green twilight he couldn’t see more than a few paces ahead or behind. Ilias had been out in the meadows near home in the dark, and on the beach and in the orchards, but never in the forest, not alone. He hesitated, but the path his father had used was impossible to see. He started downhill, knowing the road had to be down there somewhere.

Nobody talked about it, but everybody knew people took unwanted babies to a place out in the hills to die. Ilias knew this had to be the place. He paused, one hand on the rough bark of a tree, his bare feet balanced on its thick roots. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he muttered, the unwanted tears stinging his eyes again. His family wasn’t that poor, that they couldn’t afford to feed him. And he wasn’t a baby. He helped with the herding and the feeding and watering. He helped take care of Taelis. When he was older, somebody like Amari would want to buy him for a marriage. And his father had taught him to shear sheep yesterday.

I forgot to sweep out the shed. But he had done it before he went to bed, surely they would have seen it this morning. He gritted his teeth, remembering Castor kicking him out of bed last night, saying he didn’t sleep there anymore. He knew. Amari and the other girls hadn’t known, except for Niale, but Castor had. He knew now that Castor hadn’t been lying when he had said Niale had taken Ilias’ blanket. It was part of making it look like he had never existed.

Maybe Ilias hadn’t done as well at the sheep-shearing as he had thought. Maybe it had been some kind of test that he had failed without knowing it. But he didn’t see how that was possible. He had done well for his size, as good as Castor who was bigger and older. It must have been something else. He pushed off from the tree, wincing as he stepped on a splintered branch.

He walked a long time, long after the night deepened and he could only glimpse patches of moonlight through the branches, until the whole world was darkness and rustling leaves and there had never been anything else. His legs ached and his feet hurt from stumbling on pinecones and hidden rocks. Everything he had ever been punished for as far back as he could remember came back to him in painful detail, but none of it seemed bad enough for this. Maybe they just wanted to scare him.

He barely recognized the stream when he heard it, didn’t realize it was there until he tripped on a root and fell on the muddy bank. He crawled down to it, put both hands in the icy cold water and drank.

The water set heavily in his stomach when he pushed himself up and wiped his mouth. He was shaking with weariness but he didn’t want to sleep here. If I die here no one will find my body and do the rites. He didn’t want to be a shade and he didn’t know how long it would take him to die. He struggled to his feet, waded across the cold stream, and kept walking.

Some long time later he blinked, startled to find himself lying on cold hard-packed dirt. He pushed himself up, yawning. It was still night, but a little more moonlight fell through the leafy branches above, enough to see he had found the road. He must have just collapsed on it and fallen asleep. I guess I wasn’t dying, he thought in relief. He rubbed his gritty eyes. His stomach felt completely hollow, like the inside of a drinking gourd, sloshing with the water he had drunk. He didn’t feel like he was dying, except maybe in his feet. Maybe the only reason he had thought he was dying at all was that children left out in the hill place always died.

He managed to stand, stumbling and wincing. The dirt wasn’t much easier to walk on and the openness of the road made him feel exposed, as if things were watching him in the dark that hadn’t been able to see him among the trees. He limped forward, biting his lip at each step, trying to remember how far they had come before his father had turned off the road.

Maybe this was the test itself. Maybe if he found his way back tonight that would prove he was good enough to stay. But Castor’s words kept coming back to him; there was a finality there that chilled him more than the cold dirt and the night breeze. His mother had always loved the girls best, but he had always thought he was the favored boy. Everyone always said he was prettier than Castor, that he looked more like his father Timeron, and it had always been good for extra treats on festival days. If he had known, if he had had any warning at all, he could have tried harder to be good.

After a long painful time of limping on more or less level ground, Ilias found himself toiling up a hill. Maybe things just felt different in the dark, but he didn’t remember a grade this steep. The road was rough here too, and he kept stumbling into holes. Rubbing an aching knee, he stopped, coming to a reluctant realization: There was no hill like this on the road home. The wagon would have trouble on this slope and he knew he would have remembered it distinctly.

Ilias gritted his teeth against a sob and wiped his grimy face on his sleeve, confronting two thoughts: This is the wrong way and even if you find your way home, they could just take you right back to the hill. He shook the second one off, telling himself, no, it’s just a test. He had to figure out what he had done and find a way to make it right. And none of that mattered if he didn’t figure out where he was.

He had started out at the right point and had crossed the stream, but he must have veered off a straight path in the forest. He didn’t even know if this was the right road. It might not lead to someone’s farm at all, it might lead right out of Cineth’s territory altogether.

Sudden fear cramped his stomach as he wondered if he had gone beyond the safety of the god’s bounds, if this was a place where wizards and curselings roamed. He turned back and stopped again, staring. In the darkness not too far distant, he saw a flicker of firelight. In another heartbeat it was gone.

Ilias took a couple of steps forward, squinting hard into the dark, his heart pounding. He could just see a faint glow. It could be home, a thought whispered, but he knew in his gut it wasn’t. But it had to be a torch or a lamp in a house, mostly blocked by trees or a fold of rock. Then the wind brought him a snatch of sound, hoofbeats on packed dirt.

Limping and stumbling, he ran back down the road. He found the edge of it by falling into a ravine and rolling through brambles. He scrabbled to his feet, trying to keep going straight and hoping he wasn’t doing as badly at it as he had coming through the upper forest. He blundered into rocks, trees, up another small rise and stumbled to a halt.

Spread out below, cupped in the darkness of a small valley, was a big farmstead. Oil-lamps hanging in the portico lit the shadowy outlines of a big flat-roofed two-story stone house. More torches and lamps let him catch glimpses of outbuildings, herd pens, grapevines, orchards, and a large garden. Several men and women were standing around in the yard talking, the wind bringing him snatches of their voices. His heart squeezed with relief and he took a sharp breath, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It wasn’t home, and it wasn’t a near neighbor, though he might not be able to recognize the place in the dark. I did it. He hadn’t found his home, but he had found somebody’s home, and it had to count for something.

Ilias felt his way down the hill, his hands skimming the lush grass. Moving parallel to the house, he finally tripped over a rock and found the edge of a rough cart track that must lead down to the farmyard. He padded down it, his feet throbbing with every step. The track curved around the hill, leveling out as it approached the large dirt yard. He could hear the horses more clearly now, he just wasn’t certain where they were.

“What’s that?” someone shouted.

Still some distance from the torchlit yard, Ilias stopped, turning back as he heard hoofbeats. He saw horses and riders, dark frightening shapes, and backed hastily away.

An unfamiliar voice called out, “A curseling!”

Where? Ilias thought, stumbling and looking around in alarm. He flinched away from a form that seemed to materialize right out of the dark. “I’ll tell you when there’s a curseling, you idiot.” The speaker was a sour-voiced man, suddenly standing over him.

“What is it, Menander?” another man asked. His voice was deep and calm, and the confusion seemed to lessen when he spoke. Ilias saw a form swing down from the nearest horse, tossing the reins to another shadow shape. Ilias could smell horse sweat and leather.

“It’s a boy.” The sour-voiced man sat on his heels to face him. People came toward them from the farmyard, one man carrying a torch. As the light fell on them Ilias blinked sweat and dirt out of his eyes to see that Menander was a man older than his father, inland Syprian, with light-colored hair braided back in a long queue. “Now who are you?”

“Ilias.” He heard his own voice sound raspy from the dust of the road. He stared at the sword hilt poking up above the man’s shoulder, wishing he could touch it. It was carved with a ram’s head, the scrolled horns delicately detailed.

“He’s not from Andrien village, and there’s no other farms near here.” That was the deep-voiced man, standing beside them now. Startled, Ilias looked up to recognize the man he had seen at the market days ago, Ranior, who had been lawgiver. The man with the boy Chosen Vessel. He was wearing a sword too, its hilt carved like a gull’s wing. The men in Finan House never wore their swords, and Ilias desperately wanted a closer look at these. “No curses?” Ranior asked, frowning slightly.

“Not a one.” Menander reached down to touch one of Ilias’ feet, frowning at the bloody dirt that came away on fingers. Curses? Ilias thought, baffled, then realized with a shock that this must be the Menander, the Uplands’ Chosen Vessel, who was watching over Cineth now that Livia was dead. “You’ve walked a long way, haven’t you?”

Ilias wasn’t sure how to answer that question, so he kept silent. Menander didn’t press, asking instead, “Are you alone out here?”

That one he could answer. Ilias nodded. “I was on the road and I saw the light from the house.”

“Where did you come from, son?” Ranior asked quietly.

“I—” Ilias looked up into the man’s kind face and for a moment couldn’t speak. This morning he would have told them the truth without a heartbeat’s hesitation. He had never been a liar, except to Castor and his sisters and cousins. He knew the difference between lying to annoy a sibling or to get an extra helping of dinner and a serious lie. But that was this morning, and this day had made it all different. “I got lost,” he finished. “My father said we’d go to the market, but I got separated from him and I’ve been trying to get home. But I took the wrong way through the forest and missed the path, and I think it was the wrong road. I don’t know where I am.”

He must have sounded every bit as miserable as he was, because no one questioned it. Menander lifted his brows and pushed to his feet. Ranior leaned down and scooped Ilias up, carrying him toward the house.

The yard was a confusion of horses and people and torchlight. Ilias winced away from it, relieved when Ranior carried him up the steps and into a lamplit entry hall. Ilias caught a glimpse of double doors opening into the atrium and dull red walls. The floor was a mosaic of a seascape with galleys sailing among forested islands. Ranior carried him through to another room, past two men who seemed to be guarding the door.

This room had dark blue walls, with border paintings of olive and laurel leaves. Bowl-shaped oil lamps, smelling sweetly of good olive oil, lit the room. There was an older girl there, the girl Ilias had seen with Ranior in Cineth, sitting on a cushioned bench with her legs curled up. She looked up, staring in surprise as Ranior deposited Ilias next to her. “Who’s this?” She wore a sleeveless yellow shirt that was too big for her and a pair of doeskin pants with grass stains on the knees. The kind of clothes girls and women wore to ride or take sheep to market or sail on a boat, not that the women in Ilias’ house ever did those things.

“We found him on the wagon track, lost,” Ranior told her, already heading out of the room again. “Take care of him for me, Irissa.” He stopped to ask the two guards, “Where’s Treian?”

“He’s taking a look around the atrium,” one told him. He had a badly scarred face. The other man was missing his right arm below the elbow. They both looked like fishers or gleaners, wearing shabby sun-faded shirts and the short kilts most people wore on small boats, their only ornaments made of wood or shell. Except they had swords across their backs, soldiers’ swords, plain unornamented steel, with leather wrapped around the hilts. The man hesitated, watching Ranior worriedly. “They’re saying it’s the one that got Livia. Is that true?”

Ranior paused, his face set, harshly etched in the candlelight. “I don’t know, Cylides. Menander hasn’t had a good look at him yet.”

Ranior’s bootsteps sounded loud on the tiles as he went back toward the front entrance. Irissa was looking at Ilias in confusion. Her brown hair was held back in frazzled braids and she wore copper rings in her ears. With a bewildered expression, she asked, “Did the wizard try to steal you?”

“No.” Ilias stared at her, baffled. He looked at the two men, who were staring watchfully out the door. Past them, Ilias could see the other room was lit with more bowl-shaped oil lamps, and had dining couches and a low table. A wide doorway, banded by a couple of painted columns, opened out onto the atrium. The one called Cylides glanced at him, and the lamplight caught the gleam of silver among the scarring on his cheek. Ilias looked at Irissa again. “There . . . There can’t be a wizard here.” There were people here, and lights, and wizards were only in dark places, the deep forest, the hills. But he remembered the story about the isolated village and felt a chill settle in his stomach. But she had to be lying, the way Castor lied.

“There is one here. It’s trying to kill my brother.” Irissa took one of his feet, wincing in sympathy. Ilias was distracted by how awful they looked in the lamplight, all dirt and blood. “You’ve been walking barefoot on the road? How far?”

“Ow,” Ilias told her so she would be careful, though she hadn’t hurt him yet. He was wary of older girls on principle, knowing that some could be friends like Amari, some indifferent, and others outright enemies. “I don’t know, I’m lost. There’s a real wizard, not a made-up one?”

“Very real.” Irissa pushed to her feet, biting her lip as she looked around the room. “I don’t have any water or bandages, and we’re not supposed to leave the room. Does it hurt very badly?”

“No,” he told her, still not sure she was telling the truth about the wizard. For all the times he and Castor had seen curselings in shadows, part of him had known it was just pretend. But his older sisters and cousins usually hadn’t bothered to lie to him, except when Niale told him his mother hated him.

“We can send for water when Treian comes back,” the man with one arm told her, still keeping his eyes on the torchlit atrium.

There was a red-glazed warming jar on the hearth, with a set of matching cups. Irissa dipped a cupful out of the jar and brought it to Ilias. At the smell of warm wine mixed with honey and water, Ilias forgot everything else while he gulped it down. He was thirsty and this was a treat he usually only got when he was sick. It soothed his throat and warmed his stomach and for a moment all he wanted to do was lie down on the cushions and sleep. Irissa brought him another cup before he could ask. She told him, “I’m Irissa, and that’s Cylides and Macritus. They’re from Andrien village. What’s your name? Do we know your family?”

“Ilias. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He didn’t think that was a lie. He had never been taken to visit this house as far as he could remember, and he had never seen his father talk to Ranior in the market. He drained the second cup and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, saying hurriedly, “How can there be a wizard here? Is it really after your brother?” He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to give her his family name, he just knew he wanted to delay the moment as long as possible. It would mean things would change, and right now this room felt safe, wizard or not. He knew there were two worlds now, one where people took care of you and one where they didn’t. Having gotten back into the one, he meant to stay in it as long as possible.

Irissa’s brow furrowed as she looked at the couch on the other side of the room. “Giliead is the next Chosen Vessel. Didn’t you know that?”

Ilias looked blankly at the other couch and realized the lumpy blankets piled there were actually covering another boy. He could see tufts of brown hair sticking up past the reds and golds of the dyed wool. “I knew that,” he said automatically. Maybe he hadn’t believed it until just now.

At the doorway, Macritus, the man with the missing arm, shifted impatiently. “What’s he doing?” he said, sounding as if he was mostly talking to himself. “Treian?” he called softly.

A faint sound pulled Ilias’ attention back to the other couch. Giliead was awake and sitting up, regarding him with grave blue eyes. He was just a boy, a little younger than Ilias, with wavy brown hair coming out of his braids and a mark on his cheek from a fold in the pillow. “Treian’s not there,” Giliead said, blinking sleepily at Irissa.

“He’s supposed to be.” Irissa glanced back at him impatiently, but Ilias thought she was more worried than annoyed. “Macritus, could you—”

“Don’t.” Giliead’s voice was suddenly urgent. He shifted, sitting up on his knees, pushing the blanket down. “He’s out there, ’Rissa.”

Macritus was still looking out into the other room and the atrium, frowning, but Cylides turned to look at Giliead, asking, “What do you see, Gil?”

Between one heartbeat and the next, the doorway filled with a solid darkness, the cold breath of death. Ilias yelped, scrambling back and tumbling off the couch, staring in frightened incomprehension. Irissa fell over the couch as the darkness rolled over Cylides and Macritus, even as the two men shouted in alarm and stumbled backward.

The darkness struck Ilias and knocked him backward, and the room went black. He lay on the tile floor, blind, cold, and numb, so shocked he couldn’t even feel terror. It was like standing in the surf on the beach and being struck by a sudden powerful wave; the darkness took his breath just the way the foamy water would have. After another moment it passed and he could see the blue-painted ceiling again, the firelight reflecting off it as if nothing had happened.

Dizzy and sick, Ilias rolled over and saw a strange man standing in the room. He was young, dark hair gathered in a queue, his jaw set, his eyes grimly determined. His clothes were fine, a dark green sleeveless shirt and pants, boots, and a broad leather belt stamped with blue and gold designs, silver rings in his ears. There was blood on his hands, staining a copper and leather wristband, as if he had been butchering meat.

Cylides and Macritus lay tumbled on the floor, unmoving, and Irissa was sprawled on the couch, her expression dazed, shaking her head uncertainly. Ilias realized suddenly that the darkness had been exactly like a sea wave; it had struck harder at the people who had been standing up. He had been closer to the floor and it had mostly rolled right over him.

The strange man’s eyes went to Ilias and moved dismissively away. Then he saw Giliead still sitting on the couch. He smiled, an oddly sweet expression, and said, “There you are, boy. I’ve been looking for you.”

Wizard, Ilias thought. It was a poet’s story come terribly alive. He opened his mouth to yell for help and it was suddenly as if there wasn’t a breath of air in the room; his voice came out as a near-silent croak.

Still crouched on the cushions, Giliead watched him evenly. He didn’t look like a boy confronting a monster. His expression was mildly curious, as if he had idly wondered what this moment would be like. He said, “I was always here.”

The wizard took a step forward, still smiling but eyeing Giliead narrowly. Tumbled between the couch and the wall, Irissa struggled weakly to get up. Ilias saw a cup had fallen beside the table leg and started to edge toward it. He felt as if he was trapped in one of Castor’s horror stories of curselings and wizard-slaves. The wizard ignored both him and Irissa, still watching Giliead. He said, “Menander was a fool to think he could protect you.”

He wants to make Giliead afraid, Ilias thought, knowing it by instinct. Ilias stretched and reached the cup, lifting it uncertainly, meaning to throw it. Giliead flicked a look at him and Ilias thought the other boy didn’t want him to interfere, at least not yet. He kept hold of the cup and didn’t move, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

Giliead told the wizard, “The god protects me.”

From the couch Irissa managed to speak, her voice a strained croak. “Menander’s here, he’ll kill you!”

Ignoring her, the wizard took two long steps suddenly, reaching down toward Ilias. Before he could scramble back the man grabbed his hair, yanking him half off the floor. Still watching Giliead, he said, “Silly little boy. Gods don’t protect Chosen Vessels.”

Ilias clawed at the painful grip, still unable to cry out, but the man had jerked him up so his toes barely touched the ground. His eyes blurry from pain tears, he saw Giliead show emotion for the first time. His eyes narrowed, the other boy looked angry. Giliead said, “You let him go.”

A door banged somewhere and a woman burst into the dining room. Ilias recognized her from the market, but her hair was tied back now and she wore a red-brown dress, and her face was strained and angry in the lamplight. She carried a weapon Ilias had only seen a few times before, a long-handled knife with a hook on the end, that he knew was for fighting on war galleys. She saw the wizard and froze for a heartbeat, her eyes widening in shock as she looked from the wizard to Giliead, then to Irissa still trying desperately to push herself up off the couch.

The wizard said with an easy smile, “Come and join us, Karima, the more the better.”

“How did you—” she started to ask, then must have decided it didn’t matter. Her face hardened and she lifted the knife, starting forward.

Giliead said sharply, “Mother, don’t. You need to get out of the doorway.”

Karima stopped, throwing him a startled look. She won’t do it, Ilias thought, despairing though he didn’t know why it was important. Mothers didn’t listen to their children at the best of times, let alone a moment like this. Emotions flicked across Karima’s face, uncertainty, fear, resolve. Then she stepped sideways, out of the doorway.

The wizard started toward Giliead, dragging a struggling Ilias with him. “Don’t try to trick me, boy, there’s no one to help you. Menander is searching for me in the woods again, and the others follow him.”

Giliead just cocked his head thoughtfully, “You shouldn’t have used curses. You were real quiet up to then, and it couldn’t hear you.”

The man stopped. Ilias couldn’t see his face but he heard him breathing hard, and he felt something change in the room, as if the air smelled different, or pressed harder on his skin.

“There’s a thing you don’t know,” Giliead continued, still calmly, “The god doesn’t protect the grown Chosen Vessels. But it’s different when we’re children.”

Try as Ilias might later, he couldn’t remember what the god looked like, though Gil always claimed it had come down the chimney and passed within a pace of him.

Ilias saw the puff of ash from the hearth, and heard the wizard yell in alarm, loud and shrill. He let go of Ilias’ hair and Ilias fell, scrabbling rapidly away. He looked back in time to see the wizard fly through the doorway as if he had been shot out of a bow. He struck the low dining table with a crash and the wood shattered beneath him, leaving the wizard sprawled on the tile floor, unmoving.

A clamor of shouts and running footsteps came from the front of the house. Karima stepped toward the wizard’s prone body, lifting the boat knife cautiously, but the man just lay there, one last breath sighing out of his limp body. If she hadn’t moved out of the way, Karima would be smashed under him now.

Irissa managed to sit up, clutching her head with a groan. “It took the god long enough. I thought he was going to kill all of us,” she muttered. Cylides and Macritus both began to stir back to consciousness.

Ilias shoved himself upright and limped over to Giliead. The younger boy slipped off the couch, standing barefoot in an oversized blue shirt. An ordinary boy again, he chewed self-consciously on his thumbnail. “Is he dead?” Ilias asked him quietly. The wizard looked dead but he wanted to be certain.

Giliead nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

“Good.” Ilias took his hand and limped into the dining room with him.

The room and the atrium beyond seemed full of people suddenly, calling out in alarm, talking, anxiously leaning over the two half-conscious guards, helping Irissa stand. Someone scooped Giliead up and when Ilias stumbled and nearly fell, someone grabbed him too.

They ended up in the kitchen, with herbs bundled up to dry hanging from the rafters and big storage amphorae stacked against the walls. It was still pleasantly warm from the banked fire in the big cooking hearth. There were a lot of people in there too, most of them armed, talking urgently. In all the confusion, Ilias got handed over to a young woman called Sabiras, who was probably Niale’s age, but her olive skin had darkened from the sun and her hands were calloused and hard from work. She wore loose pants and a shirt with the sleeves tied back, and her jewelry was all shells, with polished cowries on her armbands. She set him down beside the hearth and made concerned noises over his feet. She got some warm water from the pot sitting in the coals and cleaned the cuts, which hurt but he managed to bite his lip and not cry. If his behavior was going to be reported to his mother, he wanted to be sure he didn’t make any mistakes. And after what had just happened with the wizard, it seemed a small thing to cry over.

Irissa sat next to him, holding a cup of warm wine someone had given her. “Mother, I think the wizard did something to Treian,” she said. Her hands were shaking a little, making the liquid tremble inside the red-glazed cup, but her voice was firm. “We called but he didn’t come.”

Karima bit her lip, her expression still tense. She kept absently squeezing Giliead’s shoulders, as if making sure he was still there. “They’re searching the house now. If he’s hurt, they’ll find him.”

“He’s dead,” Giliead told her, still calmly. “The god’s showing me. I think he’s out in the woods. Treian, I mean. It thinks the wizard killed him when he got separated from the others after dusk, and the wizard made a curse on himself so they thought he was Treian.” Giliead frowned in concentration, his eyes distant. “It wasn’t a good curse. Not good, I mean it didn’t work well. He had to stay in the dark, or people would have seen he wasn’t Treian. The god says he must have known Menander would see through it, and so he had to act when he realized Menander and Ranior were returning.” He blinked. “Can I go to bed now? I’m sleepy.”

Ilias stared, then looked at Karima and Irissa, both listening in growing consternation. Appalled, Karima said under her breath, “He was here in the house all that time. And the motherless bastard killed Treian.” She pushed to her feet, shaking her head.

Ilias took a sharp breath. “He waved his hand and we couldn’t—”

Sabiras put a hand over his mouth. Ilias looked up in surprise. “You were too startled to call out, it happened too fast. That’s what happened, isn’t it?” She looked at Irissa pointedly. “Irissa?”

Irissa looked blank for a moment, then nodded in startled comprehension. Ilias realized others in the room were listening and that Karima was staring at him with concentrated intensity, as if willing him to make the right answer. He didn’t understand but he nodded emphatically. Sabiras removed her hand, saying, “Good.”

Ranior and Menander returned, but Ilias didn’t see them, only heard them talking out in the atrium. He got a quick bath in warm water, and a clean shirt to put on that was far too big for him. Irissa told Sabiras Ilias hadn’t eaten all day, and Sabiras brought him a bowl with lentils and bread soaked in mutton broth, and the fact that these people still had bread this late in the day just confirmed Ilias’ opinion of Niale’s bad management of their house.

They didn’t ask him any questions, until Sabiras carried him to a bedroom on the opposite side of the portico. It was nearly as big as the room Ilias’ sisters and cousins slept in, but there were sheepskin rugs, and only one bed and a couple of clothes and blanket chests. It wasn’t as warm as the kitchen, though the winter shutters in the outside window were tightly closed.

Giliead was already in bed, his face buried in the pillow, with Karima seated on a stool nearby. As Sabiras put him down on the bed, Karima asked him, “Ilias, how did you get lost today?”

When she smiled, she was pretty, nearly as pretty as his mother. “On the way to town.”

“You walked from Cineth?” Sabiras asked, brows lifted.

“No, we didn’t go all the way there. I got lost on the way.” He rubbed his eyes, just wanting them to stop. He was more glad than ever that he had lied. He was being treated like a lost child; he wasn’t sure what would have been different if they knew he had been . . . left, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance. “I’m sleepy.”

Karima and Sabiras exchanged a look he couldn’t read, but they didn’t ask him any more questions. Sabiras tucked him under the blankets and they both left the room.

Giliead rolled over and cuddled up next to his side, and Ilias put an arm around him. Ilias hesitated, the asked, “Why wouldn’t Sabiras let me tell them why I didn’t call for help?”

Giliead blinked. “Because it was a curse on you and Irissa. It’s gone now, and it didn’t do anything to you. But people might hear about it, and say you should have a curse mark, like Cylides.”

Ilias knew what a curse mark was. People who had been under a wizard’s curse had to have a silver half-moon branded into their cheek. He had never seen one before because those people weren’t supposed to be around normal people. He wanted to ask a question, but he couldn’t put it into words.

Giliead seemed to know what he wanted to ask. “Cylides needs a place to live, so he lives in Andrien village, down on the beach. Ranior says having a curse mark doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong. It means a wizard did something wrong to him.”

Ilias asked, “So why does he have to have it? It isn’t fair.”

Giliead shrugged, nestling into the pillow. “Because people are so afraid of curses. Anything that has to do with them.” He eyed Ilias thoughtfully. “Ranior says people are afraid of Chosen Vessels, too.”

“I’m not,” Ilias said automatically, before realizing it was true. He had seen a wizard now, he knew what there was to fear, and it wasn’t Giliead or Menander. He could hear voices, through the shutters and from the doorway, and knew there were people on guard. But there had been people on guard when the first wizard got in. “What if another one comes?” he said aloud.

Giliead shook his head, barely awake. “The god’s under the bed.”

Ilias bit his lip. He didn’t think Giliead was lying, and he didn’t want to look. But he was too exhausted not to drift off, and he slept soundly.

The next day was mostly spent sleeping. Ilias finally woke buried in the blankets, feeling hot and a little sick, with Giliead using his back as waves to sail a toy boat on.

The shutters were open, revealing warm afternoon sun and the branches of an olive tree moving gently in the breeze. Blearily, he crawled out of bed onto the sheepskin rug in front of the banked hearthfire. Giliead had been up for some time, judging by the scatter of wooden toys. Remembering last night, Ilias leaned down to cast a suspicious look under the bed, but there was nothing there but a little dust.

Ilias examined his feet with a grimace. The left one felt fine, if tender. The right was swollen, the skin stretched tight, and the cuts on the heel and just below his toes were red and ugly. He didn’t think he could walk on it, at least not today.

He picked up a toy galley, trying to think what to do. The boat was scarcely bigger than his cupped hands, but precisely carved, the eye for the ship’s soul carefully picked out over the bow. It was old, with traces of the paint that handling had worn off.

“Ranior made that for my sister,” Giliead told him, settling next to him. His fine hair had completely come out of his braids and he was still wearing the same shirt he had slept in. “She gave it to me. She’s going to be a captain and sail to the Chaeans.”

“Is she your only sister?” Ilias asked absently, turning the boat over. He had a wooden horse, not carved as well as this, and battered from years of play. It had come from Timeron and Castor hadn’t wanted it anymore, so it had been Ilias’ to play with. “If she’s the only girl, then she can’t go to sea. She has to stay here and take care of your family’s land, so the people who live here don’t starve.”

Giliead frowned, taking the toy ship back as if Ilias had just lost the right to hold it. “She can be a captain if she wants.”

It wasn’t worth arguing about. Only women could own things like houses and land.

Sabiras came in then, looked at Ilias’ feet, and made him get back on the bed.

She cleaned Ilias’ cuts again and put on smelly ointment and bound his right foot up to keep it clean. Then she made up for it by bringing them bread, fresh and still warm, and fish with pickle sauce and lentils. Ilias ate all of his and half of Giliead’s portion, since the younger boy had been awake earlier for breakfast. Sabiras lectured him on staying in the bed, not walking around and especially not going out in the atrium or the farmyard to play in the dirt.

Ilias felt better after the food. “Are there still wizards outside?” he asked her, scraping the last of the sauce off the plate. Until the wizards were gone, he couldn’t walk home.

Sabiras hesitated, and Giliead, sprawled on the foot of the bed and pushing another wooden boat across the fold of the blankets, answered for her. “There’s no curses, so there’s no wizards.”

She glanced at Giliead a little uncomfortably, then quickly smiled at Ilias to hide it. “There you go. That’s what Menander says as well.”

Ilias got out of bed as soon as she left, but it really did hurt to walk. So he played with Giliead on the floor, naming the wooden toys after famous wizards and Chosen Vessels from the poets’ stories, and reenacting their battles. Ilias hadn’t played like this in a long time; Castor had decided he was too old for these kinds of games and was too busy trying to bully Ilias to want to do anything interesting. Giliead was still young enough to have fun.

The house was quiet except for the occasional reassuring sounds of Sabiras or someone else talking out in the passage, or the lowing of a cow out in the fields. Once Ilias heard Ranior’s voice outside, speaking to someone in a serious tone as the leaves crunched under their boots. It was odd to be in a house so quiet, to have a whole room to themselves for their play, but Irissa seemed to be Giliead’s only sibling.

He was so wrapped up in the game, he didn’t even know Karima was watching them until Giliead, laughing at Ilias’ rendition of Ifaea finding the edge of the world, rolled onto his back, smiling, and said, “Hello, mother.”

“Hello, Gil.” She smiled at him openly, not hesitantly the way Sabiras did. “Menander needs you to talk to the god for him. Can you do that?”

“It’s in the hay barn, where it’s dark and cool. It doesn’t like bright light,” Giliead told her, rolling over to prop his chin on his hands. He explained to Ilias, “Menander could talk to the god himself, like he talks to the Uplands god, but he wants me to practice. Our god likes him, though. He sounds like pine needles in the wind.”

Ilias nodded seriously, fascinated. It was a novelty to talk to someone who told you interesting things, rather than badly made-up lies.

Karima sat on the floor, her green dress pooled around her. “Ilias, let me see your feet.” Her voice, calm and firm, was impossible to disobey and he shifted glumly to face her, stretching his legs out. She looked him in the face when she spoke to him, and he couldn’t remember when his mother had last done that.

He held his breath as she took his foot, but she handled it gently, not hurting him. “You need to listen to Sabiras and not walk on this,” she told him, adding almost absently, “What’s your family name?”

“Finan,” Ilias said, then bit his lip. She had caught him by surprise, before he could decide to lie.

She nodded, her eyes thoughtful. “You’re Timeron’s son?”

“Yes, but he died and I don’t remember him.”

“I see.” She smiled a little, and he thought she looked tired. “We’ll send a message today and see if we can’t get you home soon.”

Ilias nodded, but he knew it wouldn’t be that simple. And he didn’t want to be carted home like a stray goat. He wanted to prove himself, to show he could get home on his own. That was the point of this.

Menander didn’t come until later that day, when the sun was just beginning to set.

Irissa had come in earlier, not long after Karima, and proved that she wasn’t much like Ilias’ notion of an older sister. She played games, and then they sat on the floor and read to them out of a poet’s story that Ilias had never heard before, a long story about a voyage down the coast, and fighting with Hisians. When she was done, Giliead said, “Read about the Chosen Vessels, ’Rissa.”

“You’ve heard those stories,” Irissa told him repressively, rolling up the parchment and tucking it carefully back into its leather case.

“Not all of them. And Ilias hasn’t heard. And you can stop before the end.”

“Stop before the end?” Ilias asked, poking Giliead in the ribs to make him squirm. “Why do you want her to do that?”

Giliead defended himself half-heartedly, laughing. “She doesn’t like to read the parts where they die.”

“They die? That’s a lousy end,” Ilias said, still tickling.

“Chosen Vessels always die,” Giliead said, smiling. “That’s what everybody says.” Then Irissa threw a pillow at them and refused to read to them at all.

Menander came in not long after, his face shaved and his hair re-braided. He sat on the floor by the fire and told Giliead things to tell the god, and things to ask it. It was all fairly dull, just questions like “what does the sky look like” and “ask it which way the wind is blowing” and Ilias stopped listening, until they were done and Menander was getting up to leave. Then Irissa asked, “Why did the god help Giliead and not Livia?” Ilias had been wondering about that himself.

Menander shook his head, looking off toward the window and the field beyond, the shadows long as the sun set. “The gods, and especially this god, the god that Chose him, can see and hear Giliead very clearly now, better than we can see and hear each other in this room. It sees through his eyes, literally, and so it knew the wizard was here, where Giliead was, and it could get here in time to help him. As we get older, we lose that close contact. We can still speak to them, and they to us, but it takes time and effort.” He turned back to them, ruffling Giliead’s hair as the boy looked up at him solemnly. “The god didn’t help Livia because it didn’t know she was in danger until it was too late.”

Impulsively, seeing this was the last time he might have the chance, Ilias asked, “Did the wizard do any other curses last night?”

Menander eyed him sharply, but Giliead turned to look at him, his expression serious. Giliead said, “There was only one other, besides what he did here in the house. He did one when he crossed the river from the Uplands, just a little one to keep the wagon ferry from seeing him—that’s how Menander knew he was coming. He might have thought he was far enough away that the gods couldn’t hear him, but they both did. Our god and the Uplands god. Then he killed Treian.”

“Oh.” Ilias subsided, leaning back against the pillows. “So the gods can hear it every time a wizard does a curse?”

Still watching him, Menander answered, “Some wizards are more subtle, but this was a young one, and his curses were loud. He probably didn’t realize how loud.” He lifted a brow. “Why did you want to know?”

Ilias shifted uncomfortably. “Something happened last night . . . when I got lost. I thought I might have gotten lost because of a curse.”

Menander nodded, understanding. “There was nothing like that.”

Ilias nodded, resigned. He hadn’t really thought so, anyway.

After another day, Menander returned to the Uplands, and Giliead was allowed to go outside the house again, though he chose to stay with Ilias, who was still confined to the atrium until his feet were well. Karima said nothing further about the message to the Finan, and Ilias found it easier to put it out of his head, pretending to himself that this was just a visit.

That was easy to do. Even with people from Andrien village wandering in and out, there was less confusion and turmoil in this house. Meals might be at odd times but there was always plenty of food, and it actually tasted good, even when visitors came at the last moment. Irissa seemed to actually enjoy her brother’s company for the most part, and Karima and Ranior were . . . different.

By the third day Sabiras had pronounced Ilias’ feet well enough to walk outside the house, as long as he wore a pair of sandals she found for him. He and Giliead had been helping her milk the goats, and were now sitting out on the short wall of the pen. From there, Ilias could see into the stable, and he noticed Ranior’s horse was gone. “Where did Ranior go?” he asked.

Giliead frowned down at the dusty ground. “To your house.”

Ilias sat bolt upright, staring. Giliead flicked a guilty look at him. “How do you know?” Ilias demanded.

Giliead bit his lip. “I heard them talking this morning, while you were still asleep.”

“He’s not back yet?”

“No.”

If Ranior had left this morning . . . . Ilias didn’t think it was that far. “Come on.” He pushed to his feet.

They sat out under the olive trees in the orchard, where they could see the wagon track down from the road. Every moment seemed to wear on Ilias’ nerves, though Giliead fell asleep, curled up at the base of a gnarled trunk.

Finally he saw Ranior coming down the track, walking his horse. Something about the set of his shoulders told Ilias that Ranior was tired, though the distance to Finan and back couldn’t have been that long. Giliead woke, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “He’ll talk to mother first. Want to listen?”

Ilias nodded, not trusting himself to talk. Giliead scrambled up and led the way back through the orchard, then around to where the bulk of the house shielded them from the view of the barn and the front yard.

There was a field on this side of the house, with a shady stand of oaks, stretching away up to the beginning of the forested slope. There was a sheep pen out there, and some of the herdsmen were sitting on the stone fence talking. Giliead crept close to the wall of the house, Ilias following. The herdsmen were out in the bright sunlight and he and Giliead were in the shadow of the arbor; he didn’t think the men would be able to see them.

They waited, crouching in the arbor, long enough for Ranior to take the mare to the barn and water her and wipe her down. Then, still in a crouch, Giliead moved through the sparse grass down the side of the house until he was under a broad window. He didn’t have to gesture or glance back; Ilias could already hear Karima’s and Ranior’s voices. He settled next to Giliead, his shoulder against the cool stone, to listen.

“They wouldn’t admit it, of course, but he was on the hill, all right,” Ranior was saying. “I found his tracks, and the tracks of the horse that brought him, and a place where a child was digging in the dirt, playing. He must have been up there for most of the day, before he tried to find his way back.”

“He knew, then.” Karima’s voice was quiet.

“Oh, he knew, all right. Maybe not at first. But he knew enough to lie when Menander asked him what he was doing out there.” There was a pause and Ilias heard Ranior draw a long breath. “People are still leaving children there, as if the law means nothing. There were more bones than last time, but it was a bad harvest for some, and the fishing hasn’t been good this year. Too many new babies that the families can’t afford to feed. I did rites for as many as I could find, but I’ll have to get Menander to go out there and make sure there are no shades left behind.”

Karima was silent for a long moment. “When they didn’t respond to the message I sent, I was afraid of something like this, but . . . .” Ranior must have nodded, because Karima continued angrily, “It’s madness. There’s a dozen families I can name off the top of my head who would take in a little boy his age with no more thought than they’d spare for taking in a stray lamb.”

“Do you think the Keneans are right, that she killed Timeron? That she’s always been mad?”

“No, no. But she was never the same after he died. And Ilias looks like him. As soon as I saw him, I thought he must be a Kenean. And I think she’s had too many children, the fool. I know she went out of her head after that third girl was born and never managed to quite get back in. That can happen with too many births, so close together.”

“What about the other husband, what’s his excuse? He hasn’t had too many births.”

“Love for her, maybe. Fear she would send him away.” Karima let her breath out, sounding angry. “I can’t get over it.”

“She braided his hair and put beads in it, then sent him out to die.”

“There’s a lot of people living in that house, a lot of other children. I don’t think most of them knew where he was being taken.” Ilias heard footsteps come toward the window. “And even if some of them did . . . . She controls the purse-strings and her sister hasn’t a goat to her name. If they argued too hard with her, they might find themselves out in the cold.”

Ilias had heard enough. Numb, he eased away from the window, quiet and cautious by habit. When he was far enough away, he pushed to his feet and walked out from under the arbor. Giliead trailed along at his side, and the herdsmen glanced up at them, but away from the window they were just two boys walking in the afternoon sun.

In a little voice, Giliead asked, “What’s the hill?”

Ilias took a deep breath. “It’s where your family takes you when they want to get rid of you.” It was the first time he had said it aloud.

Ilias avoided the front of the house, where someone might see him, heading toward the sparse forest at the base of the slope. There was a footpath here that was a short cut up the hill to the road. There was nothing he needed to go back for. His own clothes had gone into the mending basket as too stained and ruined to wear again without being re-made. The brown shirt and blue pants, trimmed with leather braid and painted designs, were hand-me-downs Irissa had grown out of. The sandals had probably been hers too. The only thing he had that he had brought here with him were the beads in his hair, which Sabiras had braided back in after his bath. “You need to go back,” he told Giliead.

Giliead kept pace with him. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go home.” He had to know for certain.

Giliead caught the tail of his shirt. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here and be my brother.”

Ilias yanked the shirt free, telling him sharply, “I’ve got a brother.”

“The one that sent you away to die?”

Yes, that one. They were almost in the shadows of the trees, and Ilias gave him a shove, pushing him back toward the house. “Go on, go back. You’re not allowed to leave the farm without a grown-up.”

Giliead halted, watching him with tear-bright eyes. “You aren’t either,” he tried.

“I don’t live here,” Ilias told him, and started up the footpath.

It wasn’t that long a walk. He knew now he had come down from the hills at an angle, confused in the dark, and had crossed the stream and hit the road a long distance out from where he should have. Finan was closer in towards Cineth than Andrien.

The road, which had been such a dark frightening cavern at night, was now just the road, dusty and uneven, shaded by the tall trees arching overhead. It got better as he walked further away from Andrien, smoother and less rocky, the way he remembered.

The sun had only moved a little further when he passed the pathway turning off down toward the Greian land, and he knew he was very close. When he saw the familiar bend in the road, he began to run.

There was no one in the yard, no one around the pens or outbuildings, but his aunt’s husbands and the older girls would be out with the herd. The house looked different, as though he had never seen it from this angle, as though he had been gone years instead of only a few days. He slowed to a walk as he crossed the yard, thinking he saw movement at one of the windows. His heart was pounding, but it wasn’t from fear.

The door, heavy wood speckled with old paint, stood shut when it should be open to keep the front rooms from growing stuffy. He stepped up onto the stone porch and used his fist to pound on the door.

It opened abruptly and Niale stood there. His older sister had their mother’s darker chestnut hair and olive skin, but her nose was sharp and her eyes too narrow. She was dressed in a rich purple robe, the sleeves tied back to bare her arms. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Her voice was hard and cold but her cheeks were flushed and he knew she had seen him come up the path; she must have been standing on top of the door to open it so quickly. And he still wasn’t afraid. “I live here,” he told her.

She tried to stare him down, her favorite trick, but her eyes slipped away from his after only a heartbeat. She stared over his left shoulder, saying, “You ran away. Don’t expect to just come back here.”

She didn’t add anything like “we were worried to death” or “everyone was so upset” or “we searched all night” and that made it sound even more like the lie it was. In a way, it told Ilias all he needed to know. “I didn’t run away. I know you know that.” Her face stiffened but before she could reply, he added, “I didn’t tell anybody.”

For a moment she was flustered. He took a step forward, looking up at her. “I won’t tell anybody, ever. Just let me come back.”

Her expression hardened then, and she said with grim finality, “You ran away, you abandoned your family—”

“That’s not true!” he shouted. It was the word abandoned that took his temper. “You know it’s not true!”

Her face twisted for an instant and she flicked a look at someone standing inside the foyer, out of his sight. Stepping back with a grimace, she said, “Ilias, just go away!” and slammed the door.

He stood there a moment, breathing hard, then turned away, stepping down off the porch, scuffing his sandals in the dirt. His face felt hot and his head ached, as if he had been crying for hours, but his eyes were dry. Then he saw a man on a horse trotting down the wagon path. It was Ranior, riding the yellow mare from the Andrien stables. Someone must have noticed Ilias was missing and had managed to get Giliead to tell where he had gone. Ilias knew Giliead had only told because he had wanted to. Even at his age, instinct told Ilias that Giliead would be nearly impossible to break with only parental pressure.

Ranior reined in nearby. He looked down at Ilias, his face regretful, saying, “Ilias, come away from there. It’s not going to do any good.”

Ilias had the impulse to run. Not because he was afraid of Ranior, but because it would mean giving up. But the horse recognized him and stretched out a velvet nose. After a moment, Ilias stepped toward him.

He started to reach up to take Ranior’s hand, then memory of the last time he had done this stopped him. “We’re going back to Andrien?” he asked, watching Ranior’s face. He had heard Ranior and Karima’s opinion of people who abandoned children, but he wanted to make certain. He didn’t know the words to put it into yet, but he knew unthinking trust was a thing of the past.

“Yes, we’re going back to Andrien,” Ranior said it without impatience, meeting his eyes, as if he knew exactly what had passed through Ilias’ thoughts.

Ilias reached for his hand, gripping his wrist as Ranior pulled him up onto the horse.

“I don’t understand,” Ilias said, looking at the house one last time.

Ranior let his breath out, shaking his head. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I do either. But . . . . If they take you back, they have to admit what happened. They have to admit that they let it happen.”

Ilias didn’t understand that, didn’t want to understand it. “Can’t they just pretend it didn’t happen?” he said, feeling small and stupid again.

“No, they can’t do that.” Ranior lifted the reins, turning the horse back toward the road. “Come on, or we’ll miss dinner.”

It was still a long time before Ilias called Andrien home.

© 2007 by Martha Wells.

Originally published in Black Gate.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

Martha Wells is the author of a number of fantasy novels, including The Cloud Roads, The Wizard Hunters, and the Nebula-nominated The Death of the Necromancer. The Siren Depths was published in December 2012, and is the third in the Books of the Raksura series. Her YA fantasy, Emilie and the Hollow World, was published in April 2013. She has had short stories in Black Gate, Realms of Fantasy, and Stargate Magazine, and in the anthologies Elemental, The Year’s Best Fantasy #7, Tales of the Emerald Serpent and The Other Half of the Sky. She has essays in the nonfiction anthologies Farscape Forever, Mapping the World of Harry Potter, and Chicks Unravel Time. She has also written media-tie-in novels, Stargate Atlantis: Reliquary and Stargate Atlantis: Entanglement, and a Star Wars novel, Empire and Rebellion: Razor’s Edge. Her web site is marthawells.com.

NOVEL EXCERPT: Ancillary Justice
Ann Leckie

1

The body lay naked and facedown, a deathly gray, spatters of blood staining the snow around it. It was minus fifteen degrees Celsius and a storm had passed just hours before. The snow stretched smooth in the wan sunrise, only a few tracks leading into a nearby ice-block building. A tavern. Or what passed for a tavern in this town.

There was something itchingly familiar about that outthrown arm, the line from shoulder down to hip. But it was hardly possible I knew this person. I didn’t know anyone here. This was the icy back end of a cold and isolated planet, as far from Radchaai ideas of civilization as it was possible to be. I was only here, on this planet, in this town, because I had urgent business of my own. Bodies in the street were none of my concern.

Sometimes I don’t know why I do the things I do. Even after all this time it’s still a new thing for me not to know, not to have orders to follow from one moment to the next. So I can’t explain to you why I stopped and with one foot lifted the naked shoulder so I could see the person’s face.

Frozen, bruised, and bloody as she was, I knew her. Her name was Seivarden Vendaai, and a long time ago she had been one of my officers, a young lieutenant, eventually promoted to her own command, another ship. I had thought her a thousand years dead, but she was, undeniably, here. I crouched down and felt for a pulse, for the faintest stir of breath.

Still alive.

Seivarden Vendaai was no concern of mine anymore, wasn’t my responsibility. And she had never been one of my favorite officers. I had obeyed her orders, of course, and she had never abused any ancillaries, never harmed any of my segments (as the occasional officer did). I had no reason to think badly of her. On the contrary, her manners were those of an educated, well-bred person of good family. Not toward me, of course—I wasn’t a person, I was a piece of equipment, a part of the ship. But I had never particularly cared for her.

I rose and went into the tavern. The place was dark, the white of the ice walls long since covered over with grime or worse. The air smelled of alcohol and vomit. A barkeep stood behind a high bench. She was a native—short and fat, pale and wide-eyed. Three patrons sprawled in seats at a dirty table. Despite the cold they wore only trousers and quilted shirts—it was spring in this hemisphere of Nilt and they were enjoying the warm spell. They pretended not to see me, though they had certainly noticed me in the street and knew what motivated my entrance. Likely one or more of them had been involved; Seivarden hadn’t been out there long, or she’d have been dead.

“I’ll rent a sledge,” I said, “and buy a hypothermia kit.”

Behind me one of the patrons chuckled and said, voice mocking, “Aren’t you a tough little girl.”

I turned to look at her, to study her face. She was taller than most Nilters, but fat and pale as any of them. She out-bulked me, but I was taller, and I was also considerably stronger than I looked. She didn’t realize what she was playing with. She was probably male, to judge from the angular mazelike patterns quilting her shirt. I wasn’t entirely certain. It wouldn’t have mattered, if I had been in Radch space. Radchaai don’t care much about gender, and the language they speak—my own first language—doesn’t mark gender in any way. This language we were speaking now did, and I could make trouble for myself if I used the wrong forms. It didn’t help that cues meant to distinguish gender changed from place to place, sometimes radically, and rarely made much sense to me.

I decided to say nothing. After a couple of seconds she suddenly found something interesting in the tabletop. I could have killed her, right there, without much effort. I found the idea attractive. But right now Seivarden was my first priority. I turned back to the barkeep.

Slouching negligently she said, as though there had been no interruption, “What kind of place you think this is?”

“The kind of place,” I said, still safely in linguistic territory that needed no gender marking, “that will rent me a sledge and sell me a hypothermia kit. How much?”

“Two hundred shen.” At least twice the going rate, I was sure. “For the sledge. Out back. You’ll have to get it yourself. Another hundred for the kit.”

“Complete,” I said. “Not used.”

She pulled one out from under the bench, and the seal looked undamaged. “Your buddy out there had a tab.”

Maybe a lie. Maybe not. Either way the number would be pure fiction. “How much?”

“Three hundred fifty.”

I could find a way to keep avoiding referring to the barkeep’s gender. Or I could guess. It was, at worst, a fifty-fifty chance. “You’re very trusting,” I said, guessing male, “to let such an indigent”—I knew Seivarden was male, that one was easy—“run up such a debt.” The barkeep said nothing. “Six hundred and fifty covers all of it?”

“Yeah,” said the barkeep. “Pretty much.”

“No, all of it. We will agree now. And if anyone comes after me later demanding more, or tries to rob me, they die.”

Silence. Then the sound behind me of someone spitting. “Radchaai scum.”

“I’m not Radchaai.” Which was true. You have to be human to be Radchaai.

“He is,” said the barkeep, with the smallest shrug toward the door. “You don’t have the accent but you stink like Radchaai.”

“That’s the swill you serve your customers.” Hoots from the patrons behind me. I reached into a pocket, pulled out a handful of chits, and tossed them on the bench. “Keep the change.” I turned to leave.

“Your money better be good.”

“Your sledge had better be out back where you said.” And I left.

The hypothermia kit first. I rolled Seivarden over. Then I tore the seal on the kit, snapped an internal off the card, and pushed it into her bloody, half-frozen mouth. Once the indicator on the card showed green I unfolded the thin wrap, made sure of the charge, wound it around her, and switched it on. Then I went around back for the sledge.

No one was waiting for me, which was fortunate. I didn’t want to leave bodies behind just yet, I hadn’t come here to cause trouble. I towed the sledge around front, loaded Seivarden onto it, and considered taking my outer coat off and laying it on her, but in the end I decided it wouldn’t be that much of an improvement over the hypothermia wrap alone. I powered up the sledge and was off.

I rented a room at the edge of town, one of a dozen two-meter cubes of grimy, gray-green prefab plastic. No bedding, and blankets cost extra, as did heat. I paid—I had already wasted a ridiculous amount of money bringing Seivarden out of the snow.

I cleaned the blood off her as best I could, checked her pulse (still there) and temperature (rising). Once I would have known her core temperature without even thinking, her heart rate, blood oxygen, hormone levels. I would have seen any and every injury merely by wishing it. Now I was blind. Clearly she’d been beaten—her face was swollen, her torso bruised.

The hypothermia kit came with a very basic corrective, but only one, and only suitable for first aid. Seivarden might have internal injuries or severe head trauma, and I was only capable of fixing cuts or sprains. With any luck, the cold and the bruises were all I had to deal with. But I didn’t have much medical knowledge, not anymore. Any diagnosis I could make would be of the most basic sort.

I pushed another internal down her throat. Another check—her skin was no more chill than one would expect, considering, and she didn’t seem clammy. Her color, given the bruises, was returning to a more normal brown. I brought in a container of snow to melt, set it in a corner where I hoped she wouldn’t kick it over if she woke, and then went out, locking the door behind me.

The sun had risen higher in the sky, but the light was hardly any stronger. By now more tracks marred the even snow of last night’s storm, and one or two Nilters were about. I hauled the sledge back to the tavern, parked it behind. No one accosted me, no sounds came from the dark doorway. I headed for the center of town.

People were abroad, doing business. Fat, pale children in trousers and quilted shirts kicked snow at each other, and then stopped and stared with large surprised-looking eyes when they saw me. The adults pretended I didn’t exist, but their eyes turned toward me as they passed. I went into a shop, going from what passed for daylight here to dimness, into a chill just barely five degrees warmer than outside.

A dozen people stood around talking, but instant silence descended as soon as I entered. I realized that I had no expression on my face, and set my facial muscles to something pleasant and noncommittal.

“What do you want?” growled the shopkeeper.

“Surely these others are before me.” Hoping as I spoke that it was a mixed-gender group, as my sentence indicated. I received only silence in response. “I would like four loaves of bread and a slab of fat. Also two hypothermia kits and two general-purpose correctives, if such a thing is available.”

“I’ve got tens, twenties, and thirties.”

“Thirties, please.”

She stacked my purchases on the counter. “Three hundred seventy-five.” There was a cough from someone behind me—I was being overcharged again.

I paid and left. The children were still huddled, laughing, in the street. The adults still passed me as though I weren’t there. I made one more stop—Seivarden would need clothes. Then I returned to the room.

Seivarden was still unconscious, and there were still no signs of shock as far as I could see. The snow in the container had mostly melted, and I put half of one brick-hard loaf of bread in it to soak.

A head injury and internal organ damage were the most dangerous possibilities. I broke open the two correctives I’d just bought and lifted the blanket to lay one across Seivarden’s abdomen, watched it puddle and stretch and then harden into a clear shell. The other I held to the side of her face that seemed the most bruised. When that one had hardened, I took off my outer coat and lay down and slept.

Slightly more than seven and a half hours later, Seivarden stirred and I woke. “Are you awake?” I asked. The corrective I’d applied held one eye closed, and one half of her mouth, but the bruising and the swelling all over her face was much reduced. I considered for a moment what would be the right facial expression, and made it. “I found you in the snow, in front of a tavern. You looked like you needed help.” She gave a faint rasp of breath but didn’t turn her head toward me. “Are you hungry?” No answer, just a vacant stare. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” she said, quiet, her face relaxed and slack.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“When did you eat last?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was calm, without inflection.

I pulled her upright and propped her against the gray-green wall, gingerly, not wanting to cause more injury, wary of her slumping over. She stayed sitting, so I slowly spooned some bread-and-water mush into her mouth, working cautiously around the corrective. “Swallow,” I said, and she did. I gave her half of what was in the bowl that way and then I ate the rest myself, and brought in another pan of snow.

She watched me put another half-loaf of hard bread in the pan, but said nothing, her face still placid. “What’s your name?” I asked. No answer.

She’d taken kef, I guessed. Most people will tell you that kef suppresses emotion, which it does, but that’s not all it does. There was a time when I could have explained exactly what kef does, and how, but I’m not what I once was.

As far as I knew, people took kef so they could stop feeling something. Or because they believed that, emotions out of the way, supreme rationality would result, utter logic, true enlightenment. But it doesn’t work that way.

Pulling Seivarden out of the snow had cost me time and money that I could ill afford, and for what? Left to her own devices she would find herself another hit or three of kef, and she would find her way into another place like that grimy tavern and get herself well and truly killed. If that was what she wanted I had no right to prevent her. But if she had wanted to die, why hadn’t she done the thing cleanly, registered her intention and gone to the medic as anyone would? I didn’t understand.

There was a good deal I didn’t understand, and nineteen years pretending to be human hadn’t taught me as much as I’d thought.

[End Excerpt]

Copyright © 2013 by Ann Leckie.

Excerpted from Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie.

Published by permission of the author and Orbit Books.

All rights reserved.

No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ann Leckie has published short stories in Subterranean Magazine, Strange Horizons, and Realms of Fantasy. Her story “Hesperia and Glory” was reprinted in Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2007 Edition edited by Rich Horton. Ann has worked as a waitress, areceptionist, a rodman on a land-surveying crew, and a recording engineer. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband, children, and cats. You can find her at www.annleckie.com and on Twitter at @Ann_Leckie.

NOVEL EXCERPT: Starhawk
Jack McDevitt

Union Space Station (“The Wheel”),Wednesday, June 17, 2195.

Priscilla was sitting in the Skyview, enjoying a grilled cheese, her notebook propped up on the table. But she wasn’t reading. The room-length portal had, as usual, stolen her attention. She was looking down at the Asian coast. Clusters of lights, like distant stars, sparkled in the night. Shanghai was down there somewhere, and Singapore and Calcutta.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said a familiar voice. She looked up. Leon Carlson, one of the engineers, was smiling at her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sure.” She glanced at the chair on the opposite side of the table, moved her notebook out of his way, and he sat down. “It’s good to see you again, Leon.”

The smiled widened. “And you, Priscilla. How’s the training going? You do your qualification flight yet?”

“No, I’m still a few months away.”

“You must be looking forward to it.”

“More or less. Actually, it’s a little unnerving.”

“You’ll do fine.” He glanced out at the lights. “I’ve never been able to get used to it.”

“Me neither.” He was tall and blond with blue eyes. And he looked pretty good. She took another bite out of her sandwich while he ordered. “How long have you been up here, Leon?” she asked.

“Two years. I’m getting near the end of my assignment. They’ll be sending me back down to Toronto in a few weeks.”

She was sorry to hear it. “That’s home?”

“Yes. I—” His eyes locked on something behind her. He frowned, and a shadow crossed his face.

“Anything wrong?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She looked around. Three people were being seated at a table. A trim formal-looking woman, and two guys, one middle-aged and overweight, the other tall, gray, and bent, with a neatly trimmed beard.

“Who are they?” she asked, keeping her voice down.

He hesitated. “The guy with the beard is one of those Kosmik yo-yos. He’s going out to Selika to help with killing everything off.”

“Oh.” She turned back to him. “You mean the terraforming operation.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I was working on the Thompson yesterday. Getting it ready for the flight. There are seven of them going. I assume the other two are also part of the operation.”

“I get the impression you don’t approve of what they’re doing.”

“Priscilla, when they’re finished turning the atmosphere over, they’ll have killed everything on the planet.” His voice was getting loud. “They talk about creating a special place for us, but they’re taking down an entire world to do it.”

Priscilla didn’t like the idea very much either. But the experts were saying that Selika would be an ideal place for a colony. For a second Earth. The world was still undergoing severe problems with climate, global population was pushing its limits, and fanatics with bioweapons continued to leave a lot of people with a desire to retreat to somewhere else. Kosmik was denying the charges, insisting that the kill-off simply wasn’t happening, but adding that even if it was, it would be a price well worth paying for a backup world.

A staring contest developed between Leon and the two men. “But that’s okay,” Leon said, getting still louder. “As long as we have a place to hang out. That’s all that matters, right? If we have to butcher a lot of stuff, well, those things happen—”

She heard a chair move. (The chairs, of course were magnetized, to prevent their floating off the deck.) The fat guy had stood up. He was holding on to the table, but his eyes had narrowed and he was showing teeth. He was bigger than she’d realized. A linebacker type.

“Don’t,” she told Leon, who was also getting to his feet. “Sit down.”

He ignored her. “You got a problem?” he asked the fat man.

The restaurant was about half-full, but they had everyone’s attention. The host was watching them nervously.

“You idiot,” said the fat man. “Years from now, people will be thanking us for what we’re doing.” He was standing his ground, challenging Leon to act. Or sit back down.

Priscilla got up. Her inclination was to put both hands on Leon’s chest to restrain him, but she’d have had to let go of the table to do that, not a good tactic in a near-zero-gee environment. “Please stop,” she said, speaking to both.

The host hurried over and assured everyone, including the two potential combatants, that everything was all right and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to call security.

Leon and the fat man continued to glare. The woman at the other table said something, the man with the gray beard reached over, grabbed the fat man’s sleeve, and tugged him back into his seat. Some of the tension dissipated, and Leon also dropped back into his chair.

“The problem,” Leon said to her, still making no effort to keep his voice down, “is that people don’t know what’s going on.” He reached for her notebook. “May I borrow this?”

“Sure,” she said. “But go easy, okay?”

He brought up a forest scene. Trees were shrunken and desiccated. “This is Selika,” he said. And they weren’t really trees. Never had been. Not in the way Priscilla thought of trees. They were rather, or had been, an odd combination of animal and vegetable, large animated plants that had spread their leafy tendrils toward the sun when they were not swaying gently in the shifting winds. They weren’t beautiful in the manner of a pine or a eucalyptus. They were a bit too unsettling for that. In fact, although she didn’t like to admit it even to herself, they made her hair stand on end.

“They’re not dangerous,” Leon said. “There aren’t any flytraps on Selika. Or pitcher plants or anything like that. As far as we know there’s no carnivorous vegetation of any kind.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. But they were spooky all the same. She’d seen them before, of course. As virtuals. Their sheer animation was enough to rattle her.

“You should see Selika from orbit,” Leon continued. “The vegetation has all turned gray. It used to be a lush, green place. Now what they have would make you sick. The skies, when we first went there, were filled with bugs and birds and capos. They’re now almost empty. Like the forest.”

She heard a struggle beginning behind her. And a woman’s frustrated voice: “For God’s sake, Bernie, sit.”

Then a male: “Let’s just get out of here.” Priscilla resisted the impulse to turn around.

Leon of course was watching them. “They’re leaving,” he said.

But there was a final round: The fat man, Bernie, took a step in their direction. “How the hell do you know anything, moron?” he said. “You ever been there? Or do you just watch HV?”

Leon stayed in his seat this time. “I’ve been there,” he said. “I built your operational center. Which I will regret for the rest of my life.”

Bernie’s companions marched him away, and left the host looking both annoyed and relieved. As they went out the door, two guys arrived and began talking with one of the waiters. Presumably security.

The host joined the conference, but they took it outside.

“You know,” said Leon. “There were warnings. Kosmik knew in advance this would probably happen. There are several people doing research on an alternate method. But the corporates don’t want to wait.”

Priscilla nodded. “Too much money involved, I guess.”

“Yeah. We wouldn’t want Kosmik to lose its investment.”

“So why is it happening? Why’s there a big die-off, do you know?”

“I’m not an expert, Priscilla. But, as I understand it, if you screw around with the atmosphere, change the oxygen-nitrogen balance even a little, you can expect consequences. They hired a lot of experts to explain how there’d be no problem, that the life forms would be just fine.” He couldn’t restrain the bitterness. “And I helped them.”

“What about the colonists? I wouldn’t think they’ll want to live in a place where everything’s gone.”

“Hell,” he said, “they probably wouldn’t have liked the native life anyhow. They’ll bring their own German shepherds and house cats and oak trees and sycamores and hedges and never know the difference.”

PRISCILLA’S JOURNAL

I couldn’t help thinking about all those old science fiction stories from the early years of the space age. There were always aliens showing up who wanted to kill everybody and take over the world. Turns out maybe, we are the aliens.

—June 17, 2195

[End Excerpt]

Copyright © 2013 by Jack McDevitt.

Excerpted from Starhawk by Jack McDevitt.

Published by permission of the author and Ace Books.

All rights reserved.

No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Jack McDevitt has been described by Stephen King as “the logical heir to Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke.” He is the author of nineteen novels, eleven of which have been Nebula finalists. His novel Seeker won the award in 2007. In 2003, Omega received the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best science fiction novel. McDevitt’s most recent books are Firebird, an Alex Benedict mystery, and The Cassandra Project (co-written with Mike Resnick) from Ace. The latter reveals the real reason for the Watergate burglary. A new novel, Starhawk, has just been released. A Philadelphia native, McDevitt had a varied career before becoming a writer. He’s been a naval officer, an English teacher, a customs officer, and a taxi driver. He has also conducted leadership seminars. He is married to the former Maureen McAdams, and resides in Brunswick, Georgia, where he keeps a weather eye on hurricanes.

NOVEL EXCERPT: SEAL Team 13
Evan Currie

Prologue

South China Sea

Ten Years Ago

The rain was beating down, almost drowning out the roar of the twin outboards that pushed the small craft away from the Chinese coast. The blue waves were building on them, but the pilot of the boat kept the throttle open as his passengers scrambled about in what could easily be mistaken for sheer panic.

“What the HELL was that thing?!”

“Mother of God! I’m seeing things!”

“If you are, we are, so shut it and stay focused, sailor!” the commander growled.

Lieutenant Harold “Hawk” Masters kept his eyes fixed on the ocean ahead of him, one hand on the wheel, the other pushing the throttle as far as it would go. They crested a wave at better than fifty miles per hour, the trained responses of the team causing them to hunker down as the rubber boat left the surface of the water, becoming momentarily airborne.

Two of the men covered their primary, a Chinese national who’d been flipped by a CIA deep cover agent and now needed extraction, pushing him to the bottom of the boat just before the craft came crashing back down into the water, the whine of the motors becoming a gurgling roar as the props once more found something to bite into.

“Keep us right side up, Hawk!”

“Don’t worry about me, Commander!” Hawk yelled back. “Just nuke that sucker!”

Lieutenant Commander Alexander Johnson “AJ” Webster didn’t respond as he came up to one knee and swept the sea with a cold hard gaze that belied the tight knot in his gut.

The extraction mission had been going by the numbers, Hawk thought as he tried to stay focused on his task, just as smoothly as anyone had any right to expect, which he supposed should have been their first clue. They’d penetrated the Chinese coastal defenses just after 0300 local time and landed on the target beach without any problems. The pickup had gone off without a hitch—no sign of local police or military as they packed their primary into the boat and took off.

Everything went nuts after the continental shelf dropped out from under them. At first Hawk had thought they’d struck a whale—the impact had nearly capsized the small craft, and three men had been thrown clear. While the men were swimming back, though, it became clear that whatever it was, it was no whale.

Two of the men had been sucked under by whatever it was, and while they’d managed to pull the third aboard, he was missing the bottom half of his leg, and he bled out on the deck of the boat. AJ had ordered them to keep moving just seconds later, when it became clear that their two mates weren’t coming back up.

Had to be one mother of a shark, Hawk had supposed, inwardly cringing at the thought. Getting eaten alive was no way for a SEAL to go out. No damn way at all.

Now, though, he wasn’t sure what the hell it was. No shark on the planet would chase a damned boat at better than fifty miles per hour. No way, no how. Must be some kind of Chinese marine weapon, but damned if he could imagine anything that could do this.

The sound of small-arms fire erupted around him, but he kept watching the water. Somewhere out there the Fitzgerald was waiting, and then they’d see who had the bigger guns.

He almost missed the bulge in the water ahead of them, as it appeared at little better than point-blank range.

“Crap!” he snarled out. “Hang on!”

The SEALs threw themselves down, wrapping arms into and around anything they could as Hawk spun the wheel and started to pray.

USS Fitzgerald

The USS Fitzgerald was an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer, one of the more advanced oceangoing weapon systems on the planet. She’d been under her current command for four years, and Captain Izerman was looking forward to another twelve before he retired, barring any promotions. He was settled into the command station, sipping his coffee as the crew went about their duties with the level of professional care he’d come to expect from them.

They’d been cruising their current arc for two days, but that was about to end. The team was due for pickup soon, and then the Fitzgerald would be ordered to begin its sweep back to Pearl for a refit. Izerman looked out over the sweeping ocean ahead of them and smiled tightly as he held his mug. He did love his job, even the long hours of mind-numbing boredom that came with it.

A young officer approached, more tentatively than Izerman would have liked from his junior, looking on for a moment before speaking. “Captain?”

“What is it, Ensign?”

“I think I have the team on approach.”

Izerman grunted, glancing at the clock. “They’re early.”

“Yes, sir. Coming in fast, sir. Very fast.”

“Oh?” The captain rose up, walking over to lean over the screen. “Any sign of pursuit?”

“Negative, sir.”

“I guess they must have been in a mood to push it, then,” the captain mused, walking toward the large windows that looked out over the forward deck of the Fitzgerald. “NODs.”

“Here, sir.”

The yeoman standing the watch lowered the night observation devices (NODs) from his eyes and dropped the night observation device into the captain’s hand. Izerman raised it to his eyes, sweeping the dark seas in the direction the instruments said the team was coming from. For a long moment he found nothing, and then there they were, a dark spot on a dark ocean, showing up just enough for him to pick them out.

He watched for a moment; then his breath hitched, and he dropped the NODs, eyes widening.

“Commander,” Izerman called sharply.

“Sir!” Commander Yvonne Sanderson called, stepping to his side in an instant.

“Check me,” he ordered, handing her the NODs. “Four o’clock.”

The petite commander nodded and took the device from him, quickly sweeping the night sea herself. She found the target quickly, and the captain saw her freeze as he had, her breath coming out in a whoosh as she dropped the NODs and looked over at him.

“Small-arms fire, sir.”

He nodded at the confirmation, pivoting on his heel. “General quarters! All hands to battle stations!”

“General Quarters, aye!”

Klaxons began to wail as the ship’s already-dark lights shifted further into the red, and the USS Fitzgerald went to war.

Hawk groaned as he picked himself up off the deck of the small craft, ears ringing from the impact and the sound of gunfire. An arm grabbed his shoulder, shaking him hard.

He swiveled around and found himself staring into the commander’s face. AJ’s mouth moved, but no sound seemed to come out. The commander shook him again, then looked behind him and shouted something else.

Sound came back to Hawk in a rush, staggering him, but he held on tightly to the return of his senses and focused on AJ, who was screaming at him again. “Damn it, Hawk, snap out of it!”

“I’m okay. . . . I’m okay, boss.”

“Good man! Check the motors; we’ve got to get moving again!”

Hawk nodded, crawling unsteadily back to the controls. He jammed his thumb down on the starter, but only received an ugly grinding sound in return. He winced, crawled back to the rear of the boat, and hauled up one of the outboards.

When he saw the twisted wreckage of the prop, he swore loud and hard, dropped the motor back into the water, and yanked up the other one.

Same sight, same desecration of the English language.

“We are boned, Commander!” he called out, looking over his shoulder. “Both outboards are shot to hell!”

AJ swore too, then nodded. “Grab your gear, Hawk, and if you see something moving in this soup, blow it away. Rankin! Tell me you’ve got the Fitzgerald on the comms!”

Hawk blocked out their conversation, trusting his mates to do their jobs, and flipped open the compartment where he’d stashed his weapon. He pulled the German UMP-45 from the box, checking the action and breech on reflex, and turned back to the rear of the boat as he automatically shouldered the weapon.

The tactical light lit off as his finger swept across the trigger, illuminating the sea just beyond the boat, and Hawk did something he had never done in his life, especially since joining the SEALs.

He froze.

Against all training, against his instincts, and against everything he’d ever considered himself to be, Hawk froze as his eyes slowly began to range upward, drawn inexorably to the column of . . . something that was rising from the ocean. It was only a few yards away, as thick around as the entire freaking boat he was in, and he felt his jaw slacken as he took it in. It towered above them, waving slightly like some monstrous vine hanging from a tree. Only it was hanging up, and it was far too large to be any kind of vine or plant or any other damn thing he could think of. His weapon slumped for a moment as he started, and nothing else seemed to exist for him just then.

Then the moment passed and Hawk’s eyes widened as the thing began to topple.

“Holyyyy . . . ,” he said slowly, barely suppressing the insane urge to scream “Timber!” “Shit! Evac the boat! Now, now, now . . .”

The men behind him swung around, guns lining up as they opened fire, but it was far too little and far too late. A few threw themselves aside in time as the enormous limb crashed down into the boat, splintering fiberglass and destroying metal as it drove the small military Zodiac below the waves.

“What are they shooting at?!”

“I don’t know, Captain!” The beleaguered response came from a harried lieutenant. “There’s nothing on radar!”

“Stealth ship?” Izerman asked instantly. The Chinese were rumored to be developing something along those lines, but they weren’t supposed to be anywhere near either the British or American programs, and he was pretty sure neither of them had ships in the open water yet.

“If it is, it’s the tightest stealthing imaginable, sir!”

“Sonar! Submerged contacts?”

“We’ve got . . . something, Cap,” the sonar operator confirmed, but his tone was decidedly uncertain.

“I need more details!”

“I don’t have any! There’s something out there, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Izerman growled, pushing his way over to the station to take a look at the contact himself. He saw in an instant what the mate was talking about—the screen contact faded in and out, looking more like a living being than any submarine he’d ever come across.

The closest thing the captain could connect it with was a pod of whales he’d once tracked along the Alaskan coast. Even that wasn’t a match, though, and he was as flabbergasted as his man.

“Target a hundred yards behind the team,” he ordered, turning back to the weapons station. “Put a warning shot out there.”

“Aye, sir.”

Out on deck the five-inch Mark 45 came to life, pivoting to bear on the distant target as the Fitzgerald surged under military power toward its wayward SEAL team. The gun roared out, flash lighting the deck and sea for a moment, sending its deadly payload down range.

“Someone get me the team on the goddamned radio already!”

Hawk surged to the surface, gasping for air as he turned in the water and looked for others. Part of the team’s boat was bobbing a short distance away, a segment of the inflated rubber section, and he quickly swam over and hooked an arm on it as he pulled his UMP up and shook water out of the barrel.

“AJ?!” he called out. “Rankin! Mercer!”

A splash of water caused him to pivot hard, bringing the UMP around, and its light fell on the terrified face of the Chinese national whom they’d extracted. Hawk didn’t have time for the man, so he just grabbed him with one arm, practically throwing him up over the floating rubber section.

“Hold on, and keep quiet!” he ordered as he turned away.

“Hawk!”

Eddie Rankin was swimming in his direction, pulling a body along with him. “Gimme a hand, Hawk. It’s the boss.”

Hawk swore, but reached out and helped his friend and classmate pull AJ up to the floating part of the wreck. Between them they managed to manhandle the unconscious SEAL onto it, next to the Chinese national, who looked like he was in shock. Hawk checked the commander’s pulse and closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head when he opened them and saw Rankin looking his way.

“Jesus,” Rankin swore. Then after a moment he hissed, “What the hell was that thing?”

“No idea,” Hawk replied, gritting his teeth as he looked around. “You see anything?”

“Not a damn thing. You think it’s gone?”

“It followed us from China—hell no, it ain’t gone.”

A whistling sound broke through the air just then, and the two SEALs paled.

“Incoming!” Hawk shouted.

The shot was beyond their position, obviously, because they’d heard the sound of the incoming freight train, but both men threw themselves as far as they could onto the wreckage to get out of the water before the round went off, just in case it was closer than they thought.

The roar came from well past their position, however, and they didn’t even feel a rain of water come down on them, so they both breathed easier for a moment. Hawk craned his neck, looking around, and was the first to spot the source.

“It’s the Fitzgerald!” he called out. “She’s here!”

“It’s about frickin’ time!”

Hawk fished around in his web gear for a moment, then pulled out a flare and popped it off against the wreckage. As it lit up, he waved it as high as he could get it, hoping to hell that someone was looking in their direction.

“Flare in the water!”

Commander Sanderson’s call lit a fire under several people on the bridge, and Captain Izerman rose to his feet.

“Send out the Seahawk, and pick up any survivors.”

“Aye, Captain!” Sanderson said resolutely.

Izerman looked around grimly. “Have we got any clue as to what’s going on out there?”

Silence answered the question, though not at all to the captain’s liking. He shook his head, his face set in grim rigor. “Fine. Get the helo in the air, and all hands stand ready for antisubmarine drills.”

“Aye, sir,” came the reply from one of his men.

The only thing Izerman felt relatively confident of was the fact that there was something out there. SEAL teams didn’t go shooting up empty patches of ocean while on mission. While they were on leave, it might be a different story, but never on mission. If they had been shooting up the water for no reason, well, they weren’t going to be SEALs for much longer.

“ETA to target location?”

“Ten minutes, sir,” the sonar operator responded.

Izerman nodded, forcing himself to settle in for the wait. Less than a minute later the beat of helo blades could be heard in the command deck, and those inside could see the LAMPS-III CH-60S flashing lights as it flew past the bridge and out into the night.

“Someone had better tell me what’s going on here sometime soon, or I’m going to lose it,” Izerman growled, eyes staring out into the dark as his mind tried to make sense of the insane situation.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the wake of his comment, and it stretched out until a warning sound came from the sonar station.

“Now what?”

“Incoming contact, Captain. It’s the same thing that was out by the team, sir. . . . I think.”

Izerman wished the man sounded more certain. “I hope you have more details this time,” he said.

“Yes, sir, but it’s still not totally clear—”

“I’ll take what you’ve got.”

“It’s moving fast, better than fifty knots, and closing in on our position.”

“What?!” Izerman lurched to his feet again, knowing that nothing natural moved at that speed. “Torpedoes!”

“Torpedoes, aye!” came the return cry.

“Collision course!”

Izerman grabbed the squawk, keying open the mic. “All hands, brace for impact!”

He dropped the mic, then nodded to the weapons station. “Fire all tubes.”

“Fire all tubes, aye!”

Outside, on deck, the rush of exploding gasses vented across the ship as her two Mark 36 launchers fired their six Mark 46 ADCAPs into the rolling sea.

“Fish in the water!” the sonar station called out. “They’re tracking! They’ve gone terminal!”

“Already?” Izerman snapped, grabbing hold of a nearby wall. “Sound collision! Hard to starboard!”

“Hard to starboard, aye-aye!”

Alarms blared across the ship as the men and women on board took a second from their duties to make sure they weren’t about to be thrown across the decks, then immediately returned their focus to their jobs.

“Jesus, Captain, it’s almost right underneath us already—”

The sonar operator’s exclamation was cut off by a plume of water erupting just off the bow of the boat, showering the foredeck with water. The Arleigh Burke–class destroyer rode the shockwave, barely shuddering as it drove on. The second and third explosions threw them a little to one side, knocking around some things inside the ship, but the fourth through sixth detonations were considerably less powerful as the Fitzgerald began to put some distance between itself and the things that went boom.

As the concussions quieted down, Izerman looked around. “Sonar, do you have anything?”

There was a long silence as the sonar operator tried to clear up the noise he was reading and differentiate between an actual contact and the residual sounds of the explosions. After a long moment he looked up. “No contact, Captain.”

There was a collective exhale, the atmosphere noticeably relaxing as the captain nodded and moved over to the communications station.

“Get on the horn to the Seahawk. I want to know as soon as they locate the team.”

“Aye, sir,” the commander answered.

Izerman shook his head, walking across the command deck to the sonar station. “You reading anything out there? Even wreckage?”

“That’s the weird thing, Cap. . . . There’s nothing. It’s like whatever it was just disappeared.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t count on that. There aren’t many things capable of surviving six hits from our torpedoes.”

The sonar operator nodded in agreement.

“Keep looking. Just in case.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Izerman walked over to his first officer, his face grim as he pondered the events of the last few moments. “Any ideas, Evie?”

Yvonne Sanderson shook her head. “Never seen anything like it, sir. Fifty knots, at the size sonar was reading—I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Me either,” Izerman said softly, glancing around, “other than a swarm of torpedoes, but if that was it—”

“We’d be dead.”

“Maybe not—we probably would have gotten a lot of them with the six we fired, but still . . .”

Commander Sanderson nodded. “It still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Right on the money.”

“Do you think the ship was Chinese, sir?”

Izerman winced. “I sure as hell hope not, but what else could it have been?”

She shrugged, shaking her head. “I don’t know. . . .”

“Captain! Contact!”

Izerman twisted around, looking over at the sonar operator with a fierce expression. “Location!”

“Three hundred feet directly under us and rising! Two fifty! Two hundred!”

“Ahead flank!”

“One fifty!”

The ship surged forward under full military power, her engines sending a whine through the steel of the ship as it swished against the water surrounding it.

“One hundred!”

Izerman staggered over to the sonar station, leaning in close in time to see the rising contact. It was huge, bigger than he’d seen before, and it was indeed coming right up under them.

“Seventy-five feet!”

The Fitzgerald was accelerating forward, but it was obvious that they weren’t going to get clear in time.

“Fifty feet.”

“Sound collision!” Izerman ordered.

“Aye-aye!”

The collision alarms began blaring again as the sonar man announced twenty-five feet and grabbed his console to brace himself. The captain did likewise as the sonar image became an amorphous blob that was too close and too large to distinguish.

For a moment nothing happened, and Izerman entertained the absurd hope that it had all been some bizarre system malfunction. He looked around, took a breath to speak, and then was cut off by a shocked scream. When he looked over, a young ensign was pointing wordlessly out the window at the foredeck. Izerman shifted his gaze and was transfixed by what he saw.

Outside, on either side of the ship, thick limbs had risen from the sea. They were towering over the ship, shedding water on all sides as the Fitzgerald surged onward, looking for all the world like the massive tree trunks of some insane jungle they were sailing through. Izerman was at a loss for words and ideas, his mind boggled by what he was seeing.

Then the strange limbs began to fall back toward the sea, only instead of sinking they were toppling across the deck of his ship.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

The shocking vibrations shook the destroyer as they all braced themselves through the slamming impacts. Izerman shook himself free of his stupor and managed to call out his next orders.

“Master-at-Arms! Draw weapons from the armory and have security report on deck to repel . . . boarders.” He finished the order a little weakly, but he had no idea how else to say it. He certainly couldn’t order them to report on deck to clear it of giant squid tentacles?

Because that was what they looked like, he realized. Tentacles tightening around his ship as if around prey. It was insane, not to mention utterly impossible, yet it was the only comparison that worked.

Men were already pouring out on deck, and small-arms fire was roaring loud enough to be heard in the command center. They watched as the men poured fire into the things, some of them even grabbing fire axes and hacking at the tree-trunk-sized limbs. The effect was less than impressive.

A groan of metal stole Captain Izerman’s attention away from the action on deck, and he looked around, trying to identify the source.

“What the hell was that?”

“Not sure, sir. The engines are starting to heat up, but they’re well within tolerance.” The commander sounded concerned, but not too worried just yet.

Izerman nodded vacantly, still looking for the source of the groaning sound even as it came again. He looked out at the deck, then beyond it, at an oncoming wave. Izerman’s eyes widened as he watched the wave actually break over the deck, and he frowned. It wasn’t that rough out there.

“What on . . . ,” he trailed off as his eyes widened. “We’re being dragged under!”

A sharp cry of surprise rose up around him, at first tinged with disbelief, then with fear. The waves were now washing over the deck with regularity, and several of his men had been washed overboard.

“Launch the rescue craft!” Izerman ordered. “Engines full astern! Break us free!”

“Aye-aye!”

The Fitzgerald’s engines whined in response to his team’s work, and the big ship shuddered, but the grasping limbs didn’t budge. Izerman swallowed as the sea broke over the bow of the ship, rushing up the foredeck and crashing into the bridge.

He suddenly knew that he wasn’t going to get the ship loose, and also that he’d waited too long to order an evacuation.

He still had to try.

“All hands, abandon ship! I say again, all hands abandon ship!”

The order given, Captain Izerman watched as the water climbed up and swallowed the deck of his ship. Those in the bridge knew they weren’t getting out when the water rushed past the windows and they found themselves staring down into a murky sea.

Izerman reached out one hand toward the window as the first crack formed and let out a single whispered word.

“No.”

Then the glass shattered and the ocean rushed in.

The beat of the rotors washed out over the sea as the helo’s powerful searchlights scanned for any sign of the SEAL team in the waters below. The crew had trained for this a thousand times, but the stakes were always higher in real life—they knew that they were all that stood between the men below and a watery grave.

“Sir, something’s going on back at the Fitz.”

Commander Gavin glanced over at his copilot. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, sir, but their lights are weird.”

“What?” The pilot frowned, leaning over to glance in the direction where his copilot was looking. “What are you talking about?”

“Just look for yourself.”

Gavin turned the helo around, then frowned and tipped its nose forward as he circled back toward the ship.

“Hey! We haven’t cleared the area yet!” the rescue swimmer yelled from behind him.

“It’ll have to wait!”

As they got closer, the scene below them became more and more bizarre, until the reality of the situation finally dawned on them. None of them could quite believe it. They were seeing the lights of the USS Fitzgerald as they shone from twenty feet down. The ship was sinking.

“Holy shit,” Gavin said in a stunned voice. “What the hell just happened?”

There was no response other than the beat of the Seahawk’s rotors and the shimmering light refracted from the water below.

“Where are they going?” Rankin asked, his voice husky.

“Don’t know, brother,” Hawk said as he clung to the remains of the raft, fatigue beginning to seep through the adrenaline and numb his arm.

He looked around before his eyes returned once again to where the Fitz had been, focusing on the eerie glow that was fading into the distance. It had to somehow be coming from the Fitz, but he couldn’t imagine how they could have gotten that far away so quickly. The glow didn’t look right either, more like some ghostly apparition fading into the night than the lights of a US destroyer.

The lapping of the waves against the wreck somehow seemed louder in his ears as the sound of the helo rotors faded in and out in the distance. He pulled himself up a bit higher, then secured the Chinese national a bit better before slumping against the partially inflated rubber membrane.

They’d started the night with a full squad of real-deal US Navy SEALs, now all that was left were two battered SEALs and a Chinese national who looked like he’d been drowned twice and put away wet.

“Anyone have a freaking clue what the hell just happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Chapter One

Washington DC, the Pentagon

Present Day

The man walked through the halls of the E-Ring, ignoring those around him as he locked his eyes on the entrance to the tank. The case cuffed to his arm barely swung with the motion of his walk, and he moved more stiffly as he got closer.

At the security entrance to the tank he paused as the two marine guards eyeballed him, then directed him to the security station.

“Rear Admiral Karson, reporting as ordered.”

“Yes, sir. Please look into the scanner, sir,” the marine ordered him politely, one hand not quite resting on his weapon.

Karson grunted but leaned over and stared into the retinal scanner, letting the infrared beam do its work. It paused for a moment, then chimed as his identity was confirmed.

“Very good, sir. You’re cleared to enter.”

Karson nodded and waited for the doors to begin to open, slipping through as soon as there was room. He walked over to the conference table, nodding to the men who were already seated there, then saluted.

“Admiral Karson reporting, sirs.”

“At ease.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Karson said, depositing the case on the table. “I have the recordings from the North Sea Task Force.”

The president nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Is it as we feared?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

A soft murmur rose up around the table, the two- and three-star admirals and generals unable to quite keep their thoughts to themselves in that moment. Karson understood the temptation, but his nose didn’t quite bleed enough yet to join them.

“That’s the fourth incident this year,” the president said.

“Confirmed, you mean,” was Karson’s reply. “There have been several incidents which defy our attempts at classification. And that’s just in the navy’s jurisdiction, don’t forget.”

“Yes, yes,” the president agreed, “confirmed incidents. And that’s not even accounting for civilian losses, and attacks on other nations’ militaries. I can’t believe that we’re the only ones suffering these attacks.”

“Certainly not,” General Brewer, a US SOCOM (Special Operations Command) commander spoke up. “The Russians lost a carrier three years ago, and that submarine the year before. We’re pretty sure the story they sold to the public about reactor malfunctions is a cover. While we’re almost certainly losing more ships, it’s most likely because we’ve got a lot more to lose. Reports from land units are more spotty, but it’s clear that something strange is happening there too. I lost a team last month in Brazil, and all that was left of them was their gear and kit. The rescue team didn’t find any sign of their bodies, even though we dropped on their position less than six hours after the mayday call. The scene looked like something out a movie, and it wasn’t one of the happy ones.”

“Keeping this quiet is rapidly becoming a larger strain than we’re prepared to handle.”

The group turned to look at the one man other than the president who wasn’t in uniform, many of them paling slightly at the thought of the public finding out about a problem they couldn’t yet explain, let alone resolve.

Eric Durance, the CIA’s case officer for the incidents, met their gaze with an even look.

“We might have a better chance at keeping a lid on things if we could get some reliable intelligence on the situation,” General Cullen, military liaison to the White House, growled at the CIA man.

“I’m sure we would,” Eric replied in the same calm tone he’d used earlier, “but whatever is behind these incidents doesn’t use electronic communication, which basically cripples ninety percent of my surveillance capability. We don’t all get multitrillion dollar budgets, General.”

“Enough.”

The single word from the president quieted the table as he looked up from the file he had been skimming.

“I think you’re all missing something important here,” he said tiredly.

The table’s focus was unwaveringly on him as everyone began to rack their minds for what they might have missed that would have caught their president’s attention.

“These events seem to be on the rise,” he said after a moment. “Over the past decade, we’ve seen at least a twenty percent increase each year.”

“It’s been more like thirty most years, sir,” Eric Durance said wearily. “On average, at least. In reality, the increase is speeding up. This year was an almost fifty percent over last year, so we might be looking at the start of a geometric escalation.”

That was a bomb he’d been saving for another time, but the president’s words had given him the opening he needed to be taken seriously, and Durance wasn’t the sort to waste opportunities.

“If that’s true, we won’t be able to keep this quiet for more than another five years, and we’d better have some answers for the public,” he said, finishing off what his previous bomb had left standing.

The table descended into chaos as the generals and admirals began to argue over what could be done. It was all a joke in Durance’s opinion, since a military response wasn’t terribly useful when you didn’t know what the hell you were shooting at, where it was, what it wanted, or basically anything else about the enemy.

The president let them go on for a few minutes, then slapped his hand down on the table.

“Enough!”

They quieted down, sitting back as they returned their attention to the commander-in-chief.

“Does anyone here have a plan of action that might stand a chance in hell of doing something other than losing us more men and women?”

The assembled men looked at each other furtively, and no one answered, not until Karson quietly cleared his throat.

As one the table looked at the most junior man there, their expressions ranging from incredulous surprise to near malicious disapproval. The president, however, just nodded. “I’m listening, Admiral.”

“The first confirmed case was ten years ago,” Karson said, taking a deep breath as he mustered his courage. “The USS Fitzgerald was lost in the South China Sea, leaving only a handful of survivors. The initial investigation took over a year, and wasn’t really bumped up to this department for three years. Most of the survivors went with the official story, which was that there was a training accident and a fire on board the ship.”

“We’re aware of this.”

“Yes, sir.” Karson looked down at the table, avoiding the censorious gaze of the vice admiral on the other side of it. “The Fitzgerald was in that area on a retrieval mission, picking up a SEAL team that was coming back from a penetration of Chinese territory. Only two of the men survived, although they did achieve their mission of extracting the agent we’d flipped.”

Karson took out a folder and tossed it open onto the table.

“Meet one Harold Masters, team name ‘Hawk.’ He was an up-and-coming lieutenant in the Teams before that mission, on a fast track to command his own squad. He refused to go with the official story, except in public. In his reports he stated categorically, time and again, that his team had been attacked by something resembling a giant squid.”

Karson looked up at the assembled men, his eyes landing on Durance. “The CIA handler who was overseeing the extraction recommended that he be silenced before his ravings could spill over into other operations. Masters’s security clearance was revoked, and he chose to retire rather than being drummed out on a dishonorable.”

“What does this have to do with anything, Karson?” Durance asked.

“Look at what he’s been doing since that mission,” Karson said quietly, pushing a folder toward the other man. “We keep tabs on people like him, in case they need to be reminded of their confidentiality agreements. He hasn’t. However, he has been doing a lot of research since then.”

“Old copies of the Bible, Talmud, and Koran?” Durance asked, looking over the report. “Prophecy texts from 100 BC? Books on mysticism, new-age bullshit, and so-called cryptozoology? He’s a nut.”

“Fact. Masters’s SEAL team was destroyed by some kind of giant squid. His account agrees with his teammate’s, and even the Chinese national swore the same thing when we recovered him. And what they’ve said has been backed up by later encounters with similar creatures. Yes, his research isn’t exactly conventional, but these are the sorts of things we’re here to discuss, gentlemen,” Karson said firmly. “Masters has also read works on exobiology, genetic mutations, and paleobiology. This is a man who’s looking for answers, and he’s been looking for them for at least five years longer than we have.”

“We have resources he can’t even imagine. Anything he’s learned, we can find in seconds.” Cullen snorted derisively.

“True, but we would still need five years to build up that kind of knowledge,” Karson said in return. “Sirs, please, I’m not suggesting that we throw out everything we’ve done. What I’m saying is that it’s time to start thinking outside the box, at least until we can determine how big the damn box is. Masters was no fool—he’s cast a wide net, and I say we go ask him if he’s caught anything in it.”

The gathered men grumbled quietly, but went silent when the president leaned forward.

“You think this will get us anywhere, Admiral?”

“I don’t think we can afford to ignore the possibility that it might, Mr. President.”

The president nodded. “Very well. Go see your Mr. Masters.”

“Sir?”

“It’s your idea, Karson. Run with it.”

[End Excerpt]

Copyright © 2013 by Evan Currie.

Excerpted from SEAL Team 13 by Evan Currie.

Published by permission of the author and 47North.

All rights reserved.

No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Evan Currie is the bestselling author of the Odyssey One series, the Warrior’s Wings series, and more. Although his post-secondary education was in computer sciences, and he has worked in the local lobster industry steadily over the last decade, writing has always been his true passion. Currie himself says it best: “It’s what I do for fun and to relax. There’s not much I can imagine better than being a storyteller.”

Interview: Chris Kluwe
The Geeks Guide to the Galaxy

Chris Kluwe is an NFL punter who played eight seasons with the Minnesota Vikings. He made national headlines last year for a colorful, profanity-laden letter he wrote to Maryland state delegate Emmett C. Burns taking him to task for his opposition to gay marriage. Kluwe is also a hardcore geek who enjoys science fiction novels, video games, and pen-and-paper role-playing games. His new book, Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies, is a collection of highly opinionated essays on subjects ranging from football to humanity’s future in space.

This interview first appeared on Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast, which is hosted by John Joseph Adams and David Barr Kirtley. Visit geeksguideshow.com to listen to the entire interview and the rest of the show, in which the hosts discuss various geeky topics.

First of all, for our listeners, I wanted to run through what some of your geeky interests are. You belonged to a top-ranked World of Warcraft guild, and your Twitter handle is @chriswarcraft. You also write video game reviews, and you own your own tabletop gaming store. You claim to have read basically every fantasy and science fiction book in existence, and you’re working on your own science fiction trilogy. Am I missing anything there? Is that most of the big stuff?

That should about cover it, I think.

The first question I have is, would you say that you’re the geekiest pro athlete that you know of?

I’d definitely say I am a geek first and pro athlete second. It’s a great way to fund all my hobbies. It’s really fantastic.

Do you know of any other pro athletes that even come close? Who would be in second place or anything like that?

I don’t know anyone that comes close. I’ve met guys who’ve played World of Warcraft. I know one guy who plays Final Fantasy XI, it’s like, “Wow, hats off to you, sir.” I haven’t met anyone who’s into tabletop gaming and pen-and-paper gaming, or just the variety of interests that I have.

You said that you were always a huge nerd, but you were also good at sports, so who did you mostly hang out with growing up? Was it jocks, or nerds, or what?

I hung out mainly with my friends. I had one really good friend growing up from kindergarten, and then two other friends I met at high school: Jeff, Ki, and Austin. Pretty much just hung out with them, and I don’t know that I would really classify us as either jocks or geeks. Ki ran track, and Jeff and Austin just did normal P.E. Then I played football, soccer, and baseball. We’d talk about video games, books, and whatever. We just hung out.

You were telling us before we started recording that you still are playing tabletop games with Austin. So, your friends had some serious geeky interests back then, I would guess, right?

We all played video games, and we were all huge into online games, and that was when Ultima Online first came out, and Counter-Strike was just coming out. We were definitely into playing those. We tried to run some D&D campaigns and some Shadowrun campaigns, but we never really had the attention span for it then, so it inevitably fizzled out after a couple of play sessions. Now that we’re older, Austin’s starting up another Shadowrun campaign, and I’m very excited to begin playing, and I’m making my mage right now.

I did hear you say in an interview that as a kid you would kind of give people a bad time sometimes, and that actually reading science fiction helped you grow out of that. Could you talk about that?

It was more just the social influences around me. It was like, “Okay, that person’s different, let’s make fun of them.” I say reading SF probably helped with that just in terms of presenting a universe where many different things are happening, and generally science fiction has very utopian ideals in it. As I grew older and matured, I realized, “Hey, why am I making fun of these people? If I want to have the freedom to live my life, then everyone else has to have the freedom to live their life.” That’s the only way the equation makes sense. It was more a growing and maturing process, but, yes, science fiction definitely helped with that.

You’re probably best known these days for speaking out in favor of marriage equality. For people who don’t know, do you want to explain the story behind that?

The whole process started when a player for the Baltimore Ravens, Brendon Ayanbadejo, recorded a YouTube video essentially promoting same-sex marriage in Maryland, and they had a ballot initiative coming up to legalize same-sex marriage. A state delegate from there, Emmett C. Burns, Jr., he wrote a letter to the Ravens saying, “You need to stifle Brendon speaking out on this. Football players are only meant to be seen and not heard,” etc., etc. He was kind of a jerk about it. I saw his letter on a website, I think it was called Football Talk, and it made me upset because, first off, when you write a letter like that on official Maryland state stationery, and you reference yourself and your constituents, that’s a violation of the First Amendment, you can’t do that as an elected official. Secondly, why did he care? Why did he want to try to ruin other people’s lives when it would never affect his? If you don’t want to get married to someone who’s gay, then don’t marry someone who’s gay. It’s very simple. I wrote a letter in response that had some choice vulgarity that people seemed to enjoy, and it went somewhat viral. After that, I started having a larger and larger platform because I’d been trying to help defeat a ballot amendment in Minnesota that would have banned same-sex marriage. It was really cool because then in Maryland, the ballot initiative passed, same-sex marriage is legal, and then in Minnesota we were able to defeat the amendment there, and then, I think it was eight months later, pass a ballot initiative to make same-sex marriage legal in Minnesota as well.

It’s interesting what you were saying about that, how when you’re young you just pick up these not-always-very-nice ideas from the people around you, and I can definitely remember when I was a young teenager that I had sort of anti-gay attitudes, and it doesn’t even make sense thinking back on it now, but I remember one thing that happened that really made me think was when I read Joe Haldeman’s novel The Forever War. One of the futures he presents is this world where the whole population is engineered where everyone’s gay, so the heterosexual protagonist, when he arrives in that future, he’s a deviant and outcast. Even just a very simple thought experiment like that was enough to make me go, “Hey, is it just that I think what’s familiar is normal and what’s unfamiliar is wrong? Is that just an arbitrary thing?”

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that children don’t necessarily have a lot of empathy. As a child you’re a very selfish being because you want what you want. You’re not really that aware of people around you. You take your social cues from the environment around you, and if those social cues don’t include empathy, thinking about other people, and about placing yourself in someone else’s shoes, then odds are you’re probably not going to develop it until you get an example like The Forever War, or seeing someone get bullied, or something like that. I think our responsibility as a society is to be aware of that, and understand that the more we can nurture, the more we can promote empathy, especially at a young age when children are still learning, then the better off we’re going to be, because we’ll have kids that grow up and understand that people are different, people live different ways, and that’s okay.

I would say another thing that happened with me is I just got interested in political philosophy, and I was reading stuff like that. Just the rational arguments against prejudice against gay people I found compelling. I know that you studied history and political science in college. I was wondering how that informed your ideas about marriage equality and getting involved in activism.

That was one of the things I really noticed, especially from studying history, is the fact that civilization as a whole has a one–hundred-percent failure rate if you look back throughout the years. There’s never been a civilization that has withstood the test of time. I mean we’ve gotten a couple that have gone maybe a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred years, so they’re passing the individual human lifespan, but if you look at things on a geologic time frame, that is less than an eye blink. We might as well still not even be existing. Really, to me, it boils down to, why do we keep ending up in the same place over and over and over again? For me, it really is mutual lack of empathy. You look at all of these societies, and every single time it’s conflict that brings them down. Rather, it’s conflict promoted from within by oppressing members of their own society, or conflict from without when they seek to take something from someone else, and eventually get into a fight they can’t win. If we want to change that endpoint, then we need to figure out, “Okay, how do we stop making the same mistakes over and over and over again?” If we learn about treating other people the way you’d like to be treated, really, that kind of balances things out, because if you wouldn’t do something to someone else that you wouldn’t want done to you, well, a lot of nastiness goes away in the world.

You mentioned that your letter to delegate Burns contained all these colorful insults, and I heard you say that you sort of honed your skills at that on the World of Warcraft message boards. I was wondering, do you have any memorable arguments that you’ve had with people on the World of Warcraft message boards?

[Laughter] I’ve had quite a few. Most of the time I would wait for someone to do the whole, “Oh, all WoW players are sweaty nerds who live in their parents’ basement.” Then be like, “Wait a minute, I’m a professional football player.” Just start messing with them. There was another one that was pretty funny: Some guy was obviously trolling, and he was talking about the 9/11 truther stuff, and I was just going back and forth with him like, “Your arguments are clearly irrational. They’re not logical. They don’t make any sense.” It was very entertaining. It was a good way to pass the time.

Your colorful insults, like the fromunda stain, and stuff like that, are those things you picked up on those boards, or did those just pop into your head?

Those particular ones I didn’t pick up. It’s more a stylistic thing that I developed because I realized very quickly that in a message board forum, especially one like the WoW realm forums where there’s a ton of people posting every day, that if you want your message to be heard, you have to develop a way so people pay attention. The way that I found worked was to make rational, logical arguments, and then also include highly creative swearing along with them, because what happened is people would remember the insults, and they would laugh, but then when they thought back on the insult, it would trigger the argument that I was trying to make. It’s sort of an association thing. If you can get people’s minds to latch on to something, you’ll have a much better chance of them remembering the other parts that you’re trying to put forth.

Recently you’ve been playing around with Google Glass on the football field. Can you tell us about that?

I was fortunate enough to get a pair of Glass from the kind people at Google. It’s really cool. Primarily I’ve been using it to get a first-person view of what it’s like to actually be on the football field. Up to this point, people didn’t know what that’s like. They’ve never been able to see it because there’s never been a camera that’s fit underneath the helmet, so people are really excited about it. They want to see it on players other than a punter because, with all due respect to punting, it’s not exactly the most glamorous position, right? If it was on a running back, quarterback, or a linebacker, then that’s really what people want to see. I think that’s where we’re going to end up heading, that when you watch a football, baseball, or hockey game, not only are you watching the action from the traditional camera view, from above and to the sides so you can get the sense of the entire play, you’ll also be able to click down to individual players. If Adrian Peterson breaks off a big run, on the replay you can tap on his icon and all of a sudden you see that run from his perspective. Who wouldn’t want to watch that?

They let you actually wear that on the field?

I’ve gotten to wear it during practice off to the side. I still haven’t convinced my coaches to let me wear it during an actual drill period. My goal is to wear it during a preseason game, but I don’t know how I’m going to be able to swing that. The NFL is remarkably hidebound in many respects, so we’ll see if I’m able to make it happen.

Is there anywhere that people can go to see any of the footage that you shot while wearing it and punting or anything like that?

Google or YouTube “Kluwe Glass videos.” That should bring up all of them. I have a YouTube channel—it’s “Chris Kluwe.” Just Google “Kluwe Glass videos” or something like that. It’ll be on there. Use your Google-fu, you should be developing that.

Speaking of Google Glass on the field, if you were going to imagine a science fiction story about the NFL of the future, what sort of changes do you think we might expect to see?

For the most part, it will be pretty much the same game that we’ve seen from the past hundred years extending up to the next hundred years. What you’re going to see is a difference in technology with how plays are related and how fans experience the game, because the first step is what I just described where you have the cameras in the helmet, and people are actually able to get that first-person view of whoever their favorite player is. The next step is that every player has a clear plastic facemask, and now you can display information inside the helmet. Now you’re moving towards more actual augmented reality. If you’re a quarterback looking down the field, say your receiver’s open, maybe he blinks green really quick. Or if you’re a linebacker, the hole blinks red, and you’ve got to go fill it. Or if you’re running back to the huddle after the play is over the next play is flashing up on your visor, so now you don’t have to worry about missing your assignment, you can just focus on, “Okay, here’s what I have to do.” Really, the possibilities are almost endless, in that you now have another layer of information that you can display on top of what’s already there, and once players get used to it, it will allow them to do quite a bit more, and quicker, because the NFL is based on who can get that edge, who can get that percentage point more than the other guy, because that’s what wins games.

In science fiction there’s this tendency to depict future sports as increasingly violent, just because that’s more dramatic, but it seems that in real life there’s been this tendency to have more and more awareness of the toll that contact sports take on the players. I wondered if in the future there will be increasing pressure to make the sports safer and less damaging to the players.

That really depends on society as a whole. Right now as a society, we’ve shown that we value the entertainment value of football more than we value the guys that play it having useful lives once they’re done playing, because the NFL can say they’re promoting safety all they want, they can fine guys for helmet-to-helmet hits or whatever, but the reality of football is that it’s a violent game. You can’t take that out of the game because it’s about large men running into each other. There’s no way to pad the inside of someone’s head. You’d never be able to prevent concussions from happening. Granted, unless you develop robot bodies or something like that, but that’s probably a couple years off. [Laughter] So, really, it’s up to us as a society to say, “What do we value? Do we value the entertainment aspect of this, or do we value the potential long-term harm that comes to the guys who play it?” That’s not for me to answer as an individual. That’s for all of us to answer collectively. If enough people say that, “No, we don’t want to value that anymore,” then revenues for football will go down.

I thought it was interesting that even though you’re a football player, just in interviews I get the sense that you have mixed feelings about the sport. You said you never really watched it growing up, and that you think that players are really overpaid, and that other professions are a lot more important. I had this experience, I went to USC for grad school, and they had an event on campus where one of the women who had been on the cover of Time Magazine for being one of the Enron whistleblowers was speaking on campus. There were only like twenty people in the audience in this huge auditorium, and I was really disappointed. The next day I’m walking by there and thousands and thousands and thousands of people are streaming out of the football stadium, and it just seems like there’s this huge disproportion to how much attention people pay to football as opposed to how much they pay to things like the Enron scandal.

Again, that gets down to what does society value. Do we value entertainment, or do we value actual things that are happening in the real world? Right now, it’s not great to say, but we value entertainment more than we value actual things happening in the world. Just look at the numbers. You can’t argue the fact. Until we as a society decide that we are going to value long-term consequences more than short-term benefits, because football is entertainment, it’s a short-term benefit, it’s a way to forget about your life for a couple moments. When you look at stuff like whistleblowers, scandals, corrupt government officials, and things like that, those are long-term consequences. That is telling you that the system is not stable. That something is going wrong within our system of society. If we don’t fix that, if we completely focus on the bread and circuses, well, we know where that ends up.

In an event, I saw you say that your favorite novel is Ender’s Game, and as you know, Orson Scott Card has been an outspoken opponent of marriage equality. What are your feelings about loving that book, but objecting to the author’s politics?

For me, that’s what really sucks, is that I don’t understand how you can write such a great book on the meaning of empathy, on understanding and loving another species, and yet at the same time not carry those lessons over to your actual life. It really baffles me that Card wrote this really great novel, and then just ignored everything he was writing about. I don’t get the cognitive dissonance that it requires to have that worldview. I’m not going to go see the new Ender’s Game movie, as much as it will probably be a cool science fiction movie, because I don’t feel that I should be supporting a person who is actively working to harm our society. He is promoting conflict within our society. He uses the money from the books and the movie to promote organizations like NOM (National Organization for Marriage), and say, “No, we need to keep people down.” So, whenever I talk to people about Ender’s Game I say, “Yes, it’s my favorite book. I love the message within it. Find a way to read it that doesn’t require you paying Orson Scott Card. Either borrow it from a friend, go look at it at your library, look at the message it contains, but don’t support what Card is supporting because that is ultimately self-destructive.

What are some of your other all-time favorite science fiction and fantasy books?

I really like pretty much everything by Iain Banks. He was an amazing writer, and I’m really sad that he passed away because I would have loved to see more Culture novels from him. L.E. Modesitt, Jr.—I still have no idea how to pronounce his name—he writes really good books, a lot of them dealing with the idea that the duality of fanaticism in either form is bad. The world is a complex place. I really like Brandon Sanderson. He writes excellent fantasy. Jim Butcher is very good. David Weber is great for space opera; he does the Honor Harrington series. Robert Jordan, obviously. George R.R. Martin is good, although books four and five were not that great. I have a very full bookshelf of pretty much almost every science fiction and fantasy book that’s come out.

What would be some of your favorite Culture novels?

I really like Use of Weapons and The Player of Games. Those are the two that I recommend to people that are first starting out with Culture. The cool thing is that they’re all set in the same universe, but you can read them individually because they’re all their own separate stories. I started with Matter, which took me a little bit to get into at first. I was like, “Wait, what is going on in this book? The people sword battle, and wait, there’s a drone. Wait, what?” I’m really glad I persisted with it, because it was definitely worth the read. Then I read the rest of his stuff, and I’m like, “This guy is amazing.” So, definitely The Player of Games and Use of Weapons.

Totally agree. Do you generally finish everything you read, or do you abandon books like that they’re just not doing it for you?

I generally finish everything I read, because before I buy a book I’ll read the first couple chapters in the bookstore, and that will tell me right away whether it’s worth pursuing the book. The only book that I really had to force myself to read and finish, and I did not enjoy it at all, was Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. That one’s awful.

You’ve actually described it as sociopathic, I believe.

Really, the tragic part is that she had some pretty good ideas, except she forgot that key little ingredient called empathy, which if you have an entire world of people who are only looking out for themselves, you have a world of sociopaths, and that doesn’t work because they’re all looking out for themselves, and there’s certain things that we have to have other people help us with. That’s the definition of a society, a group of people working together. It’s unfortunate that she didn’t take that next step, and hopefully people that read Atlas Shrugged and think it’s the greatest thing ever grow out of that phase at some point in their lives, because it’s really not. It’s a terrible way to live.

How do you find new fantasy and science fiction books to read? Do you follow websites or podcasts, or do you just browse the bookstores?

Pretty much just go to Barnes & Noble once a month and see what’s in the new releases section.

Speaking of new releases, do you want to tell us about your new book, Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies?

It’s a collection of short stories and essays mainly dealing with the idea of rational empathy. It’s the idea that I talked about before, that societies that don’t practice empathy inevitably collapse, and as a species we need to understand that if we want to survive as a species we need to figure out how to make that happen because species-ending extinction events happen pretty regularly on the geologic time frame. Until we get off the planet Earth, we are at the mercy of whatever happens to come our way. Again, if we want to survive long-term, if we want to actually explore our galaxy and find out all the things out there, then we need to be thinking of more than just what’s on this planet. We need to be thinking about how we get off this planet. How do we sustainably spread out into the rest of our solar system, and then from there into the rest of our galaxy? There’s also funny stuff in there. There’s entertaining things. I write my own eulogy and include the drinking game. I tried to have it be a mix of various topics.

It’s really interesting because there’s autobiographical sketches, there’s speculations about the future, there’s little pieces of fiction, and there’s political essays. Did you know the format when you sat down to write it, or did that evolve organically as you started writing?

I knew that I wanted it to be short-form pieces because that was what I felt comfortable writing at the time, around 1,500 to 2,500 words. That was where I felt that I could really deliver a message. It also let me explore a bunch of different stuff. The other thing I wanted to do was, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t the standard football autobiography. That’s what everyone does. For me, I was like, “That’s not what I want to do, because first off, I haven’t finished playing football, and second off, that’s what everyone does.” When I talked to the publisher I was like, “Look, I want this to be almost a snapshot into my mind. This is all the stuff that I think about on a daily basis. These are the things I’ve noticed in the world. It’s going to be a lot of different stuff. It’s going to cover a lot of ground. I’m not going to do the ‘yes, I was born here, and then I played high school football here, and I played the NFL here, and hooray.’” It’s not your standard football book.

Some of the political essays are very hot-button issues like gun control, and they don’t pull any punches at all. What sort of reactions have you gotten to the gun control piece or some of the other ones?

It’s been really good. Unfortunately, I don’t think a lot of people who need to read the gun control piece probably will read the gun control piece. Mainly it’s the people that agree with it. Really, my main point with that one is the fact that we have to be able to have a discussion about gun control in this country, and we can’t. We have fanatics so dug in on both sides of the argument that we can’t even talk about the fact that, yes, guns are useful in certain circumstances, and in other certain circumstances they kill a lot of people very, very quickly. It’s something that, as a society, we need to be able to have that discussion, and we can’t have that discussion because there’s just too much money entrenched on the side of gun manufacturers. I say it in the essay, you can look at the NRA’s webpage. They tell you who sponsors them, and it’s the gun manufacturers. They have a vested interest in selling guns.

I thought it was interesting because you say that you’re a big fan of first-person shooter games, and that you love them, but that you have mixed feelings about playing games where you’re just shooting people all the time, and that you think that maybe there should be more consequences for dying in first-person shooters. Could you talk about that?

I played Counter-Strike growing up. I played Halo, Call of Duty, and really enjoyed Borderlands. I enjoy playing first-person shooters, but as time has gone on, I’ve noticed that there really isn’t a consequence to dying in a first-person shooter. It could be a great teaching opportunity if there was a consequence to dying in first-person shooters. I’m not saying that people that play first-person shooters are going to go out and shoot a bunch of people. From all the studies I’ve seen, there isn’t that link between video games and violence, but at the same time, what we can say is that if you have one of these weapons, if you use one of these weapons, there are consequences, because there are consequences in real life when that happens. My fear is that we have a lot of kids playing these games, and they see guns as toys as opposed to dangerous tools, and that’s something that we need to be aware of. If we have enough people that see weapons as toys, well, eventually someone’s going to use them.

You said just there should be some more consequences to dying in the game. Maybe it would charge you twenty-five cents or something every time you died. That gave me the idea, I thought it might be interesting if in a game like Call of Duty or something, that there was the ultra-hardcore mode where you get charged a little bit of money every time you die, and that that money might go to veteran’s organizations or something.

Right, exactly, like with the Wounded Warriors Project, or a POW/MIA program, or something like that because, again, that would make people aware of the fact that there are consequences out there to using weapons.

I saw you on book tour to promote Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies. You did this appearance at the Loft Literary Center, and you walked out on stage flanked by a stormtrooper escort. How did that come about?

That was pretty awesome. I did a local radio show in Minnesota, the 93X Half-Assed Morning Show, and I guess they had gotten an email from someone who was kind of the local stormtrooper representative. He was like, “Hey, if Chris wants an escort for his book appearance, then we’d love to give him one.” I’m pretty good friends with the host there, and they passed it along to me, and I’m like, “Yeah, that sounds great. Let’s see if we can make it happen.” We got all the logistics figured out, and I got to be Darth Vader for a day.

Who were the stormtroopers? Were they part of a local club or something?

They’re part of a local club. I think they were the 501st Legion. They’ve done a lot of cons and appeared at a lot of places. They were really cool. I posed for a couple pictures with the storm trooper helmet on, and I understand now why the storm troopers couldn’t shoot. It’s because they can’t see.

We mentioned that you own your own tabletop gaming store called Mercenary Market. Do you want to tell us about that?

It’s located in Costa Mesa, and it’s primarily for tabletop games like Warmachine or Warhammer. We have Malifaux nights. We also do D&D nights. Whatever board games you want to play. We have Friday night Magic: The Gathering. Really, it’s just a place for people to come down, play games, hopefully buy some miniatures so that the store stays afloat, and be the local gaming store. It’s hard to find those in certain areas. In Southern California where I’m at, there really isn’t one very close by to Orange County, so my brother’s friend and I and my brother said, “Hey, let’s see if we can make this happen.” We’re trying to have the local gaming store there, and hopefully it’s something I can do after football.

If we have listeners in the area, can they just stop by anytime and pick up a game, or should they go to a website and sign up, or how does that work?

Google “Mercenary Market.” That should probably bring it up. I’m generally not there because I’m in the football season, but during the offseason I’ll pop in occasionally, although I have to do stuff with my wife and children as well, otherwise they get upset. Any time, except we’re closed on Mondays, because generally that’s kind of the slow business day for gaming stores. We run Friday night Magic. I think Thursday is Warmachine night. Wednesdays I want to say is D&D and board game night. Then Saturdays and Sundays get whatever you want to play. We have pretty big Warmachine crowds there on Thursdays as well. Just swing on by on any day except for Monday, and generally my brother is running the store, and he will be happy to help you.

In other gaming news, I heard that there’s a character in XCOM who’s named after you.

Yes, it’s actually me. I’m a hidden character in XCOM. I think you enter my name, and then you get my character. I got into the game by defeating the games developer Garth DeAngelis in a best-of-three match. It was a lot of fun.

Actually, you were just saying as we were chatting before the show that there’s a character named after you in the new Shadowrun game too, right?

I’m trying to spread myself across all sorts of video games. When they were doing their Kickstarter, I backed it at the MVP level, and Harebrained Schemes, they were great about it. They sent me an email, they were like, “Hey, what do you want your character to look like?” I sent a photo. Like, “What were your ideas?” It was really cool to download the game the night it came out, and all of a sudden it’s like, “Whoa, that’s me right there. That’s pretty awesome.”

I lost several years of my life to Rock Band and Guitar Hero, so it amused me to learn that playing Guitar Hero actually inspired you to start a real band.

I got really good at Guitar Hero. I played against the Guinness World Record holder. At the time he lived in Rochester, Minnesota, and there was this charity event that Activision had put on. We were both there, so we played a best of five. I won two, which I figured, okay, that’s pretty good. I think it was right around Guitar Hero World Tour, I want to say that I unlocked an achievement that said “Buy a real guitar already.” I was like, “Well, I should probably buy a real guitar already.” I took some lessons and formed a band with my good friend in Minnesota, Andy Reiner, who’s the executive editor of Game Informer, so we both really love video games. Tripping Icarus was born and we’ve been playing as a band for the past five years or so.

What kind of music do you play?

Alternative rock. We’re all big fans of the ’90s grunge-era-type music, so like Soundgarden, Tool, Rage Against the Machine, Nirvana, and Audioslave. That genre of rock. I think what appeals to me the most about that is that it’s music that also has a message. It’s talking about stuff. It’s talking about problems in the world. Songs can be great just for their musical value, but they can also say something if you want them to. I think that’s something that we try to do with our music.

Could you maybe give some examples of some of your songs and what sorts of issues they deal with?

A lot of them deal with economic inequity. The fact that there are people who are making literally millions of dollars while children are starving and people can’t find jobs, really, how much more money do you need to enjoy your life when all these other people are suffering? With our current president, President Obama, the fact that he ran on a platform of changing the excesses of the Bush regime, and now we’re responsible for what, hundreds of casualties from drone strikes and there’s more going on every day. We have this nebulous “war on terror” that doesn’t really have a defined end. It’s trying to bring attention to issues that are a lot of the same issues I talk about in my book, and, really, issues that I would hope a lot of people understand fray the fabric of society. They promote conflict. They cause us to fight either against each other or against other people, and historically, like I said, that doesn’t end in any way other than the downfall of the civilization involved.

I also heard that you’re working on your own science fiction trilogy. Is there anything you want to tell us about that?

We’re shopping it to publishers right now to see if anyone wants to pick it up. It’s me and Andy, the guitarist in my band. We’ve written the first book, we’re currently working on the second one, and we know where the story arc goes through the second and third ones. I like to describe it as—it kind of starts off as Jurassic Park and then ends as Iain Banks’ Culture. It’s really funny how the science fiction trilogy started, because we’re both huge fans of those terrible Syfy movies like Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, Crocigator, and Mega Python, or Piranhaconda. All the awful ones. About a year ago we were sitting around, and I saw one of the first previews for Sharknado, back when they were first announcing it, so we were talking to each other, and we were like, “How hard can it be to write the plot to a movie like that? It can’t be that hard.” It’s got to just be three or four guys getting absolutely hammered and then throwing something down in like two and a half hours. We started brainstorming ideas back and forth. We’re like, “We should write a terrible shark movie. This will be amazing. It’ll be great.” We started throwing ideas back and forth, and about fifteen or twenty minutes later we had the structure of this really cool universe. This neat economic, societal, and government system. We’re like, “Why are we wasting this on a terrible shark movie? We should write an actual science fiction book.” Then after that we started brainstorming, and we’re like, “Yep, we have something here. We could definitely write this.” Then we just started writing.

Do you have an awesome title in mind, like Sharknado, or Mansquito, or something?

The working title for the book, and it caused my literary agent some consternation when I originally sent it to him, was Sharkbird. Needless to say, it won’t be called Sharkbird, but that was the genesis of the idea.

Finally, are there any other projects or activities that you’re up to that you want to mention?

Not really. I think that covered just about all of it. I’m sure if anything else comes along though, I’ll probably tweet about it.

I think we’ll wrap things up there. We’ve been speaking with Chris Kluwe. The book is called Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies. Chris, thanks for joining us.

No problem. Thank you for having me.

The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy is a science fiction/fantasy talk show podcast. It is hosted by:

John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as publisher and editor of Lightspeed, is the bestselling editor of many anthologies, such as The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, Oz Reimagined, Epic, Other Worlds Than These, Armored, Under the Moons of Mars: New Adventures on Barsoom, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, By Blood We Live, Federations, The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Way of the Wizard. He is a six-time finalist for the Hugo Award and a five-time finalist for the World Fantasy Award. Forthcoming anthologies include Wastelands 2, Dead Man’s Hand, and Robot Uprisings. He is also the co-host of Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams.

David Barr Kirtley has published fiction in magazines such as Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, Lightspeed, Intergalactic Medicine Show, On Spec, and Cicada, and in anthologies such as New Voices in Science Fiction, Fantasy: The Best of the Year, and The Dragon Done It. Recently he’s contributed stories to several of John Joseph Adams’s anthologies, including The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, and The Way of the Wizard. He’s attended numerous writing workshops, including Clarion, Odyssey, Viable Paradise, James Gunn’s Center for the Study of Science Fiction, and Orson Scott Card’s Writers Bootcamp, and he holds an MFA in screenwriting and fiction from the University of Southern California. He also teaches regularly at Alpha, a Pittsburgh-area science fiction workshop for young writers. He lives in New York.

Interview: Ryan North
The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy

Ryan North is the creator of the popular webcomic Dinosaur Comics, which has run for over two thousand issues using the exact same art and panel layout for each strip. A Kickstarter he launched for his book To Be or Not To Be, a choose-your-own-adventure-style version of Hamlet, raised well over half a million dollars, making it the most successful publishing-related Kickstarter ever. He also co-edited the short story anthology Machine of Death, which hit number one on Amazon.com the day of its release. A sequel, This is How You Die, is out now.

This interview first appeared on Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast, which is hosted by John Joseph Adams and David Barr Kirtley. Visit geeksguideshow.com to listen to the entire interview and the rest of the show, in which the hosts discuss various geeky topics.

You have a lot of projects you’ve been doing, but it all started with your web series, Dinosaur Comics. Do you want to tell us about that?

That’s a comic where it’s the same pictures all the time, and I change the words. It’s better than it sounds, is what I always say. That came out of me wanting to do a comic and not being able to draw, so I had this brilliant idea for a comic where it would be the same story every time with different pictures, and that’s the exact wrong project for me to be doing because I can’t draw. I thought, “Well, maybe I’ll flip this and have the same pictures and a different story would work.” Ten years later, I guess it did. I can at least keep remixing it, keep doing my own sequels.

How did you put together that very first comic? Where did the art come from, and what was your thought process behind it?

There was no thought process. If you look at the layout for Dinosaur Comics, you’ve got T-Rex in the top two panels, a close-up, and then in the last four panels the characters are standing on the panel boundaries—just super amateur-hour comic stuff, but I didn’t know any better. I also thought dinosaurs were like fifteen stories tall, which is why they appear that tall in the comic. There’s a lot of mistakes I made a decade ago that I’m now committed to, but it was fun, and I think it was the luckiest thing I ever did, hitting on this layout that was as flexible and as versatile as it is, able to tell different stories using these same pictures.

What was your background as a creator before Dinosaur Comics? Was that the first thing you had ever tried to create, or had you done other stuff before?

There’s a bunch of old stuff for me online. I used to have a page that was called “Ryan’s Page of Fun and Robot Erotica,” and all that was on there was this one picture of these two robots holding hands. When I was an undergrad, we got free web space with the university, and I had no use for it, so I just put up my page of “Fun and Robot Erotica,” and I updated that once every semester with new robot erotica, basically all through undergrad. Like an ASCII art version that I found, and there’s a Bjork video where she’s sort of robotic and there’s two lesbian robots kissing, which was a huge update for “Ryan’s Page of Fun and Robot Erotica” when that came out. There was a bunch of smaller stuff. Dinosaur Comics was the first project I did that was meant to continue on an ongoing basis, and I mean, originally I thought I would use these dinosaurs for a month, and then next month there would be new art, and I would change the art every month. But then when I finished the first month, I was like, “Man, making this new art is a lot of work. What if I didn’t do that?” Then I just kept with the art. Which is kind of a theme in my life. When I graduated school I had the choice between getting a job or doing the comics, and I was like, “Man, I just have to not get a job. I could be a full-time cartoonist.”

Dinosaur Comics has always been free to read online, but you made money selling t-shirts. Do you want to talk about that business model a little bit?

I can tell you that when I graduated school, I’d just finished this grad degree in computation linguistics, and I was like, “Hey, Mom and Dad, I’m going to do this comic, and it’s going to pay for rent. The way it’s going to work is, you’ll read the comic for free, and you can buy a shirt if you want to.” My parents were not too enthused with that business model. They said things like, “You’re wasting your education.” Things along those lines, which is what parents say, and I’m glad they did because I love and respect them. But, really, it worked because the model is that you have tons of people reading your comic, and you hope that a percent of a percent will like it enough to buy some merchandise, buy a book or a t-shirt. When I first started, I remember thinking, like every day, “I need three people to buy a shirt today so that I can pay rent and eat food.” And it would happen. I would try to imagine these three presumably topless people being like, “Yes, today is the day I buy a shirt.” It was sort of like walking a tightrope that I couldn’t control, but then you start putting faith in laws of averages and seeing that this is working and has worked, and you have faith that if you continue putting out work that people like, they’ll eventually want to own and share part of that.

What do the t-shirts actually look like, and what have been the most popular designs?

One was a time traveler cheat sheet. There’s this rule of thumb in shirt design and graphic design in general saying you don’t put too many words on it. This is a shirt that had, I don’t even know the word count, probably like two thousand words. Basically all the low-hanging fruit of history. Here’s how you can build a compass. Here’s where you can find aluminum. All this stuff that you would like to know if you were sent back in time, and you needed to reinvent civilization, or at least make yourself a god in the past.

I guess the problem with a time traveler t-shirt though is that eighty percent of the time when you travel through time you end up naked, so do you sell time traveler cheat sheet tattoos or something?

I just have questions about the way you travel through time, because a lot of us don’t end up naked. “Oh no, circumstances made me naked again.”

Actually, I think the bigger issue might be that in most periods in history a t-shirt would not actually pass as period wear.

That’s true, but I also have a poster version you can hang up in your time machine that solves that problem.

You should have a time travel cheat sheet frock coat or something.

People say that.

Dinosaur Comics has become quite popular over the years, but how long did it take for that to happen, and what were some of the first signs that you saw that the comic was really starting to take off?

I can remember the first time someone bought merchandise from me, and it was stickers I made myself. It was a woman who had two kids. She bought them for her kids, it turned out. I emailed her saying, “Oh my god, I’m so excited that you bought these stickers, and here’s an envelope basically stuffed with stickers.” You ordered two, here’s two hundred. She’s like, “Yeah, they’re for my kids. I like your comic.” Before then I basically put the comic up in 2003, and this was 2003 so there’s no such thing as social networks, or really anything. I put it up and said, “Now it’s online. Now we play the waiting game. Wait for the Internet to discover it, and tell me how great I am.” When I started the comic in 2003, and when I graduated in 2006, it was around early 2006 that I started seriously considering this being something that I could do for real. There’s a readership here. I’m getting emails from people I don’t know.

I heard you say in an interview you had something like 70,000 people read the comic. Has it grown since then or is that about what it is?

That’s about what it is. I used to keep that number in mind, and I would go to a sports game, and they’d say, “The attendance today is 70,000 people.” I’d be like, “Each one of these is a reader. This is how big my audience is.” Which is super egotistical, but it was nice to sort of see that many people in a room and think, “I’m privileged enough to get to talk to these people once a day.” It’s pretty cool. It’s not the same 70,000. People drop in and drop out, and archive binge, and never read it again, but it’s nice to think about.

I don’t know if you have heard of the comic called Too Much Coffee Man. There’s one with a cartoonist in it, and somebody asks him what his fantasy is, and he’s like, “My fantasy is to be drawing my comic in a stadium with what I’m drawing up on the big screen, and every time I draw a particularly good line the whole crowd cheers.” It could be sort of like that.

I would hate that. The reason is, it’s funny, I told this story to an interviewer years ago, and what I said was, “I don’t find writing to be too difficult because what I’m doing is I’m sitting alone in a room trying to effectively make myself laugh. Write something that I think is funny and literally induce laughter in myself. Which is super embarrassing for anyone to watch because you are literally laughing at your own jokes.” I ended by saying, “Yeah, I’m basically just writing for anyone who shares my sense of humor.” When that reached press it became, “I’m writing for anyone who has a sense of humor.” Which is way more egotistical and kind of amazing. The other thing, along similar lines, they were like, “Where do you get your ideas?” And I said, “I have this giant text file of snippets of dialogue or things I’d like to explore, prompts, stuff that can help if I’m hitting a wall, and I’ll use that. I’ll stare at this text file, and I’ll come up with something.” This went through editorial, and it reached physical print, and it became, “I have this giant textile.” Like a rug on the wall that I would stare at, and it would give me ideas for comics. I love that image so much that that’s now the new official history, that I get my ideas from this textile that I keep around and update once in a while.

One of the ideas that you got was the idea for Machine of Death, and do you want to tell us how Dinosaur Comics led to that?

It was a comic where T-Rex proposed an idea, as is his wont. He was saying, “What if there was a machine that could tell you how you would die? Not when, but how.” And this how, if you got something like old age, that could mean you die alone, or surrounded by loved ones, or it could mean you get run over by an old man, or there’s an septuagenarian sniper who takes you out. Sort of that Old World sense of irony around predictions was baked into the premise. I put the comic up, and made a forum, and people on the forum were saying, “Hey, that’s a good idea. We should put together a book.” I was like, “Yeah, we probably should. Anyway, I’m busy. Talk to you later.” Then David and Matt came to me and they were like, “We really should do this.” I was like, “Oh, David Malki and Matt Bennardo, yeah, let’s do it. This is serious now.” We put the book together and spent several years trying to get a publisher to publish it, and no one wanted to. Then we published it ourselves, and it became the number one selling book on Amazon that day, which was really cool and exciting. Then publishers emailed us saying, “Hey, can we publish this book?” And we were like, “Where were you five years ago?” It was a good story, and it showed the value of indie publishing, and doing things when everyone says they’re a bad idea. People would say, “We love the book, but it will never sell because a) it’s an anthology, b) there’s no big name authors, and c) it’s genre fiction, science fiction, and those are three strikes.” But, they don’t have to be. You can have a good idea that everyone thinks is dumb, and it’s still a good idea.

How did you guys get the book into the top spot on Amazon?

We just told people to buy it. It was that simple. We said, “We’ve been working on this book, and now it’s out. Go buy it.” It helped that we’d been working on this book for years, so there were some people who had been waiting for it for a long time, but it snowballed, and we got an email from Amazon saying, “We don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up.” Which is great. It was a really amazing day and totally unexpected.

One thing that you did with it was really clever. It’s an anthology of about thirty stories, and each of them is illustrated by a prominent web comic artist, so that’s sixty odd people, all of whom have friends and Twitter followers, and many of them with lots of followers because they’re comic book artists all pushing the book, all having a stake in the success of this book.

You make it sound like we’re really smart business people, but we just said, “Let’s put a book together, and let’s put it online.” I wish I could take credit for all that.

Did you know that publishers were going to want recognizable name authors in the book, or were you so unfamiliar with publishing that that hadn’t occurred to you?

Completely unfamiliar. Sort of this naïve view that if you make an awesome book they’ll clearly want to publish it because it’s an awesome book, but obviously they have business concerns. We were so naïve about publishing that we just picked a day for the book to come out on Amazon, and we’re like, “Hey, everyone buy it on this day.” It turns out the day we picked was actually the day, it was a Tuesday I think, where publishing companies normally drop their new books, so it was in fact the day of the most competition for sales. We’re like, “We don’t know anything. We’re just a couple of dudes with a book we made.”

What would be the best day?

I don’t know. I guess if you could mobilize people, like a Sunday night. No one else is trying to sell books on a Sunday night.

One of the people you pushed out of the top spot on Amazon.com famously was Glenn Beck.

He got real mad. He called us out on his radio show. Said we’re part of a liberal culture of death. We actually sent his production company two copies of the book, and inside the book we put in little fake Machine of Death prediction slips that said, “Papercut.” I don’t think he ever read it. It was bizarre because we just finished this amazing day, and then we start getting messages saying, “Dudes, Glenn Beck just called you out. You have a celebrity beef now.” Which is completely surprising and bizarre.

Have you taken any shots back at him? Do you have anything you want to say to Glenn Beck on the air right now?

Does he still have a show? I feel bad for him. I feel like he kind of imploded.

He has his own network now, it’s called The Blaze. I was just in the office actually, it’s a weird story.

I wish him well. Sorry his book didn’t get number one.

Do you consider yourself part of a liberal culture of death?

I mean, if I am, I haven’t met any other members of it. Although, you could actually make that argument because you have Machine of Death. You have a sequel, This is How You Die, which focuses on death. You have To Be or Not to Be, and Hamlet has a lot of death in it. So, I could probably write an essay arguing that for him, but I think there’s some flaws in that hypothesis that are pretty evident. Also, I don’t know what a liberal culture of death is, like, do you just celebrate death? That’s a very short-lived culture.

Have you thought about doing a book called Machine of Life or Machine of Love or something?

We actually did consider that for a sequel, like a new premise, but the issue with those ideas was that they weren’t as interesting, and they didn’t seem to be as fun and as flexible. A machine that tells you who you’re going to fall in love with, and then prints out a list of names, cool idea for a short story, probably can’t be sustained for a series of short stories because the only conflict there is, “Oh, I love you, but apparently I’m going to fall in love with someone else at some point in the future, so how do I deal with that?” I’m not sure you have thirty stories in the same theme.

You mentioned the sequel This is How You Die. Do you want to tell us about that a little bit?

This is a weird thing for me to say, but I sincerely believe it’s a better book than Machine of Death. Normally people say that all the time, like the latest and greatest, but what we have with This is How You Die are thirty more stories with the premise of there’s a machine that tells you how you’re going to die, a machine of death. But, it goes in so many more different directions. There’s a choose-you-own-adventure-style story. There’s one with high fantasy, with orcs and stuff. There’s real-life, emotional, realist narratives. It’s a much more varied, deep, and impressive book, I think. The nice thing about being an editor for a book like this is you can talk up the book as much as you want because you’re not praising yourself. If I had written the book and said, “Yes, this is a very deep and engaging book,” that’s super egotistical, but I only wrote one story in it. I didn’t write all the stories. They’re really good.

You got something like two thousand submissions, right?

Nineteen seventy something, I think. Almost two thousand from every continent except Antarctica, which was too bad.

What was their problem? Why didn’t the Antarticans get into this?

I think they were busy doing literal scientific research, but maybe next time.

I read the first seven or eight stories in the book. I really, really enjoyed the ones I read. It did seem that people kind of get the moves of the machine of death story, now it’s just about coming up with the craziest elaboration of the idea. For example, there’s the space marine story where the military has a more advanced algorithm machine of death—with the normal machine of death, you don’t know when you’re going to die, but this machine will tell you the date that you’re certain to live to, and the date that you’re certain to die by, and in between those two there’s a probability curve, and you know that you’ll die somewhere in that range, and what the steepness of the curve is.

That’s a really cool idea. There’s a part where they have different squads based on death predictions. Somebody realizes he can’t shoot the cancer squad because they’ll survive. If you have these elite military units, all of whom have Alzheimer’s, that guy is going to be really hard to take down. We told the authors when we were soliciting stories, “Read the first book if you want, and assume that everyone who will be reading the story has read the first book, so let’s go somewhere new with it, and see where that takes us.” Which is fun. It’s nice to have that sort of depth of exploration. Especially when it’s all coming from this idea that I threw off in a talking dinosaur comic. A very fruitful comic. I love it that this is an idea proposed by a fictional dinosaur that has bled into our own reality.

Your story in the book is called “Cancer,” and I actually ran it in Lightspeed, in a sort of promotion for the book, and so people can go read that now if they want. Do you want to tell people what it’s about?

“Cancer” is about these two women. Helen gets a prediction at birth saying “cancer,” and then as she grows up, she eventually gets retested, just as a matter of course, and gets a different prediction, and starts getting more and more different predictions, which should be impossible because the machine is always consistent. You always get the same prediction no matter where you go. The story is exploring how this is possible, what does this mean, and also the relationship she has with her partner, about how we face cancer, how do we face certain death? Or not even certain death, but uncertain death, possible death.

You mentioned choose-your-own-adventure-style stories. I think it’s important to specify that these are “choose-your-own-adventure-style” stories for trademark reasons.

They have a trademark, and I don’t want to get in trouble.

Do you want to tell us about To Be or Not To Be?

That is a book I wrote where the idea is you take Hamlet, and you make it into a choose-your-own-adventure-style book, and when you do this, you give the reader three playable characters to choose from: Hamlet, Ophelia, or Hamlet’s dad, King Hamlet, which, as him, you die on the first page and have to play as a ghost. You do cool things with the story. So, instead of a play within a play, what if there was a choose-your-own-adventure-style book within a choose-your-own-adventure-style book, fun things like that. Really, just have fun with the potential of the medium. The whole book came to me with the title. I thought, “Oh, to be or not to be, that’s sort of like a choice, almost like those choose-your-own—oh my god, I have to write this.” That was my process. It was a lot of fun. I launched it on Kickstarter, and it did really well.

How much better do you think this is than the original Hamlet? What are some of the main feature improvements that you’ve made to this story?

[Laughter] I will delicately answer this question by saying that the original Hamlet is contained within my book. You can follow the Yorick skulls to get the choices that Shakespeare made. I think it takes a special sort of person to claim that he has improved or fixed Shakespeare, and I’m not sure I’m there. But, what I did was I tried to change things in the story that I remembered being better than they were. I remembered Ophelia as being this really awesome character. I was like, “I loved Ophelia. She was so cool. She was the coolest lady.” Then when I reread the book, I was like, “She’s not cool. She gets used by people and then dies.” It was so disappointing. In my book, I try to make her as awesome as I remembered her being, which is my fix for Shakespeare. Also, you’re dealing with a play that was written hundreds of years ago, so obviously there’s going to be some social mores that are inconsistent with our modern, enlightened time, and you can have fun playing with those or bouncing off of them.

Your book has an actual pirate battle, right? I think that’s important.

I forgot about that pirate battle until I got to that part in Hamlet’s story, and I was rereading the book just to check on stuff, and Hamlet shows up, and he’s like, “Oh, yeah, no, I was banished, but we ran into pirates, and they took me captive, and brought me back for no reason and then left. Here I am, anyway. Let’s get back to the business of the play.” And all the characters are like, “Yeah, sure, no problem. We accept this.” It’s so bizarre from a modern perspective because we’re used to movies showing us all the spectacle they can. We see every possible explosion in a story, and Shakespeare has this off-screen pirate battle that just gets dismissed in one line. I made a big production out of it, where there’s this climactic battle in a pirate ship, and you’re fighting the captain pirate, and it’s a lot of fun. It was nice to be surprised, to be doing a Shakespeare story, and then I get to have this pirate battle, and it’s totally justified because Shakespeare put it in there too, off-screen, or I guess off-stage.

How hard is it to write a choose-your-own-adventure-style story? Do you have to have all sorts of graphs and stuff like that?

I thought it would be harder, but I’d never written a novel before, and part of the reason that I hadn’t was that I was worried about getting fifty thousand words into a book, and realizing I’d made a mistake on word three that would mean throwing everything out. But, in a choose-your-own-adventure-style narrative, a non-linear narrative, you can explore different options and as they pan out or fail to pan to out, you can extend them or shorten them. If you have a path that goes five or six choices, and you feel like it’s done, that’s not a problem. You have a nice little mini-adventure there, and then you can move on to something else. In terms of creative process, I found it really nice. It was also really nice that I could work on Ophelia’s story, and if I’m getting stuck with that, I could switch to whatever Hamlet was up to, so it was very empowering. Ironically for a guy who doesn’t like to make choices, it made that very fun to write.

Did you have a graph, or software, or anything that you used, or did you just write it page by page?

No, I used software for it. I talked to this guy who had dinner with R. L. Stine, who wrote the Goosebumps series of books, and the Give Yourself Goosebumps, which are choose-your-own-adventure-style books. Apparently he used pieces of paper with thread between them, like conspiracy theory style, just a giant wall covered with paper and thread, which is a hot mess, I would think, especially when you’re changing things. I used Twine software that basically let me put words in boxes and draw lines between the boxes, and that lets me see the state of the story. With that, I can keep track of what’s going on, and where the choices are bringing you, and what the decision tree looks like, which is really important because you don’t want to get lost in your own book.

I thought it was interesting to read the book in ebook format just because that format seems so ideal for this kind of thing, because every time you make a choice you can actually click a hyperlink and it takes you right to it, and if you want to go back, it’s very easy to go back, as opposed to in the old days where you had to actually turn pages, and if you wanted to go back, you had to remember what page you were on before you actually turned to the choice you made, so it made it much more difficult to actually play through the book.

I put a lot of work into the ebook because I wanted it to be something that felt at home in the format, and not just a quick conversion. Structuring the book such that the back button unwound your choices was really nice because, like you say, if you die, you’re like, “Okay, back, make a new choice. Oh, died again. I’ll go back twice, make the other choice.” Which technically allows an efficient death-first search of any tree. So, when you do that, know that you are taking a computational approach to the book that is valid.

Were you always a big fan of choose-your-own-adventure books, and did you go back and study any of the old ones, or anything like that?

I read them when I was a kid, and I love them because you have a library, and you can have a choice between a book with one story in it, where you don’t get to make any choices, a.k.a, a baby book, or a choose-your-adventure book where you had tons of choices, and you were deciding what would happen. It’s that sense of fun and possibility that I wanted to capture. There are things that I wanted to do differently. I remember in the books I read as a kid . . . you realize when you’re writing a book like this that one of your enemies is that decision tree. Every choice you make has this combinatorial explosion to more choices. You need to trim that tree, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere with the story. In the books I read as a child, that tree would get trimmed by saying, “Go left or go right. If you go left, the Earth explodes. If you go right, Mars attacks and aliens invade.” The effects of my choices were so far beyond what the actual choices were that it felt like the choices were kind of meaningless. When you’re living in such a capricious universe, why make any choices at all when you can’t predict the outcomes? I wanted my choices in my book to feel grounded in reality. I also wanted to have things that would happen regardless of your choices. If an earthquake is going to happen at 3 p.m. tomorrow, no matter what you do today, that earthquake is still going to happen. I wanted to have the reader feel like their choices had meaning, and part of the way they have meaning is by having them have reasonable consequences.

You mentioned that you launched this book on Kickstarter, and you said it was very successful. It was actually the most successful publishing Kickstarter ever, so do you want to talk about that a little bit?

It went really well. We asked for $20K to get the book out, and we got that in three and a half hours, and then we broke $100K at the end of the first day, and by the end we had broken $580,000, which was way more than I was expecting. I had made some wild promises like, “If we reach half a million dollars, I will literally explode,” thinking, we’re not going to do that, and then we did, and I had to literally explode. So I went to the Oxford English Dictionary and it turns out “explode” can be transitive. So what we did was I literally exploded something. We 3D scanned my head, made a 3D printer version of it, turned that into a bomb, and blew that up in an alleyway.

Do you have any idea about how many of the backers were fans of yours already and how many had never heard of you, but they just liked the idea?

Kickstarter actually gives you reports saying, here’s where people are coming from when they find your project. Over twenty-five percent of people were people who had come directly from Kickstarter itself. So these are people who didn’t know me, any of the artists, or the project. They just happened across it and said, “Oh, that looks cool.”

Did, like, Miley Cyrus retweet you or something? How did it get so huge? Did it get picked up by news outlets or anything? How did it get so big?

I don’t know. There was coverage in The Guardian and on the CBC, which is awesome, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. There was some media coverage of it for sure, but it’s hard to tell what the greatest effects were. I’ve never listened to a thing on the radio and said, “Oh, I’ve got to get to my computer right away to back this on Kickstarter.” I think it all helps, obviously. I wish I had a formula that’s like, “Here’s the buttons you have to press to have a really successful Kickstarter project.” I think a lot of it comes down to luck, and a lot of it comes down to the strength of the idea, but there’s always luck on top of that. It helped that I have ten years of producing work behind me, so I’m not just some random guy saying, “I’ve got a great proposal. I just need your money and it’ll be fantastic.” I’m a guy saying, “Hey, we’ve had this relationship for years. Here’s a new thing I’m doing, maybe you want to check it out?”

Have you gotten any feedback on the book from actual Shakespeare scholars?

I guess not Shakespeare scholars. I’ve had Shakespeare enthusiasts who are all very happy. I thought there might be some blowback like, “How dare you do this to Shakespeare,” but people I think recognize that the original Hamlet book still exists. It wasn’t a Kickstarter to destroy Hamlet and replace it with To Be or Not To Be. People are excited. They see it as a way to experience the book in a different format. The fact that the original story is contained within it is great. It sort of reassures people that it’s still there.

For the prequel, Poor Yorick, there’s not that much about Yorick in the play, right? So did you just have to make up pretty much everything for that one?

Oh, there’s one paragraph. There’s just one paragraph about Yorick, which is—I wish I had it memorized, I could recite some Shakespeare to you—but it’s “that fellow of infinite jest. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, where are your gambles now,” that sort of stuff. Basically I took that as the premise, and you start out as Yorick who is poor, physically poor, he has no money. He gets this job to entertain the king’s kid, the kid Hamlet, and unlike most choose-your-own-adventure books, where the goal is to survive and on all these alternate paths you die, in Poor Yorick, your destiny is to die so that Hamlet can hold up your skull thirty years in the future to contemplate his own mortality. In Poor Yorick your goal is to die, and there’s only one path in which you survive, and that’s the bad ending. It was fun to invert that dominant paradigm for non-linear, second-person narratives, and play with it a bit.

You’ve also been working on comics based on the Adventure Time TV show on Cartoon Network. How did you get involved with that?

I wish I had a better story. They emailed me and said, “Hey, do you want to write this comic?” and I said, “Yes.”

Do you want to say, what are some of the storylines in some of the comics that you came up with?

The first arc is with the witch, who’s like the big bad guy in the show, and the second arc, they go to the future where everything is messed up, and interact with Queen Bubblegum instead of Princess Bubblegum, and it’s lots of fun. The third arc has BMO getting a virus, which is suboptimal for poor BMO. The fourth arc has a dungeon crawl with Ice King. We’re just starting the fifth arc now.

What sort of response have you gotten from Adventure Time fans? Has anyone been like, “Hey man, you don’t know Finn and Jake.”

The first issue was reviewed really well, and so I started trying to seek out negative reviews. The worst I found was a guy who hated the comic, but he hated it because he couldn’t hear the voices, and they were static pictures, and all these other properties that are intrinsic to comics as a medium, so he rejected the very idea of an Adventure Time comic, and I was fine with that. I was like, “Dude, if you hate the very idea of a comic, then you’re not going to like this when it’s a comic, and that’s fine. There’s no way I can win you over.” But, it’s been super enthusiastic. I’ve had people email me saying that got into the show because of the comic, which is super flattering. It’s been great.

You’ve also been working on a Galaga comic, based on the ’80s coin-op arcade game. What’s that been like?

They came to me and said, “Do you want to write a Galaga comic?” I was like, “Does Galaga have a story? I don’t remember Galaga having a story.” I look up Galaga, and there’s no story. You’re shooting space bugs. But, that gave me free rein to do whatever I wanted, so I invented this narrative about these space bugs coming, and there’s these two women on Earth who are trying to protect them. Their ship is basically built out of giant pixels, so the ship looks like it does in the game. There’s all these cute little tie-ins to the actual game.

Is there a huge Galaga fan constituency that’s been waiting for more Galaga stuff since, like, 1982?

I don’t know. If they have, they haven’t contacted me. But, what I have seen is people saying, “Oh my god, this Galaga comic is way better than it has any right to be.”

In other news, how have things been going with the Every Topic in the Universe Except Chickens project?

Going well. The idea there was sort of this modest proposal that Wikipedia has this problem with vandalism, and so why don’t we just give up one article to the vandals, the chickens article because dudes already know about chickens, and the rest of Wikipedia will be totally safe and totally fine. What happened with that was that people started to vandalize the chicken article, as I should have foreseen, and it remains semi-protected to this day, which I probably should have foreseen. I ended up linking the comic to a previously vandalized version of the article so people could just look at it and not have to vandalize it themselves. Wikipedia has tremendous readers and does terrific work, and I don’t want to be like this guy who’s just messing with Wikipedia all the time, so I feel a little bit bad about it, but it could be part of the solution.

In your Wikipedia entry here, there’s a couple things I really wanted to ask you about. It says, “Many other individuals hold the name Ryan North, and Ryan North the web comic author sarcastically tried to stop those other people from using his name in a series of satirical emails.” What’s the story with that?

That adjective “sarcastically” shouldn’t be there. It’s been there for years. I don’t know who put it there. But, what I did was I emailed other people named Ryan North, this was years ago in undergrad, one of my early internet projects. I emailed them saying, “Hey guys, I’m the real Ryan North, so just so you know, it’s me. Let’s just keep that in mind.” Then I would publish the responses I got. It was fun. Some of them got the joke. One guy got really mad because of the presumption that I would email him, just so mad. The funny coda of that was when I moved to Toronto, I looked up other Ryan Norths, and found one who lived literally like five blocks from me. I found him on Facebook. I was like, “Ah, Ryan North, I should contact him.” I look at his Facebook, and he’s like eighteen years old, super young, and his on-again-off-again girlfriend is pregnant with their child, and he’s posting about how much he loves her, and he’s so happy for this, and I was like, “This guy’s got enough going on in his life right now. He doesn’t need some weird thirty-year-old dropping a line being like, ‘Hey, we have the same name. Hope you’re happy with your wife and baby. What’s going on?’” So I did not contact him. I did contact one Ryan North, and he claimed to be me from the future, like jokingly, and I was like, “Oh, hey, give me some advice for the future. Tell me what the future is like.” We were just joking around. He writes back this very serious message like, “Stay the fuck away from women named Sharron. They’ll ruin your life.” Like, “Whoa, Ryan, let’s be cool.” So there are dangers to cold-emailing people to joke around with them is the lesson there.

That one guy who was really, really angry with you, did you email him back and say it’s just a joke? What happened with that?

I think I just posted what he wrote on my website, and was like, “Ha ha.”

It also says that you once got yourself in trouble with the authorities by sending prank emails.

Yeah, who hasn’t?

What sort of trouble? Have you done hard time?

No, no, I lived in the Village of Osgoode at the time, and Osgoode had a list of every email address for the people working for the Village of Osgoode, like a list of contact emails. This was 2000, so email was kind of new and fresh. What we did was we took their name and their position and would email them, and there was someone who was like, “My name is Matt Joe, and I’m the party planner for Osgoode.” I was like, “What the hell’s a party planner?” So, I emailed him saying, “Hey, Matt, I’ve got this party I’m trying to plan. How much dip should I get? How many chips should I get?” Stuff like that. Jokey stuff. I also emailed the person in charge of finance, and told her she puts the fine in finance. That was my mistake because she felt threatened by this email, and talked to the police, and the police talked to Hotmail—this was in 2000, remember—Hotmail gave them my IP Address, they talked to my ISP, got my address, and then the police came to my door. I was out, so my mom answered. The cop was like, “Hey, your son’s been sending emails to Village of Osgoode people.” She was like, “I don’t know what’s going on.” So the cop sort of thought it was funny, but the takeaway from that was that I was not allowed to email people in Osgoode anymore unless it was for real. So that was the end of that little adventure.

How about your connection to the arrest of this group of fifteen-year-old girls in Ravenna, Ohio?

I used to host a site for my friend, Posterchild, who was a street artist. He painted Mario blocks, sort of put them up around the urban environment to make it a bit more playful, more fun. He said, “Hey, do this yourself. It’s very easy to make your own Mario blocks.” These five young women in Ravenna made their own Mario blocks, and the mistake they made was probably first, being in Ohio, which doesn’t really have much of a culture for urban art, and unexpected art in public spaces is new there, and the biggest mistake they made was they put, rather than hanging up the block, the last block, they just put it down in front of this, I think it was a courthouse, so people showed up, and they found this box with a question mark on it in front of the courthouse. I guess they’d seen like ’60s Batman cartoons as well, so they brought in the bomb squad to check this question block “bomb” outside the courthouse, and of course there was nothing inside. The women were held overnight, and they had to write a letter explaining why this was a bad idea to the police chief, sort of like a slap on the wrist. I wrote them, and I was like, “I’m really sorry.” They were like, “No, it’s stupid cops, man.” So, I like that Wikipedia says I was once connected to the arrest of five women in Ravenna, Ohio because it makes me sound really dangerous to know. But it was a happy ending.

You mentioned your Time Traveler Cheat Sheet, and that featured prominently in a TEDxTalk that you gave. How did you get involved with the TEDx phenomenon?

I pitched a talk to them, and they said sure. It was funny because I really wanted it to be a good talk, and this was just after the Kickstarter, and I think they were expecting me to talk about crowdfunding and blah, blah, blah, which is not that interesting a topic most of the time. I was like, “No, I’m going to talk about friggin’ time travel, and I’m going to talk about where language comes from, and I’m going to talk about the greatest mistake we’ve made as a civilization and where and when to fix it.”

What was the biggest mistake humanity ever made?

You really should watch the talk for the full argument, but it basically comes down to the time between when we could’ve invented language, talking, and writing—writing specifically, the time between we could have invented writing—and when we did, there’s a big gap there. Writing is what allows ideas to be stronger than the bodies they’re contained within, to survive the death of the host, this is what writing gives us. These advances we’ve made with writing have been huge. The time we spent without writing has also been huge. If you were to travel back in time and talk to these people forty-five, fifty thousand years ago, and teach them how to write, you would easily change the world, and I would hope and argue probably for the better. We’d all be thousands and thousands of years more advanced than we are.

One thing that really struck me in that talk is that I always thought that pasteurization was some really complex process, and it’s basically just boiling milk. I don’t think you should get a process named after you for just boiling milk, I mean, come on.

Well, if you’re the first to do it, and he wasn’t actually the first, it had been invented in China hundreds of years ago as a way to preserve wine. But, it had a huge effect on the world, right? It’s not just milk, but any liquid food, you can kill the bacteria, which makes it safer to drink, and makes it decay a lot more slowly. These are huge things, so I’ll give him the credit for being the one who did it and got people to take him seriously. “I boiled the milk. It’s better now.” They’d be like, “Why is it better? It’s the same milk. I don’t see a difference.”

That does it for our questions. Are there any other projects you’re working on, or any events, or anything you want to mention?

We’ve talked pretty much about everything I’ve done. I’m working on a sequel to To Be or Not To Be. It’s another Shakespeare book, but that’s not going to be ready for a while yet. I just started it. Just the same Dinosaur Comics, Adventure Time comics, Galaga comics should be good for a while yet.

Great, we’ll wrap things up there. We’ve been speaking with Ryan North. His new books are This is How You Die and To Be or Not To Be. Ryan, thanks for joining us.

It was my pleasure. Thanks so much.

The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy is a science fiction/fantasy talk show podcast. It is hosted by:

John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as publisher and editor of Lightspeed, is the bestselling editor of many anthologies, such as The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, Oz Reimagined, Epic, Other Worlds Than These, Armored, Under the Moons of Mars: New Adventures on Barsoom, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, By Blood We Live, Federations, The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Way of the Wizard. He is a six-time finalist for the Hugo Award and a five-time finalist for the World Fantasy Award. Forthcoming anthologies include Wastelands 2, Dead Man’s Hand, and Robot Uprisings. He is also the co-host of Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams.

David Barr Kirtley has published fiction in magazines such as Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, Lightspeed, Intergalactic Medicine Show, On Spec, and Cicada, and in anthologies such as New Voices in Science Fiction, Fantasy: The Best of the Year, and The Dragon Done It. Recently he’s contributed stories to several of John Joseph Adams’s anthologies, including The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, and The Way of the Wizard. He’s attended numerous writing workshops, including Clarion, Odyssey, Viable Paradise, James Gunn’s Center for the Study of Science Fiction, and Orson Scott Card’s Writers Bootcamp, and he holds an MFA in screenwriting and fiction from the University of Southern California. He also teaches regularly at Alpha, a Pittsburgh-area science fiction workshop for young writers. He lives in New York.

Artist Gallery: Marius “Noistromo” Siergiejew

Artist Spotlight: Marius “Noistromo” Siergiejew
Henry Lien

Marius “Noistromo” Siergiejew is a graphic designer, illustrator, and concept artist living in Cracow, Poland. He has worked on projects for clients in the comics, games, advertising, and music industries, including X-Men cover art for Marvel Publications. His work has been published by Lightspeed Magazine, Ballistic Publishing, Sirens Call Publications, and Bloody Disgusting. His website is www.noistromo.com.

Do you ever use images directly from your dreams?

Usually, I forget my dreams quite quickly after I wake up, so sadly I don’t. It would be great if it were possible to record our dreams. Maybe there are some techniques to train the memory to better remember dreams.

What monster frightened you the most as a child?

Strange, but as I remember, it was aliens. Not xenomorphs, but grey aliens. For example, I remember when I watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind, it was scary for me (especially that moment at the end when the aliens come out from the spaceship). Also, E.T. wasn’t a nice movie for me. Cenobites, vampires, werewolves, etc., weren’t scary at all.

The blue that you use in many of your works, including Transhuman 2.0, seems very specific. Like the blue lights you see on an airplane, a PlayStation 2, or e-cigarettes. It seems to suggest cool, exciting new technologies that we have loved over the decades. Was your use of this blue intentional?

Yes, it’s intentional, as you described. It’s a specific blue, suggesting future, fresh, technology, electronic, cybernetic. Science fiction blue, not so heavy, like the #0000FF value of blue, but light, like clean sky, air, lasers, FTL (faster than light), traveling (like the blurred stars in Star Wars when the Millennium Falcon jumps to hyperspeed). It also reminds me of fresh snow and a sunny winter day, when it’s cold but bright, when it’s fresh, cold air. And also New Year’s Day, when everything is rebooting: the new year, new decisions, new period of time, new beginning. The feeling when we leave all the past behind us and cross the border to something new. Also, somehow this light blue reminds me of cold steel, chrome, something bright, new, fresh out of a box, from the production line of some fully automated factory. Just visions of the future encoded in color. Good to know that these feelings and visions are visible not only for me.

Tell us about the term bio-cyber-mechanical. What is its relationship with the future? Do you think that future technologies will look like this? It seems like industrial design, with the brightness and minimalism of Apple and Google, is creating a very different look for the future of technology.

As far as I know, BCM (Bio-Cyber-Mechanical) was an idea I came up with to give a name to a sub-genre of bio-mechanical imagery (although it’s possible someone somewhere on the planet came up with this name earlier than I did). As we know, bio-mechanical is a visual connection of biological, living forms with machines. And that is great, usually good-looking, you know what I mean. But when I tried to describe my artwork, I found out that bio-mech wasn’t quite right to describe this, because there was much more electronic stuff in my work than mechanical. I know that electronic machines could be also described as “mechanical,” but as I focus only on the visual side, this description wasn’t precise enough. So I added “cyber” between machine and “flesh.” The future represented by these forms could look quite interesting but this amount of detail is impractical and could raise the price of goods (and since cost is a very important element of production, less detail and elements could make more sense). Of course, trends change. Now we have minimalism, but who knows what the future will show. I wish to envision how the world and technology will look in the next 100-200 years. Will it be minimalist, or maybe over-detailed?

Do you know if H.R. Giger has ever seen your work? Your work appears to be a very proud descendent of Giger’s work.

I don’t know, but it would be great to get some comment, opinion, critique, or advice from him. He’s a great master for me, but I try to develop my own style. Usually people see in my artworks some associations with Mr. Giger. I can’t deny this. However, I don’t do it consciously.

The figure in Transhuman 2.0 looks to me like a robot version of Rutger Hauer, Dolph Lundgren, and David Bowie. Were you thinking of any real person when you created Transhuman 2.0?

No real person. I wanted to create an absolutely unreal person, just an icon, an icon of a human, but already without any humanity inside. Perfect human face, without any defects, described by digital algorithms, not by nature. A being who is only a ghost of a human biological past.

If you could have a robot body like the robots in your artwork, would you give up your human body? Why?

I’m not sure there could ever exactly be robots like in the artworks I have created, but would I give up my human body . . . maybe yes. Not now. I think in about thirty years from now. To evolve, to change an imperfect body into something better. If we give up the body but not the mind, perhaps we will no longer be fully human. However, what describes our humanity? Our bodies or who we are, our minds, our personalities? Short answer: Yes, but only when my biological body will not function well anymore.

What is your dream project?

I think it could be to work as a designer on a science fiction movie in some Hollywood studio. And to have people like the movie.

Henry Lien is an art dealer in Los Angeles (www.glassgaragegallery.com). He represents artists from North America, South America, Europe, and Asia. His artists have appeared in ARTnews, Art in America, Juxtapoz, the Huffington Post, and Time Magazine, and been collected by and exhibited in institutions and museums around the world. Henry has also served as the President of the West Hollywood Fine Art Dealers’ Association and a Board Member of the West Hollywood Avenues of Art and Design. Henry also has extensive experience as an attorney and teaches at UCLA Extension. In addition, Henry is a speculative fiction writer. He is a Clarion West 2012 graduate and has sold his work to Asimov’s and Interfictions. Visit his author website at www.henrylien.com.

Death and the Hobbyist
Sean Williams

It wasn’t enough for my mother Juliet to be crazy. Of course not. She was always going to find a uniquely inconvenient way to drive us mad along with her.

That she was a bit odd escaped no one’s notice. After Dad died she steadily worsened. I speak with sincere love, but the list of things my mother wouldn’t tolerate only grew longer the older she got. Lenses, fabbers, the Air—everything newer than her she considered potentially lethal. I suppose we all slipped into the habit of treating her concerns with, not disdain exactly, but with the same patience one tolerates the night-terrors of a child—particularly me, her only daughter. Fabbers won’t give you cancer any more than chocolate gives you diabetes. So here, Mom, have a cake I said I cooked with my own hands but really dialled up the same as everyone else. She never knew the difference, and we in turn never noticed her succumbing to serious degenerative illness.

The first time it occurred to me that she had a problem, she was still in the old house in Texas and I was working in Zambia. I visited her on Thursdays for dinner. Sometimes I brought my daughter Clair when she was still a baby, but on this occasion I didn’t. Within moments of walking in the door, it was clear Juliet wasn’t entirely herself.

“I wish you wouldn’t use that thing,” she said.

“What thing?”

“That terrible machine. D-mat.”

I remember not being terribly surprised. It seemed like a perfect extension of how she felt about things the rest of us took for granted. Given her dislike of fabbers, it was amazing she had tolerated the idea of matter transmitters this long.

“It’s okay, Mom. They’re everywhere now, and cheap to use.”

“But you look so old,” she told me. “Don’t you see what it’s doing to you?”

No one likes being called old. I didn’t understand what I’d done to earn her disfavour. A little stung, I asked her to apologise. But she persisted. It soon became clear that she honestly and sincerely meant it. I did look old to her, older than I ought to. Time was mixed up in her head. I tried to reassure her that d-mat wasn’t sucking the life out of me, but she wasn’t going to listen. Never has there existed a woman more unwilling to change her mind. She insisted that unless I stopped using d-mat entirely, as she had, I was headed for an early grave.

Now, I’m not going to argue the merits of her case, because its logic . . . well, there was no logic. It was her disease talking, and being someone unwilling to admit to infirmity, d-mat was the only way she could think of to explain what her mind was telling her. Furthermore, anyone who wanted to stay in her good books had better make sure she didn’t catch them disobeying.

Much later, she explained the mechanism to me. To get from A to B, every object in the universe took a certain amount of time. Most things, people included, had a natural velocity that was much slower than the speed of light. D-mat enabled people to travel instantaneously, but that debt of time wasn’t forgotten. Time doesn’t just vanish, she reasoned. It has to go somewhere.

She believed that this lost time was added to us while we were in transit. So on every occasion we went through d-mat, in the instant we were between here and there, we aged the time it should have taken us. The more we travelled, the older we got.

Look at you, she told me once, you should be a young woman of twenty. But you look forty. Why would you do that to yourself?

I looked forty because I was forty. But that made no difference to Juliet. She was stubborn and ill, and people like that have always made for entertaining patients.

Juliet’s huge heart was untouched by her illness. She meant well, even when she was wrong, and she was ferociously stubborn. So when she told her family and dearest friends that we weren’t to use d-mat anymore, none of us had the mettle to argue. We lied out of kindness and did as we always did. I continued to visit her on Thursday evenings and often on Tuesday mornings, too, with baby Clair when she wasn’t being too fractious, because I took this as a sign that Juliet was in decline. I wanted grandmother and granddaughter to know each other as best they could in what time remained. Clair shared Juliet’s middle name, and was already showing signs of the same pigheadedness.

Juliet was sick but she wasn’t stupid. Africa to North America was no day trip. And I wasn’t the only one who made such journeys. It angered her when she thought she was being treated like a child, as it would anger anyone. Ultimately, she took the perfectly defensible step—in her eyes—of forbidding anyone from visiting her. From now on, she would visit them, to spare them from harm.

I don’t think it occurred to her to wonder how she would accomplish this feat. In her heart, and now in her mind, too, she still occupied the world before the Water Wars, back when people still drove cars, sailed the oceans in vast liners, and bought tickets in planes that flew above the clouds. D-mat had rendered all that obsolete. Why take time getting somewhere when you could be there in a moment? There were no airlines anymore, no freeways. She was a crazy old woman who wouldn’t look in mirrors and didn’t recognise old friends. Sometimes she forgot who Clair was entirely. How was she going to get from one side of the world to the other to visit her granddaughter?

The first time she went missing, drones picked her up two miles out of town, lugging a suitcase full of old clothes as though she intended carrying them all the way to Zambia.

I started visiting even more frequently, but that only made her upset and angry. She ran away three more times, and on the last time she slipped and hurt herself. I was waiting at the house when the peacekeepers brought her in. She had been crying. I could see the tear tracks on her dusty face. But you wouldn’t have known it from the way she carried on. She had been kidnapped, she said. She didn’t need chaperones, she was perfectly capable of looking after herself, she knew what she was doing.

We were forced to accept that she didn’t, and it nearly broke her.

A prison, she called the assisted care community I found for her. It was the best available, but of course she hated it. The confinement, the routine, the constant observation—all of it. One of the terrible things about her illness was how, despite causing her so much calamity, she remained recognisably who she had been. If she had become a different person, it would have been easier to do what we had to do. But we had no choice, for all that she argued and fought with us. It was like smacking a child who honestly thought she was the centre of the universe. My mother had the same sense of drama, if very different strategies, than my daughter, now almost two.

Predictably, she tried to escape and hurt herself again. Her carers started locking her room at night, but she always found a way to slip out. They tried sedating her. They considered tracking devices, physical restraints, drugs. But I didn’t want my mother to be treated like a criminal. All she wanted to do was visit her loved ones. All she wanted to do was keep them safe. She was my mother. Could I punish her for that?

Fearing a breakdown, I started coming every day. There was no point to it—there was nothing I could offer her that the staff didn’t already provide, except my own anxieties. I became obsessed with the possibility that Juliet might attempt self-harm rather than accept that this was how the world worked now. I would sit with her at nights until she fell asleep, cradling Clair in my lap. These two remarkable women, at opposite ends of their lives, totally ruled my own life now. I was exhausted. I didn’t see how I could help both of them much longer.

As I left the hospital one exhausting night, I was hailed by a groundskeeper I had seen a couple of times, tending the roses. A solid man in overalls with white hair poking out from under the hat he wore to keep the moonlight at bay, he was notable because he looked even older than Juliet. I couldn’t tell if he was a volunteer or a patient. Perhaps he was both.

“You’re Juliet’s girl,” he said. “Your mother has itchy feet.”

There was a smile in his voice. I was tired and unwilling to joke about my mother’s predicament.

“No, no,” he said, raising his gloved hands. There were thorns stuck into the thick leather. “I just want to help. You need to call Andre. He’ll know what to do.”

“Who’s Andre?”

“He’s a good man. We fought in the Wars.”

He didn’t say “together.” Nobody from that generation did. There were no sides in the Water Wars, just like there were no victors. There were only those who survived, and those who didn’t.

He gave me an address written on an actual piece of paper by a shaky hand. “Your mother needs him.”

He returned to his gardening and I walked on, convinced now that he was an inmate, one with problems perhaps as profound as my mother’s. I almost threw out the note he had given me, but was stopped by the effort he had gone to. I had no intention of making the call. I remember thinking that I would hand it in to the carers the next day. If he was acting out his illness to strangers in the middle of the night, they needed to be told.

That night Juliet sprained an ankle in the garden, not far from where I had met my would-be benefactor. When I came to settle her down, she wouldn’t look at me. I couldn’t tell what pained her more: the sight of me, or that I could see her in such desperate straits. And they were desperate. She was at a breaking point, and so was I. Both of us knew this couldn’t go on much longer.

I sent Andre a message when I got home. Where carers had failed, locks had failed, daughter and granddaughter had both failed, I would give a complete stranger the chance to work a miracle.

He called two hours later and explained who he was. I didn’t need to tell him my situation; the groundskeeper had warned him that I would call. The embarrassment of being talked about behind my back was assuaged by his calm, open manner. He was frank, too, in a way I found refreshing.

“There’s crazy and there’s crazy,” he said, when I explained my mother’s predicament. “I’ve been called it often enough. But until I hurt someone, I figure I’m allowed to do anything I want. And if there’s some way I can help another in need . . . .”

“Can you help?”

He didn’t answer the question directly.

Andre was a hobbyist, he explained. He loved boats. Where some people dabbled in tiny sloops or yachts, taking gentle joyrides in secluded bays, his interest lay in the big ships that had plied the oceans. The outriggers, the tankers, the icebreakers. The whaling vessels that had driven entire species to the brink of extinction. The destroyers that the navy of one nation might have sent to do war with another. Humanity had once ruled the oceans by means of such things. That there was no need for them anymore didn’t stop Andre from obsessing about the way things had been.

What did that have to do with me, I wanted to know. I already had one crazy person to look after.

He laughed and explained that hobbyists came in all shapes and sizes. Some shared his aquatic passion. Others dreamed of airships, freight trains, racing cars, drilling rigs. Their passions consumed their lives. They became obsessed. Every waking thought was spent searching out old plans, old routes, old ways that were at risk of disappearing forever.

“My mother’s never going to take up a hobby like this, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

He laughed again. I heard a great joy in it. He might have been crazy, but he found a way to be happy despite it.

“She doesn’t need a hobby,” he said. “She needs a hobbyist. We don’t just dream and obsess. We build. And we like to play.”

I glimpsed it then, the solution to our problem. Juliet might not be able to get on a plane and fly to Zambia, but if she could take a train to the coast, then sail across the ocean, and catch a humvee across the plains . . .

It seemed ridiculous at first, I’ll admit. I wasn’t going to entrust a sick old woman to a pack of strangers and their handmade contraptions.

But the more Andre talked—the more of this strange vision came into view—I began to see how, even if nothing concrete eventuated, even if his wild plans came to nothing, it would give Juliet something to focus on that wasn’t her prison or her ageing daughter. There was value in this as a distraction, if nothing else.

So I asked him if he would like to meet her. He agreed and we made a time, a week from then. I didn’t ask how he was going to get there. It would be too easy to talk myself out of it if he said something too weird.

That day, I told Juliet to expect a visitor. I hoped Andre knew a good impression was required of him, for both our sakes. I shouldn’t have doubted him. When he strode into the room, a man Juliet’s age wearing white pants, blue jacket, cravat, and a sea captain’s cap tucked firmly on his head, skin burned brown by the sun and hair bleached salt-white, I saw my mother’s eyes light up with delight, and I smiled so hard I almost cried right then.

I introduced them and, after a few moments, slipped out to leave them to it. I don’t think they noticed. He was telling her tall tales and she was laughing as I hadn’t heard her laugh for a year. I went back home to Clair, and cried. I felt a great weight shifting on my shoulders. I wasn’t released yet, but hope had returned. It didn’t matter if Andre’s wild schemes ever came to fruition. Juliet had exchanged one brand of crazy for another.

A change is as good as a holiday, she used to say.

The details of their first adventure don’t matter now. It was clear from the outset that they weren’t going to give up until Juliet visited me in Mfuwe, were I was stationed, and who was I to disavow them of their dreams? It wasn’t just a case of Andre giving Juliet something to look forward to. I think they fuelled each other’s dreams. No, I’m certain of it. I’ve met quite a few hobbyists now, and there’s no one as desperate and guileless as an obsessive who’s finally found an audience.

Juliet and Andre’s relationship was platonic. What swept her off her feet wasn’t his rugged good looks or his salty tales. What drew him to her wasn’t her queen-in-captivity circumstances. They spoke every day to hone the details of their plan until, three months later, they were ready to put it into effect. I discharged her from the centre and, with Clair and the carers, waved her off from the steps as she drove away—drove!—in a cloud of dust.

It wasn’t as though she was vanishing from the face of the Earth. We were in constant communication as she jaunted from car to boat, from boat to jeep, from jeep to blimp. She sent me pictures of all the hobbyists she met, of dolphins she saw dancing in the waves, of cliffs rising up as land approached, of the road vanishing under as the miles swept by.

Andre was with her the entire time. I had entrusted him with her, threatened to enact a terrible vengeance if so much as a single grey hair was harmed on her head, and he didn’t let me down. He loved her for giving his passion an outlet, just as she loved him for saving her life. And when they touched down in the Mfuwe reserve and she stepped from the balloon, as tanned and joyous as he was, I loved them both, and took them in my arms and cried once more.

So that was how Juliet spent her final years, flitting from place to place in the care of her hobbyist friends. She didn’t share their interest in the antique crafts they maintained, but they treated her like royalty all the same. She meant as much to them as they meant to her—more, I think, then I’ll ever truly understand. The bond they shared went beyond friendship or admiration. They lived in a fairy tale of patronage and chivalry. They moved through the world, unseen, unnoticed, outside of time.

When Juliet died in her sleep high above the Andes, they carried her home to me on a bier of flowers and sang her to her rest with all the others who had loved her. These strange, lonely men and women and their families. My heart swells now to think of them.

My mother’s final words, Andre said, were, “Take me home.” And he did.

That wasn’t the end of it. Some of the hobbyists had never been to Zambia before. They took the chance to look around while they were here. I fabbed mattresses and put out beds on every flat surface. People slept inside, on the veranda, in their vehicles, on top of their vehicles . . . There were people everywhere. I never once felt lonely and Clair had so many new friends to play with she didn’t know what to do with herself.

It couldn’t last. As the hobbyists left in dribs and drabs, I reread the many messages Juliet had sent from far-flung places of the world, putting names to faces and saying heartfelt thanks and goodbyes. I didn’t expect to see any of them again. They were Juliet’s friends, not mine. Knowing that my crazy mother had done so much both amazed me and left me feeling slightly alienated from her. Where was the difficult woman I had known? Had I lost her without realizing it, long before her death?

Andre was the last to leave. He had a present for me, something Juliet had asked him to convey in safety. It was her diary, which she had kept assiduously through all her journeys. We hugged, and he said we were always welcome to sail with him, if ever the inclination took us. One day, I said, knowing it was unlikely. Clair, at three, is too young for adventures, although I’m sure she would disagree. By the time she grows up, the hobbyists might be gone. Unless a new generation takes up the challenge of keeping these old machines running, they will rust and sink to the ocean floor.

“Juliet was a child at heart,” Andre said. “We will always miss her.”

When he was gone, I settled Clair on my lap and read the words my mother had written.

The diary was not a profound read. In it she grizzled about the food on the tankers, which was invariably awful. She took Andre to task for constantly taking detours, or for using modern navigational technology, which she said was bound to lead them to becoming breached on an uncharted reef somewhere. She wondered why there had to be so many long delays without even trying to grasp the enormous logistical challenges of ferrying one woman across the globe using technologies superseded fifty years ago. She ranted about how d-mat was the source of all her inconveniences. D-mat, and the Air, and fabbers, and lenses . . . .

I smiled to read it. She hadn’t changed a bit. And it made me think that her journey had been as much about the spaces between her destinations as the destinations themselves. There was and is something reassuring in that. Her adventure is over, but mine continues, and Clair’s has barely begun. Wherever we go, we will have gone somewhere. The road doesn’t vanish just because we have arrived at the end.

© 2013 by Sean Williams.

Sean Williams is a #1 New York Times-bestselling author with forty novels and eighty short stories under his belt, not to mention the odd odd poem. He writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror for adults, young adults, and children, and enjoys the occasional franchise, too, such as Star Wars and Doctor Who. Born in the dry, flat lands of South Australia, where he still lives with his wife and family, he is currently working on the Troubletwisters series with Garth Nix and a PhD exploring the trope of the matter transmitter. He is also the Overseas Regional Director of SFWA. This story is set in the world of Twinmaker, his first original SF novel in four years. Twinmaker will be available from HarperCollins November 2013.

The Battle of York
James Stoddard

Three thousand years have elapsed since the passing of America. Though scholars have uncovered multitudes of valuable archaeological evidence, little written literature exists from that era. It is indeed unfortunate that books made of paper were replaced by magneto-optical storage by the middle of the twenty-first century. The world-wide magnetic field disaster of the last decades of that century did more than herald a new Dark Age—it erased the literature and history of the world, even as the accompanying geological disruptions obliterated cities and landmarks.

Fortunately, near the end of the twenty-fourth century, an unknown scholar passed through the American regions, collecting the stories and legends we now call “The Americana.” Though we can expect little accuracy from a people dependent on electronic data storage rather than oral tradition, we believe there is always a grain of truth concealed within the tales. But to quote one of the figures from the Americana itself: “When the Legend becomes fact, print the Legend.”

Young General Washington rode alone on his white stallion through the vast forest of Yoosemitee. His battle-axe, Valleyforge, hung glistening from the pommel of his saddle, the blood fresh-scrubbed from its edge. He had slain too many soldiers in the war against the Gauls and American Natives, and was glad to be going home.

I will never fight again, he thought, but will return to the Mount of Vernon to become a surveyor and farmer. There was no pursuit more important to any country than to improve its agriculture and its breed of useful animals. How he longed for the simple cares of a husbandman.

He brooded on the horrors of war, his dead comrades, and the American Native maid, Pocahontas, whom he had loved. He loved her still, though she had betrayed him to the Gauls.

In his people’s language his name, General, meant pertaining in common to all, and that was what he had become, a leader to the American tribes in Virginia. As a youth, an enchantment had been laid on him by the Wise Woman, Betsee Ross, the Star Weaver, that he could never tell a lie. Because of this, some called him “Honest Gen.”

As the last rays of twilight turned the ancient American forest golden with dust and sent the shadows streaming east, he heard the cry of the hawk and the distant howls of wolves. He shivered uneasily. The sequoias rose all around, hundreds of feet tall, the trees the American Natives called the Silent Giants. His men had accompanied him through most of his journey, until he had chosen to shorten his trip by going through the woods. Even the bravest had refused to follow him then, for the forest was said to be haunted. At the time he had thought it just as well; he had wanted to be alone, to try to forget. He had intended to pass through the woods and into the safety of Virginia before nightfall, but weariness had overtaken both him and his mount, and in his brooding he had dawdled.

He dared ride no farther that night for fear of losing his way. Already shapes grew gray and indistinct. The howling of the wolves sounded nearer.

If I continue, I will lame Silver, he thought. He stroked the stallion’s neck, then reined him to a stop. He dismounted, then led him forward a few paces, intending to make camp beneath one of the great trees. The shadows seemed to close around him.

The hoot of an owl overhead startled him. “My nerves are frayed,” he murmured.

General removed Silver’s bridle and saddle and let him go free. He was unconcerned about the stallion wandering off; the horse was loyal as a hound. Silver nickered uneasily, as if he too distrusted the woods.

“Easy, boy,” General murmured automatically. Though he preferred traveling unseen through Yoosemitee, he needed to start a fire to ward off the wolves. Picking up twigs and dead limbs, he soon had enough wood to last the night.

He knelt with flint and steel. Sparks flew and a tiny flame sprang up. Before he could fan it into a full fire, Silver nickered again.

General looked up, then stood, his hand to Valleyforge. A spectral green light haloed the enormous tree trunk. Washington crept around it and looked across the forest floor.

A man approached, a tall, inhumanly broad figure carrying a lantern that glowed with an unearthly luminance. Washington felt his mouth go dry; his heart pounded against his chest, for he thought he recognized the intruder. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go if the Pilgrim sought him. He drew Valleyforge and held it close.

The figure paused a few feet from Washington. The lantern light spread at General’s feet, turning the ground emerald and olive.

“General Washington,” the figure said, his voice a deep drawl. “I am Waynejon. Some call me the Pilgrim.”

“Have you come for me?” General asked. Despite his best effort, his voice trembled.

The Pilgrim rumbled a laugh. “I’m not Death, if that’s what you mean. I’m a man. I put my pants on one leg at a time.”

Washington remained unconvinced. According to legend, the Pilgrim had died many times, but death could not keep him, for he was cursed to walk the earth until the end of the age because of an ancient wrong. He stood a head taller than Washington, who was a tall man himself, and wore a square, black hat with a buckle at its front, a black cloak, and ebony riding chaps. A black eyepatch covered one eye and a rooster stood on his left shoulder. He carried an ancient blunderbuss.

“You look like you’re getting ready to eat. If you’ll share your fire, I have some salted beef in my pack.”

General nodded, then finding his voice, tried to sound confident. “What brings you to the woods?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you.”

“And then,” Waynejon concluded, “the boys got the cattle to the railhead.”

Washington laughed and sighed. The fire cackled warmly before the pair. They sat across from one another, the flames between them. In the last hour, General had lost most of his fear. “An excellent tale. Whatever happened to the lads?”

“They turned out to be good men, most of ’em. But they’re all long gone to their reward on Boot Hill by now.”

In the subsequent silence Washington asked, “Why were you looking for me?”

“You get to the point. I like that.”

The Pilgrim took a drink of coffee from a tin cup, then gestured with it toward the woods. “This country, this new land, it’s wild, untamed. It could be a great nation, different from any other, a place where people could come from all over the world. A place of freedom.”

“We all want that. It’s why my forefathers came.”

“Mine did the same. They fled the dark realm of the Old World to escape the tyrants. But it’s not enough, General. The people aren’t free.”

“We’ve driven the Gauls back to France.”

“But you didn’t get Bone Apart, the Skeleton Man.”

Washington shrugged. “He escaped to Mexico. No American can cross the Rio Grande and live. An enchantment prevents it.”

“He’s done more than escape. He’s made alliance with the Huns.”

Washington drew a deep breath. This was bad news. The Huns, led by their leader, Hitler, the Wolf Prince, were a constant threat, raiding the coasts on their dragon-headed ships, striking and then fleeing. Was there never an end to peril?

“And it’s not just Bone Apart and Hitler,” Waynejon said. “There’s a powerful wizard living in the dark regions of the Canadian north, whose heart is cold as the bitter winds that blow there. The Mounties can’t stop him because he’s conjured a giant from the Old World, tall as a mountain. They’re climbing down the steep cliffs from the ice fields with their armies, preparing to march to York. The Huns, whose longships wait outside York Harbor, have promised the wizard great rewards if he helps them conquer America. The Gauls are reforming along the Rio Grande. We’re in danger, General.”

“What can we do?”

“Only the Words of Power in the iron box on Mount Rushmore can stop the giant. The titan has no strength against them.”

“Mount Rushmore!” A chill ran along Washington’s spine. “None have ever gone there and returned.”

“It doesn’t matter what others have done, General. I’m asking you.”

“It was not my intention to seek further adventures.”

“You gained a reputation in your battles against the Gauls.”

“I heard bullets whistle, and believe me, there is something charming in the sound.”

Waynejon laughed. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“I meant none. By the miraculous care of Providence, I was protected beyond all human expectation, for I had four bullets through my coat and two horses shot under me, yet escaped unhurt. It was an exhilarating experience, but one I have little desire to repeat.” He shook his head. “I fear you have chosen the wrong man.”

“How do you figure?”

Washington hesitated, not wanting to say the words. “My men love me, but though we seem to return from the war in triumph, it isn’t true, at least not for me. I was the one who began the war against Gaul, when I urged the Virginian governor, Dimwiddie, to build Fort Necessity at the joining of the Ohio and Allegheny rivers. Had we not confronted the Gauls there, the colonies might have been spared much bloodshed. There should have been another way.

“Under my leadership, we struck out to attack Fort Duquesne. Though I knew better, out of my own vanity, we went like soldiers on parade, for I thought our movements were unknown. In my pride, I had told our plans to . . . someone . . . I cared for deeply, someone who betrayed us. We were unexpectedly attacked by three thousand Gauls and American Natives, and though our numbers were nearly thrice their own, my men were struck with such a deadly panic that nothing but confusion and disobedience of orders prevailed amongst them. We broke and ran as sheep before the hounds. If Braggart had not reinforced us at the end, the final battle would have been lost. Braggart himself, a mighty commander, was wounded behind the shoulder and into the breast. He died three days after.

“No, Pilgrim. I, a failure in all I have undertaken, am not the man to perform this deed. You must place your trust elsewhere.”

Waynejon took a long sip of coffee. “Seems to me that’s the thing about this country, General. It’s a land of second chances. Someone must go or America is lost.”

Washington, who had ducked his head in shame, looked up into the Pilgrim’s steady eyes, and for a long moment they held each other’s gaze. Finally, General murmured, “If I make the attempt, who will help me?”

“Near the slopes of Rushmore waits the Iron Hewer. Go to him. He will show you the way.”

Washington stared into the fire and sighed. War had found him again and he could not refuse. Human happiness and moral duty were inseparably connected. “I suppose it is easier to prevent an evil than to rectify mistakes,” he said. “I will set out tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good. That’s mighty fine.” Waynejon set his tin cup down. “I have to be on my way. Thanks for the grub.”

Without another word, the Pilgrim rose and strode into the woods, his broad back disappearing into the shadows. Washington shivered, feeling very much alone.

For seven days General rode through the forest of Yoosemitee, and on the eighth reached the wheat-covered plains of Kansas. The whole earth shook with the pounding hooves of herds of buffalo pursued by the valiant Comanches, who looked dreadful in their war paint. To escape their notice—for they had no love of the white man—Washington hid himself among the amber waves of grain. At night, storm clouds built in the south and swept over the plains, the lightning tearing at the sky, the tumult of the thunder reminding Washington that should he survive Rushmore, he would have to face the wizard and his giant.

He crossed the country of Mount Ana, a stark land, all sky and earth, and came in the evening to the banks of the Little Bighorn, where sat a rider on a white horse caparisoned in midnight blue. The rider, too, who had a golden moustache and penetrating blue eyes, wore blue and gold, with a deep blue cape. His curling hair, falling down to the middle of his back, shone like ripe wheat in the sun. But Washington did not believe fine clothes necessarily made for fine men, any more than fine feathers made fine birds.

“Hurrah, good sir,” the stranger called. “What brings you to the banks of the Bighorn?”

“I am Washington, who cannot tell a lie, a son of Virginia. I seek the Iron Hewer on the slopes of Rushmore.”

“Then you seek death,” the stranger replied. “I am Custard, named for the creamy white of my skin and my golden hair. I am called Arm Strong for my might, Lord of Horsemen, Captain of the Seventh Cavalry.”

Washington perceived this Custard had no lack of vanity, though he was indeed a mighty warrior. But General said, “I have never been to Rushmore before. Perhaps, if you know the way?”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“I seek the Words of Power to defeat the Wizard of Canada.”

Custard gave Washington a long look before replying. “I will take you at least part of the journey, though I cannot tarry long. I have unfinished business here. The Sioux have risen against me.”

Together the two set off toward Rushmore. Along the way, Arm Strong told tales of his many deeds. Though he listened politely, Washington found such boasting distasteful, for it had always been his motto to show his intentions through his works rather than his speech.

“And someday,” Custard said, “I will be the President of all this country, from east to west, and men everywhere will praise my name.”

“I am unfamiliar with the word, president,” Washington said.

“Like a king, but even greater, presiding as judge over the land.”

“Perhaps, if the Huns and Gauls can be driven back,” Washington said, thoughtfully, “but even a president should answer to the people.”

“The people should answer to their liege lord, not the other way around.”

“That is the old way, the manner of royalty,” Washington said, as he stared out at the endless horizon. “Like all the dark necromancy of the Old World, it should best be forgotten. It will not be like that here. The purpose of all government, as best promoted by the practice of virtuous policies, ought to be the aggregate happiness of society. As the Pilgrim told me, America should be a place where everyone has a voice.”

“You have seen the Pilgrim?” Custard asked.

“Yes. He was the one who sent me.”

Arm Strong fell silent then, and dared brag no more of his own accomplishments.

After two days travel they reached the Black Hills of Dakota, where they rode through the gloom of perpetual twilight and eternal shadows, for the sun never shone in that dismal country.

As they struggled through the gloaming, Washington spied a great eagle watching them from the back of the carcass of a bull buffalo, which the bird had apparently slain. As the travelers passed, General gave a respectful bow from his saddle and called out, “Greetings, Master of the Air. I see you will have a fine feast.” But the eagle only watched the men with unwinking eyes.

That evening, they came to a valley ringed in jutting peaks, and had traveled only a short distance when a cold voice called to them from the heights. “Who dares trespass on the aeries of the eagles?”

High overhead, its talons clinging to the tallest peaks, stood an eagle twice the size of a stallion.

“I am Washington,” General said, “with my companion Arm Strong, seeking passage to the Mount of Rushmore.”

“This day we will surely break your bones,” the eagle screeched, “for I am E. Perilous Union, mother of the eagles who make their homes both in the Peaks of Usps and the Mountains of the Moon.”

Other, smaller eagles, lurking on the lesser crags encircling the travelers, raised their voices in agreement.

“Hear us, I beg you,” General called, in as brave a tone as he could muster. “Spare us, not for ourselves, but for the sake of our mission, for we are on a journey for the freedom of our countrymen.”

A ruffling of wings passed around the heights.

“Freedom!” E. Perilous cried. “Freedom! You speak the sacred word of the eagles. What is the meaning?”

“It is a word sacred to us as well,” Washington replied.

“Mother,” another eagle called across the heights. “Let us spare these men who speak of Freedom, for when I met them on the plains, the pale-faced one bowed and addressed me with respect.”

“Is this so?” E. Perilous Union asked. “Tell us then, children of men, the purpose of your journey.”

Washington did so, and when he was done, E. Perilous said, “We have heard of this evil wizard and despise his ways. Because my son, Apollo Leven, asks it, I will permit your passage. More, in the sacred name of Freedom, I will send him as your guide.”

Washington and Custard thanked the mother of the eagles, and Apollo Leven lifted himself above the crags to accompany them.

As they continued through the Black Hills, wolves and evil spirits tried to destroy them, and more than once they battled for their lives, but Washington, his face grim and terrible to behold, fought with his great axe, Valleyforge, that shone silver in the darkness; and Arm Strong, wielding a golden blade, proved dreadful in combat. Apollo Leven strove beside them as well, and his terrible beak and talons slew many a foe.

The eagle led them true, and they finally saw Mount Rushmore looming in the distance, awful and majestic, a living monster shaped like a mountain with four heads. The heads were craggy and ill-formed, and shifted from side to side, guarding the treasure.

“The Iron Hewer lives at the base of Rushmore,” Arm Strong said, “where the behemoth cannot reach him.”

They came by twilight to a house made of iron. As they approached, a figure stepped out dressed in simple gray garments and bearing no arms. Around his bald head he wore a circlet with five silver stars that glistened in the dusk.

Washington expected to be challenged, but the man raised his hand in salute and gave a slow smile. “Welcome, strangers, and be at ease. I am Eisenhower Iron Hewer, but my friends call me Ike.”

Washington found he liked Ike immediately, and the two travelers dismounted and introduced themselves. When General told Eisenhower why he had come, the Old Commander shrugged. “Though I have never liked war, I won’t shirk from a fight, especially if Waynejon sent you.”

From out of his larder, Eisenhower prepared a fine meal, though where he got his victuals Washington could not guess. Afterward, full and content, they sat before the hearth, drinking hot coffee and smoking tobacco from wooden pipes, listening to the wind whistling around the iron eaves, while Apollo Leven stood in a corner, his eyes reflecting golden in the flames.

“There is only one way to approach the creature,” Ike said. “All its heads face south, except for the fourth one, which looks to the north. But that head is blind in one eye. If we’re careful, we can creep up the northwestern slope. The box containing the Words of Power is hidden in a cave below the monster’s chins. We’ll know if it sees us, for its faces, which normally resemble rough stone, always take on the features of its victims.”

“Can the monster be slain?” Custard asked.

“A single blow to the mountain’s heart can kill the beast,” Eisenhower replied, “if the warrior who delivers it is pure of soul.”

“Who knows if such a man is among us?” Washington asked.

“I would like to try my hand at it,” Custard said, “if the chance arises.”

“Such a task is not for me,” Eisenhower said. “I am unworthy. I’ve sent too many men to their deaths.”

“Is that why you live here alone?” Custard asked. “A warrior such as yourself would be highly honored in York.”

“I live here to serve and have had all the honors I need. I have led good men.”

“You display great humility,” Washington said. “Humility must always be the portion of any man who receives acclaim earned in the blood of his followers and the sacrifices of his friends.”

“I have not fought for such, sir,” Custard said, “but for the glory of combat. You give me much to consider. Still I would like to set my good right arm against the monster.”

“The Pilgrim sent me here many years ago, to act as a guide. There is a prophecy that one day a man will destroy the creature and use the Words of Power to preserve the land. I hope you are that one, but many have scaled those slopes. None have lived to tell of it.”

“These are strange times,” Washington said, “filled with magic.”

“True,” Ike replied, sagely, “but things are more like they are now than they have ever been before.”

Washington nodded his head and stared into the fire. It was good to befriend a man of Ike’s wisdom.

The three companions rose with the morning light. They left their horses in Eisenhower’s stables and went on foot, angling toward the west, while Apollo Leven wheeled away to watch from a distance, lest his presence alert the four faces. If the monster saw them, it gave no sign. By mid-day they reached a region strewn with boulders, near enough that they could see the heads closely. Washington gaped up at them. Three faced toward the men, one away. They were large as houses, and all looked identical, with gray eyes, weather-beaten noses, and thin lines for mouths. Their guttural voices rose and fell, as they murmured among themselves in a foreign tongue.

The travelers headed north until they came to a point behind the mount, where only the easternmost face kept watch, its left eye staring vacantly down the slope.

“We begin the assault here, just before sundown,” Eisenhower said.

“Shouldn’t we wait until dark?” Arm Strong asked.

“No. They see as well at night as in the day, but at twilight the setting sun will be in their eyes.”

For three restless hours the companions waited for sunset, saying little, thinking of the coming encounter. Custard stared fixedly at the mount.

“Ike,” Arm Strong finally said, “exactly where would the killing blow have to be struck? I cannot rightly determine the location of the beast’s heart.”

Eisenhower pointed. “There, just between the two central heads. Front or back makes no difference.”

“And the Words of Power?” Washington asked.

“A few yards farther down in a narrow cave. It’s hard to see from here.”

“You have guided us well,” Washington said. “You need not accompany us.”

“I don’t have to, but I will. I’ve always stood with anyone who made the attempt.”

When the sun was still three finger-widths above the horizon, Eisenhower ordered the travelers to move out. They crept between the boulders, keeping always to the blind side of the head, and were soon scrambling up the mountain slope. Pine trees provided concealment until they were two-thirds of the way up, but after that the mount lay barren.

Washington’s heart pounded in his chest as he climbed. He tried not to look up at the terrible face above him. At first he could not see the cave, but then he spied it, a narrow opening half-covered by an overhanging shelf. If they could reach it, the head would be unable to see them.

Abruptly, the terrible visage turned, with the sound of rock scraping on stone, and the three flattened themselves against the boulders, scarcely daring to breathe. For a moment the good eye swept along the slope, but the sunlight blinded it, making it squint and look away. The men kept climbing.

Custard was the first to reach the cave, and he helped the others under the protection of the ledge. They clapped one another on the back and turned toward the opening.

It was little more than a niche in the rocks, and Washington searched only a short while before finding the iron box set in a recess. It proved neither long nor heavy, and he drew it out easily and opened the lid, which needed no lock with such a terrible monster guarding it. Within lay a brown parchment.

“The Words of Power,” Washington whispered. He placed the scroll within his breast pocket and slipped the box back into its place.

“Have any ever come this far before?” Custard asked softly.

“Only two,” Ike said. “Their bones are strewn across the slope.”

Shuddering at Eisenhower’s words, Washington told the Old Commander to lead them back down.

They were nearly to the tree line again before Washington realized Custard was not behind him. He turned to discover Arm Strong ascending the mount. General clutched Eisenhower’s shoulder and pointed to their comrade.

“That vain-glorious fool!” Eisenhower hissed.

Reaching the region above the monster’s heart, Custard raised his sword high above his head, shouting, “Die, beast, in the name of Arm Strong, Captain of the Seventh Cavalry!”

He looked magnificent at that moment, his cape billowing, his golden hair sweeping back behind his head, the last rays of the sun glinting on his blade. With all his power, he thrust downward.

The sword snapped beneath the weight of the blow, leaving Custard gaping at it in astonishment.

A scraping noise filled the heavens as all four of the monster’s heads swiveled toward the captain. General gasped, for the faces had transformed into the features of Custard, Washington, and Eisenhower. Only the head with the blind eye remained unchanged.

The air filled with roaring as the heads screamed their rage. The whole mount trembled as vast arms rose from either side, reaching toward Custard.

“Let’s go!” Eisenhower ordered. “He won’t make it.”

“No,” Washington cried, handing Ike the parchment. “Take it and flee!”

General did not hear Eisenhower’s reply; he was already sprinting toward Custard, Valleyforge unsheathed. Though it had taken several minutes to creep down the mount, he ascended in seconds and was beside Arm Strong as the giant arms groped toward both of them. Washington saw his own face, filled with hatred, glowering down upon him.

Do I really look like that? he thought. My nose seems so large.

At that moment Apollo Leven streaked from the sky to harrow the faces with his talons. But the action bought the men only a moment before the rocks erupted around them, lifting them off the ground and sending them sprawling down the incline. Custard’s expression was wild, but he held a knife in his hand as he rolled to his feet. Washington scrambled back toward the mountain’s heart, axe upraised, staring straight into his own seething eyes.

The mount rippled beneath him, but as he fell he brought his axe down on his target with all his strength. He expected nothing but the destruction of his weapon, followed by his own death, but Valleyforge cut easily through the rock.

The whole mount screamed, a deafening blast. Blood rilled from the wound, covering General in ichor. He rolled on his back and saw the faces above him, including his own, writhing in their death struggles. He watched himself expire, the light leaving the eyes, the head lolling downward.

The mountain shuddered and sank. The four dead faces stared across the plain.

For a moment, Washington could hear nothing, but finally Custard’s voice came to him, as the captain helped him up. “You have shamed me, sir, and saved my life. I am forever in your debt.”

Eisenhower reached them a moment later and fell immediately to his knees before Washington. “You are the one,” Ike cried, taking the circlet of five stars from his forehead and casting it at Washington’s feet. “The one who was to come. You have ended my vigil. Accept my service. Wherever you go, I will go also, and will serve you until my death.”

“I too will follow you,” Custard said, though he did not kneel. “Accept my service as well, General.”

Scarcely understanding their words, Washington stared up at his defeated foe. “But how?” he exclaimed. “How could a failure such as I be worthy to destroy the beast when Arm Strong could not?”

Apollo Leven glided to a landing and placed his large head under General’s hand. “Do not question the turn of events, Washington Paleface, but accept the fealty of these men, and mine as well, for I too would follow you.”

Still overwhelmed, Washington laid his hands on the shoulders of the two men. “I do not understand, nor know where this will lead, but I cannot refuse the service of such brave warriors, nor of this great eagle. Now rise. We have a giant to kill.”

“Another?” Ike asked.

They spent the night in Eisenhower’s house, where Washington cleaned the blood from himself and his garments. In the morning they left Rushmore far behind, and the four dead heads gaped at them to the edge of the horizon.

They rode once more across the darkness of the Black Hills, and as they went Eisenhower asked, “General, why did you go back for Custard? You had the scroll. If you and I had died, there would have been no one to stop the wizard.”

“I could not leave him behind.”

“If a commander thinks expending ten thousand lives will save twenty thousand later, it is up to him to do it.”

“Custard was not ten thousand, but one,” Washington said. “And though you have a point, I labor to keep alive in my breast that little spark of celestial fire called Conscience. I could not desert him and live with myself.”

They passed back into Mount Ana, where Custard seemed to grow increasingly nervous. At last they came once more to the banks of the Bighorn River, where they topped a hill and found a giant American Native standing before them. Behind him sat a creature with the head of a stallion whose eyes were lit with madness and another with the head of a bull.

“I am Bitter Gall,” the native said. “The appointed time is come.” He raised his arms and hundreds of warriors suddenly appeared over the hills, dressed in feathers and skins, war-paint covering their fierce faces.

Sweat broke across Arm Strong’s brow, but he said nothing.

“What do you want?” Washington asked.

“Your people have sinned and there must be death,” the sitting bull said.

“I have done it!” Arm Strong burst forth. “I am not what you think me, General. I admit it, now. I have shed the blood of children. I spoke before of unfinished business. Long ago, it was prophesied that I would meet my death by the banks of the Little Bighorn. I hoped to redeem myself in the slaying of Rushmore, but I failed there, too.”

“Only one life is required,” the crazed horse said. “One of you three. But none shall pass until the deed is done.”

“I have accepted the fealty of this man,” Washington said, “and I cannot tell a lie. I am responsible for him. I will accept the punishment in his stead.”

For a moment Arm Strong’s eyes became crafty. But he looked at Washington and shook his head. “No, General. I have been a villain, but you returned for me on Mount Rushmore when I would not have done the same for you. You must live to fight the wizard. My fate is sealed. You have shown me the way to restore my honor, and I will go with the sun shining on my face.”

Custard bowed low to Washington, then strode down the hill toward Bitter Gall, passing out of the story and into history. But Washington wondered if someday, he too would have to pay for the deaths of so many of his men in the battle of Fort Duquesne.

Washington and Eisenhower, grieving at Custard’s loss, made their way through the forest of Yoosemitee, where they had many adventures. At last they came to York, a city of magnificent spires. Others heard of Washington’s heroism on Mount Rushmore, and warriors came to him offering him their service, so that he gathered a group of America’s finest around him. Of these, Lafayette DeGaul was one of the greatest. Though a Gaul, he had vowed to follow Washington when General had saved his life many years before, and had been with him through the Gaul and American Native War.

“Mon General,” Lafayette said, “it is good to see your face. The wizard, accompanied by his giant, approaches the city and is encamped beyond the banks of the Mighty Delaware. Those sent to stop it have been smashed to bits. I was just preparing to go myself, to die for the cause of freedom.”

DeGaul was a wild-eyed man, with a moustache and plumed hat. Until he met Washington, he had been a member of the famous Musketeers, who had fought against the powers of darkness and evil in the Old World.

Washington assembled his company, which had grown to over five hundred men, just inside the gates of York. As he looked upon them, despair ran through him, for they were poorly armored and had little supplies, the Hun’s blockade of the harbor preventing needed goods from entering the city. Despite his reservations, he drew a deep breath and addressed them briefly, explaining the situation.

He ended with: “The time is now near at hand which must determine whether Americans are to be Freemen or Slaves. The fate of untold millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us no choice but a brave resistance or the most abject submission; this is all we can expect. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or die.”

The men gave a ragged cheer while Apollo Leven wheeled and cried overhead.

Knowing how few warriors he had, Washington ordered a special surprise in the form of large, mysterious crates loaded onto the supply wagons.

As they rode out through the gates of York toward the Canadian Ice Fields, a crowd assembled to watch them go, young women pinning flowers and kisses on the warriors. Washington was approached by one of the most beautiful ladies he had ever seen, with pouting lips and eyes that flashed like fireworks. Her dark hair flared long and wild over a necklace hung with wooden teeth, suspended over a dress of forest green. She handed him a red, white, and blue standard covered with thirteen stars and stripes.

“Take this, General,” she said, “and fight for York. The Star Weaver herself has enchanted it, washing it in the tears she sheds for those who die beneath the titan’s heels. Tie it to your axe-handle in your moment of need, and its magic will give your blade power.”

He reached down from the heights of Silver’s back to take the cloth, and for a moment their hands and eyes met. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Martha Custis.”

“I thank you for this,” Washington said.

She smiled and watched him ride away.

“She is a beauty, that one,” Lafayette said.

“There is no time for such things,” Washington replied, but his hand felt warm where she had touched it, and he raised the standard high.

For three days the company traveled north, and by the second afternoon icy winds began to blow. Snow flurried at evening, and the warriors soon rode through banks of white. It was bitterly cold, and Washington’s men lacked sufficient clothing.

By mid-afternoon the company reached the edge of a valley, where ran the Mighty Delaware River. In the vale’s center stood the giant, Britannia the Great, hundreds of feet tall, an enormous creature with the face of a woman, wearing a crown and carrying a heavy mace that it used to pound the earth. Wherever it walked or struck, it flattened houses, fields, and living things, a brutality that came to be known as the Stamp Act. The wizard stood upon the titan’s shoulders and an army of ten thousand red-clad warriors followed behind.

“How can we face them?” Lafayette asked.

“I have a plan,” General said. “But the Words of Power will not work unless the monster hears them, so I must be very close. We will wait until nightfall.”

The snow fell harder as evening progressed. The men carried half-shrouded lanterns, but it was still difficult to see through the storm. Everyone shivered with the cold, but Washington led them to the banks of the Delaware, accompanied by the wagon filled with the mysterious crates. They found boats upon the shore, left there at Washington’s request by his American Native friend, Massasoit. In the dead of night, scarcely able to find their way, the company crossed the torrent of the Mighty Delaware, Washington standing upright, holding the red, white, and blue banner before him. He shivered from more than the cold, knowing that if the wizard or Britannia discovered them upon the waters, they would be doomed.

After a long hour, they reached the farther shore. Washington divided the men into three sections under the command of Eisenhower Iron Hewer, Stonewall Jackson, and Benedict Arnold, three of his greatest warriors. Giving them their orders, General turned to Lafayette. “The rest is up to us, I fear. Come with me.” Washington took the banner Martha Custis had given him and tucked it beneath his cloak.

Together, the two comrades crept toward the titan, whose gigantic form blocked the stars. They slipped through the sentries, then waited until moonrise. As the first rays lit the land, Lafayette called in a loud voice just outside the tent of the Wizard Cornwallis. “Come out, great magician, for we have seen your might and know we have no chance against you. Come and accept our surrender.”

The sentries around Cornwallis’s camp leapt to their feet, but Lafayette drew his bow and covered them. “Stand back, my friends. We surrender to Cornwallis alone.” As the guards hesitated, the wizard appeared at the tent door, a dazzling lantern in his hand. Lafayette lowered his weapon.

The wizard wore a bulky red robe and a white, pointed hood, which allowed only his dark eyes to show. His voice was grating as he spoke. “Who dares interrupt the slumber of Cornwallis, Grand Wizard of the Empire?”

“It is I, Lafayette DeGaul, with the great General Washington, who asks you to accept his surrender.”

The giant, Britannia, gave a low rumble and raised its mace, but Cornwallis bid it stay its hand.

“Why do you come slinking to me in darkness?” Cornwallis demanded.

“We came as quickly as we could, to end the bloodshed, for who knows what this behemoth of yours will do?” Lafayette replied.

Cornwallis laughed. “I almost believe it. How like your people, the wretched refuse of the Old World, vermin sent to pollute these fair shores, fit to be nothing but slaves. When York is overthrown, I will show you how such should be treated.”

“We are willing to do as you say,” Lafayette said through gritted teeth. “Only accept our surrender.”

“I have heard of you, Washington. It is said you cannot tell a lie. Answer me then, Commander, is that truly why you have come? I will believe it from your lips.”

Washington dared not answer, knowing the truth would spring unbidden from his mouth.

“I thought so,” Cornwallis said, signaling to the giant.

“Scatter!” Washington ordered.

The Americans moved just in time to avoid a shattering blow, as Britannia brought its mace down with all its force. The impact tossed Washington off his feet, but even before he hit the ground he was unrolling the scroll containing the Words of Power, for this had all been part of his plan, to bring the giant close to the earth in striking. On landing, Washington instantly sprang up and began reading in a mighty voice.

At the first word, everything seemed to freeze in place, as if time had stopped. Britannia remained immobile as Washington spoke:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights . . .

On and on Washington read, his voice growing stronger with the reading, his delight rising as he saw the wizard and the giant both helpless against the words. He raised his arms as he ended: And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

The moment General finished, Cornwallis fell to his knees. When he tried to rise, Lafayette, with the speed of thought, raised his bow and placed an arrow through the wizard’s evil heart.

“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!” Lafayette cried.

Britannia gave a terrible scream, for the Words of Power began to turn its feet to stone. With a snarl, it fled toward the south, stomping away on increasingly clumsy members.

A roar rose from the valley’s edge as hundreds of fireworks, the contents of the mysterious crates, were released at once. The sky erupted in red, white, and blue flares as Eisenhower, Arnold, and Jackson led the Americans into the valley toward the Red Army, which was milling in confusion, stunned at being attacked from a direction they thought safe.

“The giant!” Washington cried. “It heads toward York.”

Washington and Lafayette captured two of their enemies’ horses and sped after the titan, but the mounts could not keep up. As soon as they reached their camp, Washington leapt off his steed and onto Silver, who stood waiting for his master, impatiently pawing the earth.

“Go on!” Lafayette shouted to Washington. “Go on, Mon General! I will catch up.”

Faster than the wind, Silver ran, while Washington kept his eyes upon the giant. But when he reached the banks of the Mighty Delaware, General found the titan had already crossed. He nearly despaired at that moment, until Apollo Leven streaked out of the sky and landed before him.

“You must ride upon my back,” the eagle screeched.

Still bearing the banner Martha Custis had given him, Washington climbed in front of Apollo Leven’s wings. The eagle took a single bound and streaked over the great river.

Yet fast as they were, the monster strode far ahead. It steadily approached the gates of York, dwarfing the city’s gleaming spires. Washington was still some distance behind it as it raised its mace, preparing to sweep the metropolis away.

In desperation, General lifted Valleyforge and tied the banner to its pommel. As he let it fly, the weapon streaked toward the giant, the flag streaming behind, and as it flew it grew, powered by the flag’s enchantment. It struck Britannia full in the back, and the monster writhed away, stumbling as it went, its massive feet missing the gates of York.

In its frenzy, it thrashed into the water. Most of its lower body was stone, and it moved with awkward, hesitant jerks. Crossing the bay, it pulled itself onto a massive rock rising out of the harbor. By the time it reached the top, its waist had turned to stone, leaving it unable to move its legs. Gradually the effect crept up its body. It raised its enormous mace in defiance and turned its face toward the sea, looking for its home across the waters.

Washington’s axe, returned to its former size, fell from the giant’s back and clattered down the rocks.

With the giant and the wizard destroyed, the Red Army, thinking the fireworks the beginning of an enormous assault, fled in terror. Washington returned to his men and led them back into the city in triumph, the whole company singing When General comes marching home again. Washington was declared a great hero and some wanted to make him king, but he refused, remembering Custard’s words of a new office of president.

He recalled what the Pilgrim had said as well, and realized that America was indeed a place of second chances.

The Gauls retreated from Mexico, and Hitler drew his boats back across the sea. Although Washington searched through all of York for many weeks, he found no sign of Martha Custis, nor anyone who knew her. However, he did find his axe with the flag still tied to its pommel, on the shores of the rock where the giant stood.

Afterward, a great Convention was held in honor of Washington’s victory. A tremendous plan was conceived to build an enormous door, gilded with gold, across York harbor, to prevent the Huns from ever attacking again.

There was talk of tearing down the stone titan, but Lafayette had the last word. “Let it rather be a symbol, this vanquished foe. And we will call it Lady Liberty, for with its defeat we have won our freedom.”

Being a poet as well as a warrior, in mockery of the words the wizard had spoken, Lafayette etched the following lines upon the base of the rock where the giant stood:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

The Convention ordered a flame lit atop the statue’s mace, that became a torch burning across the waters, so bright it could be seen from the shores of the Old World. And when the kings and emperors of that shadowy realm looked upon it, they trembled.

© 2004 by James Stoddard.

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

James Stoddard’s short stories have appeared in SF publications such as Amazing Stories and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. His science fiction story, “The Battle of York,” was included in The Year’s Best SF 10, published by Eos Books, and his fantasy story, “The First Editions,” was included in the 2009 edition of The Year’s Best Fantasy 9 from Tor. His novel, The High House, won the Compton Crook Award for best fantasy by a new novelist, and was nominated for several other awards. A sequel, The False House, followed. He has recently published a rewrite of William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land.

The Turing Test
Beth Revis

Test Facility Site: Nabco Research Station B

Test Administrator: Dr. Richard K. Philip

Test Subject Identity Code: ES42

Test Administered: Turing

“Do you know why you’re here?” Dr. Philip asks.

I laugh. “I would be rather stupid if I didn’t.”

Dr. Philip’s smile is indulgent, which frustrates me. I uncross my legs at the ankle and re-cross them at my knees, not bothering to readjust my skirt. Dr. Philip blushes and looks down at his clipboard.

“I need you to state your reasoning,” he says. “For the record.”

He might be a professor, but he isn’t much older than me. Not more than a decade. Just about right.

“My name is Elektra Shepherd,” I say. “I’m eighteen years old. A freshman in university, majoring in artificial intelligence. Today I am a participant in a Turing test. For the record,” I add in a lower voice, just so I can see Dr. Philip blush.

“Thank you, Ms. Shepherd,” Dr. Philip says.

I smile at him, relishing the feel of my heavy lipstick on my lips.

“And could you state what you think a Turing test is?” he adds.

I raise my eyebrow at him.

“For the record.”

“A Turing test is a test developed to determine whether or not artificial intelligence has, well, intelligence. Essentially, a person—me, in this case—is separated in one room. Across that wall,” I point to the wall directly opposite me, “is another room. Inside the room is one person and one A.I.. All three of us are going to have a little conversation, and then I’m going to tell you which one the person is.”

“Which one you think is the person,” Dr. Philip says, making a note on the paper in his clipboard.

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Richard.”

“Dr. Philip, please.”

“Come on, Dr. Philip. I know I’m just a freshman, but I think I’ll be able to figure out the difference between a computer and a person.”

Dr. Philip laughs, and something in the harsh sound makes me uncross my legs and readjust my skirt. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says. “A.I. has come quite a long way in the last five or so years.”

I have a dozen witty comebacks for his words, but not one for the sneering tone of his voice.

“Shall we get started?” Dr. Philip asks.

“Let’s,” I say.

Dr. Philip does a sound check on the microphone and a visual check on the video recorder that will be monitoring me. The two screens on the wall across from me light up. SUBJECT BLUE, the first screen says in bright blue letters across the top of the black screen. SUBJECT RED, the other screen says.

“I’ll be just on the other side of the door if you need anything,” Dr. Philip says as he opens the door. I nod. He shuts the door, and I hear a lock click into place.

The two screens across from me fade to black.

A minute goes by.

“Hello?” I finally say.

“Hi!” flashes in bright blue letters across the screen on the left.

“Hey,” flashes in duller red letters across the screen on the right.

“Let’s begin,” I say.

“Let’s,” says Blue.

“Okay,” says Red.

I glance at the video recorder in the corner of the room, aware that Dr. Philip’s eyes are on me right now. It makes me uncomfortable, as if I were the one being tested, not Red and Blue.

“Well, I guess the obvious question is . . . are both of you human?”

“Yes,” says Blue.

“Obviously,” says Red. “But then again, if the whole point of this test is to trick you, then I’d of course say that I was human, even if I wasn’t.”

I lean forward, smiling. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to make this easy on me.”

“That’s not a question,” Blue says.

“I would like to make this as difficult as possible for you,” Red says.

“Okay . . .” I think fast. “What’s the square root of four-thousand-thirty nine?”

Math has always been my strong point—if Blue or Red figures out this problem quicker than me, then that one must be A.I..

“63.5531274,” Blue says as I’m still figuring out the last numbers.

Gotcha, I think.

“I’m a math major, ha-ha,” Blue adds after that.

Maybe not.

“The answer is 62,” Red says.

“Ha!” I laugh triumphantly, “The answer isn’t 62!” This is too easy—an A.I. just has a fancy calculator for a brain, it would know the right answer immediately.

“But,” Red types quickly, his words forming on the screen as fast as I can read them, “If I were trying to trick you into thinking I was a human, then obviously I would tell you the wrong answer.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then what is the right answer?”

“I don’t know,” Red says.

But, of course, that’s what he would say if he was trying to trick me.

Math wouldn’t work—basic knowledge wouldn’t work. Even if Blue answered everything correctly from the year Columbus discovered America to the exact number of electrons in carbon, he could just be really smart. And even if Red failed every question I asked—he could just be getting them wrong on purpose to throw me off his scent.

Time to get personal.

“I’d like to get to know you both better,” I say. “What’re your names?”

“That’s irrelevant,” Blue says. “We’re supposed to be anonymous.”

“Andy,” Red says.

“We’re supposed to be anonymous, huh, Blue?” I ask, smirking. “So I guess you’re not going to tell me much more than that you’re a math major?”

“I don’t think I was supposed to say that . . .” Blue says.

“The computer told you he was a math major?” Andy says. “Funny. Bet he guessed the square root question so quick he had to throw you off with that.”

I laugh—then I realize that by laughing, I’m already thinking that Andy is real, not Blue, and I want to keep an open mind. Dr. Philip said the test would be tricky, and it is.

“What about you?” Andy asks.

“Me?”

“What’s your name, major, all that stuff.”

“I’m Elektra, a freshman in A.I..”

“A.I.!” Andy says, and even though the words are written across the screen, I can imagine his tone of voice: impressed with a hint of laughter for the joke of an A.I. major conducting a Turing test.

“Yeah,” I say. “You?”

“Sophomore in engineering.”

“What kind?”

It takes Andy a moment to respond. “What kind of sophomore? Just the regular kind, I guess.”

I really do laugh aloud now. “No, I meant—what kind of engineering?”

“Oh! Ha-ha. Android engineering.”

“So you make robots?” I ask. There’s a huge competition between my college and his—the running joke is that the A.I. college makes the brains and the android engineering college makes the body.

“Are we still doing the test?” Blue asks, and I’m reminded of why I’m here, and that Andy might not even be real.

“Enough background,” I say, straightening up in my chair and assuming a more authoritative voice. “Let’s discuss philosophy. What’s the meaning of life?”

“What do you think is it?” Blue asks.

“That’s a stupid question,” Andy says. “It means something different for every person.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think,” Andy says. His words appear on the screen slowly, as if he’s contemplating each word carefully. “I think that life doesn’t have a meaning. It just is.”

“That’s kind of dark. So, is there a God?”

“Does it matter if there’s a God?” Blue asks.

“An interesting question, considering what we’re doing,” Andy says.

“What do you mean?”

“Just . . . if there is a God . . . does that fly in the face of this test? Your major?”

“What, A.I.?”

“Yeah, artificial intelligence. I think you could make a case that A.I. invalidates the possibility of God.”

“Why?”

“If man can make life—because, honestly, isn’t A.I. life?—if man can do that, then what’s the point of God?”

“This is not a religious debate,” Blue says.

“You’re right,” I say, but Andy’s words have thrown me off. I wouldn’t say I was a religious person, per se, which is why I never thought of the way religion doesn’t seem to co-exist too well with A.I. studies. But . . . A.I. is A.I.—it’s not a human. “If artificial intelligence does gain sentience . . .” I say slowly, thinking about each word, “If, for example, Andy, you’re the A.I., but you trick me into thinking that you’re human—if A.I. is so clever and intelligent that it could pass for human . . . does that necessarily mean it has a soul?”

“Why would a soul matter?” Blue asks.

“Because if it has a soul, then that means man has usurped God. But if it doesn’t have a soul, then that means . . .”

“I don’t know,” Andy says. “But that’s the line between A.I. and human, isn’t it? A soul. Not intelligence. Soul.”

And he has a point. It’s not intelligence that will enable me to pick between Blue and Andy as to which is human and which is essentially just a trumped up computer.

“And have you seen what’s been done in android research?” Andy continues. “I’ve seen bits of it. Computer engineering, you know. And they can make an android now that has the exact same motor functions as a human. It’s so precise. Pair the mechanics of that with the A.I. that people in your department are working on . . . you’ve got something that looks like a human and thinks like a human . . . so what’s the difference between you and it?”

And suddenly I remember: the urgency Dr. Philips had in setting up this Turing test; the secretive nature he’s had about it; the way everything, everything had to be “for the record.” Maybe this is the breakthrough. If I were to open the door and go to the other room, would I see two things that look like a human? Two things that look so similar to me that I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart, even though one has electronics and circuitry inside and one has bones and blood?

But I laugh, and in my laugh is the sound of relief. “But we’re not that advanced yet,” I say. “We haven’t come close to pairing a realistic robotic android with an A.I. of adequate intelligence. In fact,” I say, “have you noticed that every answer to my philosophical questions have been answered by a question from Blue.”

“Excuse me?” Blue says.

“Another question. Big surprise. You’ve had to repeat everything I’ve said, or turn it around, turn it into a question for me. You can’t add depth to the conversation, you can only string me along with equal questions. You can’t do anything else because you can’t think for yourself. Nice try, but I’ve done my research on Socratic A.I.s. Blue is the artificial intelligence, Andy is the human.”

The lights in the room flash, and the screen with bright blue letters goes dark. Andy’s red letters stay on.

“I’ve figured it out,” I say to the room. “I’m done.”

“No, you’re not,” Andy says.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s more to test.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A simple Turing test is to figure out which one of two options is the human and which one is the A.I.. But that’s too simple—and you’re an A.I. major, after all, so you’d know about standard Turing tests. To make it more complicated, Dr. Philip has added another layer—there’s a chance that both of us are A.I., or that neither of us are.”

I roll my eyes and sigh, but a thrill runs up my spine. A challenge.

“If you’re A.I.,” I tell Andy, “then you’re very, very good.”

Andy doesn’t respond at first. “I wonder if the test is more than that,” he says finally.

“What do you mean?”

Andy is silent for a longer time this time, so long that I start to get nervous that Dr. Philip has cut off his screen, too, and ended the testing, but the red cursor on his screen still blinks.

“How much do you know about Dr. Philip?” Andy finally says.

“He’s Dr. Philip. What’s to know?”

“How long has he been at the university? Who’s he working for? When did he start studying A.I.?” Andy types this so quickly that I have a hard time reading the words fast enough; the red blurs together.

“Why are you asking these questions?”

“Test subjects should maintain focus,” Dr. Philip’s voice echoes across the room from the speakerphone.

My mind’s racing, though. I met Dr. Philip only a few weeks ago, when he began looking for subjects to screen for the Turing test. When I think of him, I think of sterile labs and clipboards and questions.

Do I know him outside of the Turing test projects?

No.

Do I know where he came from?

No.

The university set the entire research project up. The university that has the most advanced android and A.I. programs in the nation . . . in the world. And two of the subjects in the test are an A.I. major and an android engineering major. What if I’m not testing Andy . . . what if the university is testing both of us? To see if . . .

If Dr. Philip is such a good android that even we won’t notice.

I eye the camera in the corner of the room. He’s watching me . . . or maybe the university is watching me, waiting to see if I can figure this out.

“I’d like the test to be over now,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Andy types on the screen, but before I can see what he’s sorry about, it fades to black.

I hear a click, and the door opens. Dr. Philip enters, clipboard in hand. “Your final evaluation?” he asks. When I don’t speak, he adds, “Do you think Subject Red is a product of artificial intelligence?”

“No,” I say, looking straight into Dr. Philip’s eyes.

“For the record, your final standing is that Subject Blue was A.I., and Subject Red was not?”

“Yes. For the record.”

A small smile twists the corner of Dr. Philip’s mouth. “Very good. Now, if you wouldn’t mind turning that way.” He points past me.

“Why?” I ask, immediately suspicious. If I turn the way he’s indicated, I’ll have my back to him, and something about this entire project has me deeply afraid that if I turn my back to Dr. Philip, something horrible will happen.

But he smiles at me, and in that smile, I remember the easy way he would speak to me during the lab sessions before the official test, the way he told me once about his wife and young daughter, and I think to myself: no. Surely not. He’s not an android with A.I.. He’s human, like me.

I turn around.

Everything goes black.

Test Facility Site: Nabco Research Station B

Test Administrator: Dr. Richard K. Philip

Test Subject: Rory Rivers

Test Administered: Turing

“Do you know why you’re here?” Dr. Philip asks.

“Yeah,” Rory says.

“Could you state your role in the Turing test? Speak up, please; the microphone is here.”

“My name is Rory Rivers. I’m a junior at State.”

“Your role in the Turing test held today?” Dr. Philip prompts.

“I was Subject Blue.”

“And could you tell us a little bit about your experience?”

Rory shifts in his chair. “Do we have to do that with . . . that here?”

Dr. Philip makes a note in his clipboard. “Does it disturb you?”

“Shit yes. It looks effing human.”

The doctor makes another notation. “Good. That is, of course, the goal.”

Rory swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“I need your account please. For the record.”

Rory nods and rips his gaze away from the thing slouched in the corner of the room. “I was Subject Blue, like I said.” He bends closer to the microphone in the center of the table. “I was told to give really short answers to all the questions and to use a computer to help me with answers if I needed one. I was told—you told me—that I should be really focused on the questions.”

Dr. Philip nods. “And you were quite good at that role. Thank you.”

The door opens. A tall, thin man enters. He’s wearing a lab coat just like Dr. Philip, and a broad grin slices across his face. “A success, don’t you think?”

Dr. Philip nods and turns off the microphone. He checks his clipboard. “The subject displayed a wide range of reactions. Curiosity, reasoning, philosophy, logic. Even paranoia and fear.”

The tall man’s grin turns into a smirk. “And even romantic interest there at the beginning, I think.”

“Who are you?” Rory demands. He’s unnerved by everything that’s happened today. He signed up for the Turing test because it was an extra $200 credited to his university account, but he hated the mind games being played.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude!” the tall man says jovially. “I’m Dr. Andrew Deckard.” His eyes light up. “Andy. Subject Red.”

Rory stands and shakes Andy’s hand.

“And I see you’ve met Elektra Shepherd,” Andy adds, nodding toward the thing in the corner.

Rory glances back at it. It’s beautiful—for a robot. Long, graceful-looking legs, slender arms, wavy dark hair. The eyes stare openly—a vivid, clear shade of hazel—but there’s no light in them. If Dr. Philip were to go back to the android and flip the switch on the back of her neck, though, Rory had little doubt that the thing would come alive and speak as animatedly as it had during the Turing test.

“She’s our pride and joy,” Andy says. “Model #ES42. Our first sentient android. We’ve been working on her a long time, and she’s pretty much perfect.”

“What will happen when you turn her back on?” Rory asks. He stares at the android with a sort of horror-filled fascination.

“She’ll pick up immediately. She’s designed to assess the situation before sentience is fully booted up, then her artificial intelligence creates an artifice for her. She’ll believe her situation is real and valid.”

“What Dr. Deckard means,” Dr. Philip says, stepping into the conversation when he sees Rory’s confused face, “is that we’ve constructed her intelligence in much the same way dreams operate. When you dream, you believe the scene you’re in is perfectly reasonable. Perhaps you dream that you’re in a classroom—if you were aware of the dream and questioned, you’d realize you have no memory of how or why you got in the classroom. ES42’s reasoning works the same way. If Andy had probed her for details on how she got in the room and got set up for the test, her artificial intelligence would supply her with some answers—give her just enough information to make her believe that it was perfectly logical for her to be where she is now. But if pressed, she couldn’t tell you what the outside of this room looks like because, frankly, she’s never been outside.”

“We’re displaying her at the International Research on Android and A.I. Studies Seminar at the end of the month,” Andy says, pride ringing in his voice. “When we turn her on there, she’ll process the situation quickly and create a reason in her A.I. for being there. She’ll probably think she was an assistant to Dr. Philip on a project or something similar. And she’ll just blend into the scene.”

Dr. Philip laughs. “I suspect that many of the other scientists won’t even figure out she’s a sentient android until we reveal at the end of the seminar!”

Rory, however, can’t take his mind off her clear, ringing voice, the way she asked about souls. Andy had said that life meant something different to everyone, and it was only now, in seeing the hollow shell of Elektra Shepherd—of Model #ES42—that Rory realized just how true those words were.

© 2013 by Beth Revis.

Beth Revis is the New York Times-bestselling author of the young adult science fiction series, Across the Universe. The third and final book, Shades of Earth, came out in 2013, and she's currently working on a new SF series. Beth lives in North Carolina with her husband and dog.

And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side
James Tiptree, Jr.

He was standing absolutely still by a service port, staring out at the belly of the Orion docking above us. He had on a gray uniform and his rusty hair was cut short. I took him for a station engineer.

That was bad for me. Newsmen strictly don’t belong in the bowels of Big Junction. But in my first twenty hours I hadn’t found any place to get a shot of an alien ship.

I turned my holocam to show its big World Media insigne and started my bit about What It Meant to the People Back Home who were paying for it all.

“—it may be routine work to you, sir, but we owe it to them to share—”

His face came around slow and tight, and his gaze passed over me from a peculiar distance.

“The wonders, the drama,” he repeated dispassionately. His eyes focused on me. “You consummated fool.”

“Could you tell me what races are coming in, sir? If I could even get a view—”

He waved me to the port. Greedily I angled my lenses up at the long blue hull blocking out the starfield. Beyond her I could see the bulge of a black and gold ship.

“That’s a Foramen,” he said. “There’s a freighter from Belye on the other side, you’d call it Arcturus. Not much traffic right now.”

“You’re the first person who’s said two sentences to me since I’ve been here, sir. What are those colorful little craft?”

“Procya,” he shrugged. “They’re always around. Like us.”

I squashed my face on the vitrite, peering. The walls clanked. Somewhere overhead aliens were off-loading into their private sector of Big Junction. The man glanced at his wrist.

“Are you waiting to go out, sir?”

His grunt could have meant anything.

“Where are you from on Earth?” he asked me in his hard tone.

I started to tell him and suddenly saw that he had forgotten my existence. His eyes were on nowhere, and his head was slowly bowing forward onto the port frame.

“Go home,” he said thickly. I caught a strong smell of tallow.

“Hey, sir!” I grabbed his arm; he was in rigid tremor. “Steady, man.”

“I’m waiting . . . waiting for my wife. My loving wife.” He gave a short ugly laugh. “Where are you from?”

I told him again.

“Go home,” he mumbled. “Go home and make babies. While you still can.”

One of the early GR casualties, I thought.

“Is that all you know?” His voice rose stridently. “Fools. Dressing in their styles. Gnivo suits, Aoleelee music. Oh, I see your newscasts,” he sneered. “Nixi parties. A year’s salary for a floater. Gamma radiation? Go home, read history. Ballpoint pens and bicycles—”

He started a slow slide downward in the half gee. My only informant. We struggled confusedly; he wouldn’t take one of my sobertabs but I finally got him along the service corridor to a bench in an empty loading bay. He fumbled out a little vacuum cartridge. As I was helping him unscrew it, a figure in starched whites put his head in the bay.

“I can be of assistance, yes?” His eyes popped, his face was covered with brindled fur. An alien, a Procya! I started to thank him but the red-haired man cut me off.

“Get lost. Out.”

The creature withdrew, its big eyes moist. The man stuck his pinky in the cartridge and then put it up his nose, gasping deep in his diaphragm. He looked toward his wrist.

“What time is it?”

I told him.

“News,” he said. “A message for the eager, hopeful human race. A word about those lovely, lovable aliens we all love so much.” He looked at me. “Shocked, aren’t you, newsboy?”

I had him figured now. A xenophobe. Aliens plot to take over Earth.

“Ah, Christ, they couldn’t care less.” He took another deep gasp, shuddered and straightened. “The hell with generalities. What time d’you say it was? All right, I’ll tell you how I learned it. The hard way. While we wait for my loving wife. You can bring that little recorder out of your sleeve, too. Play it over to yourself some time . . . when it’s too late.” He chuckled. His tone had become chatty—an educated voice. “You ever hear of supernormal stimuli?”

“No,” I said. “Wait a minute. White sugar?”

“Near enough. Y’know Little Junction Bar in D.C.? No, you’re an Aussie, you said. Well, I’m from Burned Barn, Nebraska.”

He took a breath, consulting some vast disarray of the soul.

“I accidentally drifted into Little Junction Bar when I was eighteen. No. Correct that. You don’t go into Little Junction by accident, any more than you first shoot skag by accident.

“You go into Little Junction because you’ve been craving it, dreaming about it, feeding on every hint and clue about it, back there in Burned Barn, since before you had hair in your pants. Whether you know it or not. Once you’re out of Burned Barn, you can no more help going into Little Junction than a sea-worm can help rising to the moon.

“I had a brand-new liquor I.D. in my pocket. It was early; there was an empty spot beside some humans at the bar. Little Junction isn’t an embassy bar, y’know. I found out later where the high-caste aliens go—when they go out. The New Rive, the Curtain by the Georgetown Marina.

“And they go by themselves. Oh, once in a while they do the cultural exchange bit with a few frosty couples of other aliens and some stuffed humans. Galactic Amity with a ten-foot pole.

“Little Junction was the place where the lower orders went, the clerks and drivers out for kicks. Including, my friend, the perverts. The ones who can take humans. Into their beds, that is.”

He chuckled and sniffed his finger again, not looking at me.

“Ah, yes. Little Junction is Galactic Amity night, every night. I ordered . . . what? A margarita. I didn’t have the nerve to ask the snotty spade bartender for one of the alien liquors behind the bar. It was dim. I was trying to stare everywhere at once without showing it. I remember those white boneheads—Lyrans, that is. And a mess of green veiling I decided was a multiple being from some place. I caught a couple of human glances in the bar mirror. Hostile flicks. I didn’t get the message, then.

“Suddenly an alien pushed right in beside me. Before I could get over my paralysis, I heard this blurry voice:

“‘You air a futeball enthusiash?’

“An alien had spoken to me. An alien, a being from the stars. Had spoken. To me.

“Oh, god, I had no time for football, but I would have claimed a passion for paper-folding, for dumb crambo—anything to keep him talking. I asked him about his home-planet sports, I insisted on buying his drinks. I listened raptly while he spluttered out a play-by-play account of a game I wouldn’t have turned a dial for. The ‘Grain Bay Pashkers.’ Yeah. And I was dimly aware of trouble among the humans on my other side.

“Suddenly this woman—I’d call her a girl now—this girl said something in a high nasty voice and swung her stool into the arm I was holding my drink with. We both turned around together.

“Christ, I can see her now. The first thing that hit me was discrepancy. She was a nothing—but terrific. Transfigured. Oozing it, radiating it.

“The next thing was I had a horrifying hard-on just looking at her.

“I scrooched over so my tunic hid it, and my spilled drink trickled down, making everything worse. She pawed vaguely at the spill, muttering.

“I just stared at her trying to figure out what had hit me. An ordinary figure, a soft avidness in the face. Eyes heavy, satiated-looking. She was totally sexualized. I remember her throat pulsed. She had one hand up touching her scarf, which had slipped off her shoulder. I saw angry bruises there. That really tore it, I understood at once those bruises had some sexual meaning.

“She was looking past my head with her face like a radar dish. Then she made an ‘ahhhhh’ sound that had nothing to do with me and grabbed my forearm as if it were a railing. One of the men behind her laughed. The woman said, ‘Excuse me,’ in a ridiculous voice and slipped out behind me. I wheeled around after her, nearly upsetting my football friend, and saw that some Sirians had come in.

“That was my first look at Sirians in the flesh, if that’s the word. God knows I’d memorized every news shot, but I wasn’t prepared. That tallness, that cruel thinness. That appalling alien arrogance. Ivory-blue, these were. Two males in immaculate metallic gear. Then I saw there was a female with them. An ivory-indigo exquisite with a permanent faint smile on those bone-hard lips.

“The girl who’d left me was ushering them to a table. She reminded me of a goddamn dog that wants you to follow it. Just as the crowd hid them, I saw a man join them, too. A big man, expensively dressed, with something wrecked about his face.

“Then the music started and I had to apologize to my furry friend. And the Sellice dancer came out and my personal introduction to hell began.”

The red-haired man fell silent for a minute enduring self-pity. Something wrecked about the face, I thought; it fit.

He pulled his face together.

“First I’ll give you the only coherent observation of my entire evening. You can see it here at Big Junction, always the same. Outside of the Procya, it’s humans with aliens, right? Very seldom aliens with other aliens. Never aliens with humans. It’s the humans who want in.”

I nodded, but he wasn’t talking to me. His voice had a druggy fluency.

“Ah, yes, my Sellice. My first Sellice.

“They aren’t really well-built, y’know, under those cloaks. No waist to speak of and short-legged. But they flow when they walk.

“This one flowed out into the spotlight, cloaked to the ground in violet silk. You could only see a fall of black hair and tassels over a narrow face like a vole. She was a mole-gray. They come in all colors. Their fur is like a flexible velvet all over; only the color changes startlingly around their eyes and lips and other places. Erogenous zones? Ah, man, with them it’s not zones.

“She began to do what we’d call a dance, but it’s no dance, it’s their natural movement. Like smiling, say, with us. The music built up, and her arms undulated toward me, letting the cloak fall apart little by little. She was naked under it. The spotlight started to pick up her body markings moving in the slit of the cloak. Her arms floated apart and I saw more and more.

“She was fantastically marked and the markings were writhing. Not like body paint—alive. Smiling, that’s a good word for it. As if her whole body was smiling sexually, beckoning, winking, urging, pouting, speaking to me. You’ve seen a classic Egyptian belly dance? Forget it—a sorry, stiff thing compared to what any Sellice can do. This one was ripe, near term.

“Her arms went up and those blazing lemon-colored curves pulsed, waved, everted, contracted, throbbed, evolved unbelievably welcoming, inciting permutations. Come do it to me, do it, do it here and here and here and now. You couldn’t see the rest of her, only a wicked flash of mouth. Every human male in the room was aching to ram himself into that incredible body. I mean it was pain. Even the other aliens were quiet, except one of the Sirians who was chewing out a waiter.

“I was a basket case before she was halfway through . . . I won’t bore you with what happened next; before it was over there were several fights and I got cut. My money ran out on the third night. She was gone next day.

“I didn’t have time to find out about the Sellice cycle then, mercifully. That came after I went back to campus and discovered you had to have a degree in solid-state electronics to apply for off-planet work. I was a pre-med but I got that degree. It only took me as far as First Junction then.

“Oh, god, First Junction. I thought I was in heaven—the alien ships coming in and our freighters going out. I saw them all, all but the real exotics, the tankies. You only see a few of those a cycle, even here. And the Yyeire. You’ve never seen that.

“Go home, boy. Go home to your version of Burned Barn . . .

“The first Yyeir I saw, I dropped everything and started walking after it like a starving hound, just breathing. You’ve seen the pix of course. Like lost dreams. Man is in love and loves what vanishes . . . It’s the scent, you can’t guess that. I followed until I ran into a slammed port. I spent half a cycles’s credits sending the creature the wine they call stars’ tears . . . Later I found out it was a male. That made no difference at all.

“You can’t have sex with them, y’know. No way. They breed by light or something, no one knows exactly. There’s a story about a man who got hold of a Yyeir woman and tried. They had him skinned. Stories—”

He was starting to wander.

“What about that girl in the bar, did you see her again?”

He came back from somewhere.

“Oh, yes. I saw her. She’d been making it with the two Sirians, y’know. The males do it in pairs. Said to be the total sexual thing for a woman, if she can stand the damage from those beaks. I wouldn’t know. She talked to me a couple of times after they finished with her. No use for men whatever. She drove off the P Street bridge . . . The man, poor bastard, he was trying to keep that Sirian bitch happy single-handed. Money helps, for a while. I don’t know where he ended.”

He glanced at his wrist watch again. I saw the pale bare place where a watch had been and told him the time.

“Is that the message you want to give Earth? Never love an alien?”

“Never love an alien—” He shrugged. “Yeah. No. Ah, Jesus, don’t you see? Everything going out, nothing coming back. Like the poor damned Polynesians. We’re gutting Earth, to begin with. Swapping raw resources for junk. Alien status symbols. Tape decks, Coca-Cola, Mickey Mouse watches.”

“Well, there is concern over the balance of trade. Is that your message?”

“The balance of trade.” He rolled it sardonically. “Did the Polynesians have a word for it, I wonder? You don’t see, do you? All right, why are you here? I mean you, personally. How many guys did you climb over—”

He went rigid, hearing footsteps outside. The Procya’s hopeful face appeared around the corner. The red-haired man snarled at him and he backed out. I started to protest.

“Ah, the silly reamer loves it. It’s the only pleasure we have left. . . . Can’t you see, man? That’s us. That’s the way we look to them, to the real ones.”

“But—”

“And now we’re getting the cheap C-drive, we’ll be all over just like the Procya. For the pleasure of serving as freight monkeys and junction crews. Oh, they appreciate our ingenious little service stations, the beautiful star folk. They don’t need them, y’know. Just an amusing convenience. D’you know what I do here with my two degrees? What I did at First Junction. Tube cleaning. A swab. Sometimes I get to replace a fitting.”

I muttered something; the self-pity was getting heavy.

“Bitter? Man, it’s a good job. Sometimes I get to talk to one of them.” His face twisted. “My wife works as a—oh, hell, you wouldn’t know. I’d trade—correction, I have traded—everything Earth offered me for just that chance. To see them. To speak to them. Once in a while to touch one. Once in a great while to find one low enough, perverted enough to want to touch me . . .”

His voice trailed off and suddenly came back strong.

“And so will you!” He glared at me. “Go home! Go home and tell them to quit it. Close the ports. Burn every god-lost alien thing before it’s too late! That’s what the Polynesians didn’t do.”

“But surely—”

“But surely be damned! Balance of trade—balance of life, man. I don’t know if our birth rate is going, that’s not the point. Our soul is leaking out. We’re bleeding to death!”

He took a breath and lowered his tone.

“What I’m trying to tell you, this is a trap. We’ve hit the supernormal stimulus. Man is exogamous—all our history is one long drive to find and impregnate the stranger. Or get impregnated by him; it works for women, too. Anything different-colored, different nose, ass, anything, man has to fuck it or die trying. That’s a drive, y’know, it’s built in. Because it works fine as long as the stranger is human. For millions of years that kept the genes circulating. But now we’ve met aliens we can’t screw, and we’re about to die trying. . . . Do you think I can touch my wife?”

“But —”

“Look. Y’know, if you give a bird a fake egg like its own but bigger and brighter-marked, it’ll roll its own egg out of the nest and sit on the fake? That’s what we’re doing.”

“We’ve been talking about sex so far.” I was trying to conceal my impatience. “Which is great, but the kind of story I’d hoped—”

“Sex? No, it’s deeper.” He rubbed his head, trying to clear the drug. “Sex is only part of it—there’s more. I’ve seen Earth missionaries, teachers, sexless people. Teachers—they end cycling waste or pushing floaters, but they’re hooked. They stay. I saw one fine-looking old woman, she was servant to a Cu’ushbar kid. A defective—his own people would have let him die. That wretch was swabbing up its vomit as if it was holy water. Man, it’s deep . . . some cargo-cult of the soul. We’re built to dream outwards. They laugh at us. They don’t have it.”

There were sounds of movement in the next corridor. The dinner crowd was starting. I had to get rid of him and get there; maybe I could find the Procya.

A side door opened and a figure started towards us. At first I thought it was an alien and then I saw it was a woman wearing an awkward body-shell. She seemed to be limping slightly. Behind her I could glimpse the dinner-bound throng passing the open door.

The man got up as she turned into the bay. They didn’t greet each other.

“The station employs only happily wedded couples,” he told me with that ugly laugh. “We give each other . . . comfort.”

He took one of her hands. She flinched as he drew it over his arm and let him turn her passively, not looking at me. “Forgive me if I don’t introduce you. My wife appears fatigued.”

I saw that one of her shoulders was grotesquely scarred.

“Tell them,” he said, turning to go. “Go home and tell them.” Then his head snapped back toward me and he added quietly, “And stay away from the Syrtis desk or I’ll kill you.”

They went away up the corridor.

I changed tapes hurriedly with one eye on the figures passing that open door. Suddenly among the humans I caught a glimpse of two sleek scarlet shapes. My first real aliens! I snapped the recorder shut and ran to squeeze in behind them.

© 1972 by James Tiptree, Jr.

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

James Tiptree, Jr., was the pseudonym of Alice B. Sheldon (1915-1987), who before turning to writing had been an artist, a newspaper art critic, a World War II photo-intelligence officer, a chicken farmer, a CIA agent, and a research psychologist. After earning her PhD in psychology in 1967, she started writing science fiction short stories—using a pseudonym to protect her new academic career, and a male name to fit in better at the magazines. As Tiptree she published two novels and eight collections of short stories. She won two Hugo Awards, three Nebula Awards (one as Raccoona Sheldon, an occasional second nom de plume) and one World Fantasy Award. An award for gender-based science fiction was named after Tiptree in 1991, and a biography by Julie Phillips, James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, was published in 2006.

Bit-U-Men
Maria Dahvana Headley

Made clean, kept clean, wrapped dust-proof.

An Energy-Rich Candy Made in the Great City of Chicago!

Don’t confuse us with the competition!

“Chet,” bellows someone from the factory floor. “Chet, you got a package and Miss Klein’s signing for it, but you gotta come and pay the freight, ‘cause your dad went and sent it COD.”

Chet looks up from the label copy on his desk, and groans. It’s 1924, and he’s twenty-six-years old. Green as goat milk. Got a cavity in one of his teeth. He pushes his tongue into the problem. This is his father’s factory, the family fortune at stake, so he’s here, paper-collared into confectionary. He’s sick of gellies and chocobars, and sick of sweet. He snaps his suspenders against his flat stomach, a creation of calisthenics. His dad’s stout as Santa Claus, but Chet’ll be double-damned if abdomen will be his inheritance.

Chet Savor’s a poet. He could be the next Keats, but no: Here he is, doomed to vats and batter. The only comfort is that Hart Crane’s father is a candy maker too, the inventor of Life-Savers: For That Stormy Breath! It doesn’t keep Crane from writing the poems over which Chet pores at night.

It’s winter, and the factory is a sieve open to the winds of the Arctic. Workers skate on sugared shoes. There’s an ice storm coming over the Great Lakes. The ink keeps freezing in Chet’s pen, and in any case, there’s no inspiration here. He could be in a speakeasy dancing the Charleston for all the writing he’s getting done.

Below him, there’s a swarm of workers in unladylike coveralls, scarves and woollen sweaters. Business is booming. Everyone wants a bite of the bars made here: The Three Bears and The Chicken Dinner, The Old King Tut and The Abba-Zabba!

Chicago, as far as Chet’s father is concerned, is a Duat of delights, and the factory is a candyland of nougat and nuts, condensed milk and pots of crystallizing honey, and even a coop of chickens, egg-laying amidst heat lamps. Chet has to be vigilant: The factory girls constantly try to warm their hands on the hens.

He deserves a secretary, he does. He’s got no one to help him. His older brother died in France, and what should have been Chet’s post-collegiate bohemia became a sticky servitude. SAVOR’S SWEETS SINCE 1892 IN THE CANDY CAPITOL OF THE WORLD! Chet’s got no girlfriend, and isn’t likely to get one, even though this factory is full of girls. None of them are poets. None of them are muses. They’re forbidden anyway. His father, for all his eccentricity, has rules.

Chet grimaces: forbidden girls bustling, forbidden girls on coffee-break. Women suddenly think they can work their own hours. Dippers and piece-workers, packers and wrappers: None of them see him as boss. Certainly not Miss Klein, his dad’s secretary. He could dictate such poems to her if she’d give him his due. He could.

There’s a great, battered wooden crate in the loading bay, plastered with paper that shows it’s been around the world. The delivery service toe taps, waiting for Chet to pay for the postage, and it’s not cheap. He has to ferret around in his dad’s desk drawers, finally emerging with a handful of crumpled bills. Some kind of mixer, maybe. A marble slab, or a copper bathtub with a giant whisk attachment. He kicks the crate, but it doesn’t budge.

“Kicking won’t open it,” says Miss Klein, her voice an ice cube chilling the blood of idiots. “It’s nailed.”

“I’m not trying to open it,” lies Chet. His big toe feels broken.

Miss Klein’s hair is pinned with pointy black combs into two tight buns over her ears. Her glasses are leftovers from Queen Victoria. Her dress is bluish-black and jet-buttoned. She might as well be in mourning. She’s paid $19.45 every week, and this irks Chet into a fret. He makes exactly the same amount. As well, she calls him “Young Mr. Savor.” He can’t protest. In principle, the title is perfectly correct.

“Is my dad coming home this week?” he asks Miss Klein. “He didn’t mention this delivery.”

The Senior Mr. Savor (né Savorsky) buys things without trying them. Devices fill the factory’s back room: lolly engines, vacuum kettles, twist-makers and chocolate smashers. Chet’s dad travels by ship and train, posting confection innovations home for Chet to suffer. He appears in person every few months, unannounced, stouter and happier than before, his waistcoat and cases stuffed with saffron taffy, suets made of sesame seeds, chewy lumps of lemon zest pulverized with maple sap, tiny blue eggs filled with candied yolk presented together with a repulsive jar of Chinese bird’s nest jelly made from the filthy nest of a swiftlet. Chet shudders at the memory of the texture, the gloppy sweetness, the knowledge that he was eating something wrested from the interior of a cave.

Miss Klein clicks away from the crate, her black hips twitching. He can see the lumpy buttons of her garters through the dress. There’s something insect about her. The pinched waist, the long fingers. She’s too tall, and he’s not a small man. He’s had to invest in a new pair of shoes, with discreet lifts in their soles.

When Miss Klein types, she clacks and pings so quickly he feels his heart trying to align with her staccato. She’s his age, but seems a thousand. She could be a pretty girl if she’d smile, but she never does. She could be anything but this. She doesn’t even like candy. She doesn’t paint her face. She’s knife-boned, her eyebrows like licorice whips.

“Where are you going, Miss Klein?” he asks. He clears his throat. He’s been alone in the upper office too long, speaking the obscure rhythms of wrappers.

“To get a hammer,” she says, and clicks her tongue. “You’re just as useless as your dad said you’d be, Young Mr. Savor.”

“Will you please just call me Mr. Savor?” he asks for the hundredth time.

“That’s your father’s name. And you know he’s not coming in this week. He’s visiting the nougatiers.”

Nougatiers. His father speaks a dictionary set’s worth of invented terms for candy-making. Cherrinators for the people who make the marinated filling of the Red Rose bars. Pollinificators for the honey-suppliers.

He fiddles at one of the boards, pinching a finger beneath it. He thinks he hears something moving inside. Surely not. His father wouldn’t arrange delivery of a cow or goat, would he? And if he had, it’d be marked with caution tapes. The crate is large enough to contain a piano. He indulges thoughts of a rhinoceros or yak.

“Now, then,” Miss Klein says, flipping the hammer to the claw side, and prying a nail free. “Let’s get you open.”

The sound again, a scratching.

“Do you hear that?” Chet is suddenly nauseous. It’ll be bugs. There’ll be an infestation. They’ll pour out into the candy factory, a million roaches and tarantulas, and Miss Klein will wriggle her fingers and make the swarm obey. He feels an exquisitely painful poem rising inside him. A villanelle on the skyscraping height of Miss Klein, a few lines regarding spiders soaked in caramel. He finds a stub in his pocket, licks a pencil tip.

Miss Klein wrests a plank from the end of the crate.

“I hear it, of course I do. I’m not deaf, am I? Something’s in there. Open the letter and make yourself useful, why don’t you?”

Chet sees the envelope pushed beneath that plank, the gaudy monogrammed stationary, his father’s distinctive hand.

CHET!!! Always the double underlines and strings of exclamation points. He sighs and breaks the seal.

Chet—Met this in Cairo and found it terrifically interesting. BE WARY when you open!!!! Happy Returns, Your Dad.

Unbearable man. Chet sucks his tooth. Soon he’ll be nothing but an absence.

Miss Klein has managed to remove another five boards in the time it took him to read the letter. She pushes hair off her face, bends at the waist, and buries her top half in the crate. Chet assesses her from behind, and sighs. No manners. Any proper woman would ask for help. She’s nearly somersaulted into the crate. She flings out handfuls of excelsior. They drift down around Chet, and he sneezes.

“Well? What’s it say?”

“It says: Be wary when you open it,” Chet says, and sighs. “Maybe he’s sent us a tiger. He says he got it in Egypt.”

“There aren’t any tigers in Egypt,” Miss Klein says, her voice muffled. Chet looks around, making sure there are escape routes. Last time his father sent a package, it contained some arcane artificial sweetener that burst into flames, and scalded off Chet’s eyebrows, just after he’d stupidly put a spoonful of it in his mouth and swallowed. He was doomed to days of quelling internal explosions with Dover’s Powder.

That scratching again. And a knocking. Knocking in a rhythm. The sound reminds Chet of his mother, the way she’d knock when they were paying a call to someone’s house. A knock with an accusation of bad directions included in it. A knock to say: “Where is the butler, then, and how have you failed me?” And Chet, always skulking beside her, trying in vain to convince her to join the modern world. Of course, now she has. She’s been in India for three years, and he’s heard nothing from her. Nor has his father. “Your mother,” his father says fondly, and that is all he’s ever said about it. Chet’s mother is having his Bohemia.

“Maybe we should wait for my dad to get back into town,” Chet says. “I’m not sure what this is. I don’t trust him. It might explode again.”

Miss Klein pops up, one whole cinnamon bun of hair now unpinned, her glasses askew.

“For heaven’s sake, Young Mr. Savor,” she says. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were scared.”

Her eyes are the color of the butterscotch candies his father makes to trick Prohibition-pained consumers into thinking they’re getting a sip of something better than syrup. Her hair trickles down from its pins like dipping chocolate drizzling onto a slab. He must be delirious, but suddenly he thinks Miss Klein is more than meets the eye. A chocolate-covered ant. That’s the vision he has. The crunch of a carapace, just beneath a melting richness. The ooze of caramel beneath that crunch. Oh, what is he inventing? What horrible confection?

He gags again, and Miss Klein looks sharply up at him. Oh, dear. He’s coming down with something. Likely, he needs a tonic.

He takes off his jacket, rolls up his shirtsleeves, and bends into the crate to avoid looking at her. There’s a smell there, as he digs in the shavings, a deep and earthy sweetness, something quite different from the rest of the factory’s sweet smells, and at last, his fingertips graze something hard.

Scratches from the inside, as he scratches at the outside.

A sharper scent now, and he inhales it in a delirium before he realizes it’s her. Miss Klein, her own perfume, sweat, warm woollen stockings, secrets. He breathes through his mouth, trying to forget he ever smelled it.

The ground in the delivery bay is covered in wood shavings and planks. Before him, in the rubble, is something he hadn’t at all expected, though he should have.

“Oh dear,” he says. Should he send the workers home? Stop the dipping and the wrapping? Unfondant the crèmes?

“Hello,” says the sarcophagus. It’s a quiet voice, a polite one.

“Miss Klein,” Chet says, not looking at her.

“Chet,” she replies. It’s the first time she’s called him by his Christian name.

“Hello,” repeats the something inside the sarcophagus, and then knocks more forcefully at the inside. “Have I arrived in Chicago? The train was very uncomfortable, and before that, the ship. They kept me in the hold, though I was promised First class passage. I shouldn’t be asked to endure rough seas. I’m not used to travel.”

Of course! A prank. His dad must be here somewhere, watching, shaking with laughter.

“What is it?” he asks Miss Klein. Who knows what his father might have put inside that case. A tiny crank-powered Peter Pan record player? “A parrot? A phonograph?”

His dad can only have stolen the sarcophagus. The gilded face, the smooth contours, the perfect and brilliantly painted beetles and animals. The news has been all Tutankhamen for two years now. Chet runs a finger over the carved face, the high cheekbones, the pursed lips. The sleek eyelids over wide black eyes. He can’t tell whether the face is male or female.

“It’s very cold in Chicago,” says the sarcophagus, conversationally. “I wasn’t expecting such cold, but I can feel it even in here. It’s better for me to be warmer. I’d like something boiling hot to drink.”

The claxon of the lunch alarm, and a surge of girls emerge from their stations, each with her waxed-paper provisions. Chet’s sweating through his shirt. The wind is coming in off the lake, and he sees the ice storm beginning. He tugs down the rolling door between the delivery bay and the factory, and as he does it, he wonders at his urgency. He wishes, not for the first time today, for a drink. What kind of prank is this? His father’s normal methods are itching powders and coiled paper snakes.

He hears the clicking of Miss Klein’s heels. When he turns his head, she’s on her knees before the abomination, hammer in hand. He wonders at how he hesitates to look.

“Well,” says Miss Klein, standing up, wiping her hands, one, then the other, on her skirt. “Well.”

She giggles, and startles at the sound, but then the noise of her own laughter sets her off into peals. After a moment, Chet laughs too, though he controls his mirth. It doesn’t do to laugh with a secretary. Miss Klein is nearly levitating. He takes another stop toward the sarcophagus, toward whatever hilarity she’s uncovered, and then stops.

Something is sitting up from inside it, slowly, as though unused to moving.

Someone wrapped entirely in bandages, and filling the air with the scent of honey. It’s as though they’ve been transported out of the city’s ice and into summer. The smell is overpowering, and Chet’s mouth waters. He grew up surrounded by sugar. He’s immune to it. This is more than sugar. This is ambrosial, desert flowers, white petals and spice, and when he inhales, he feels dizzy.

The someone’s head turns toward him. Bandaged hands testing fingers on the sides of the case. One bandaged leg extends gracefully into the air and stretches its toes.

Chet sits abruptly on the floor.

“Hello,” says the mummy. He can see eyes, black and gleaming, through an opening in the wrappings.

Miss Klein is still gasping with laughter, laughing and crying at once.

“Hello,” says Miss Klein. “I’m Shira.” She lifts the thing from its case.

“Thank you,” says the mummy, its voice soft and sweet. “It was close in there.”

Chet feels his temples throbbing, his neck pinched at the base of the skull. Starving for nothing he’s ever tasted before. “What is this?”

“I met your father in Cairo. He said I’d be welcome here, and that he’d send a letter of introduction,” says the mummy. The bandages are old and crackling.

Miss Klein is cradling the mummy in her arms like it’s a bandaged bride. Her hair is now unpinned and falls to her knees. She is panting, slightly. Miss Klein’s dress is hitched up, and he can see, yes, a cameo of jet on the garter button, which spontaneously unbuttons, and flips down onto the floor, a tiny child’s spinning top, catching the stormlight for a moment. Miss Klein seems neither to notice nor care that her stocking slips down, showing her long, white thigh. He measures it in his mind. He measures the mummy too. The mummy is petite, unless Miss Klein has gotten larger.

“I’m going to get our guest a hot drink,” says Miss Klein. “It’s freezing here, and our visitor isn’t used to the cold like we are.” Her tone shifts into the usual peremptory. “Give me your jacket.”

Chet tucks it around the mummy’s shoulders. The mummy gazes at him, its lashes long as spider legs—no, why would he think that?—and he’s broken by the scent of heavenly honeycomb. Chet can see a damp place in the bandages where its mouth must be. He wonders about its mouth.

“Why did my father send you here?” he says. “Did he buy you? Did he steal you? What are you? Who are you?”

“He sent me to be of use,” says the mummy, looking over Miss Klein’s shoulder. It wiggles its fingers. “I was alone in the dark. He found me there, and I came out. I was lonely. I’d been listening to the living a long time. I’m seeking employment now, in the light.”

Employment?

Chet staggers back into the factory, feeling his blood freezing in his veins. He sends everyone home and by the time he’s done, Miss Klein is gone too, and with her, the mummy. The sarcophagus sits empty in the delivery bay. Chet considers reclining in it, but it’s too small. He runs his finger along the edge, and then puts his finger in his mouth. He can’t taste anything but dust.

He marches up the stairs, and into the office files. He flicks until he finds a card with Miss Klein’s address neatly typed, the first version care of her father, that one crossed out, and the new one typed below it, a rooming house for unmarried, respectable women. He stares at the card for a long time. He opens a book kept in the shelf beside his father’s desk, takes out a bottle resting in a carved cave in its bindings, and drinks a slug of Canadian whiskey.

He wipes his mouth, stows the contraband back in its safe, and goes out into the freezing wilds of Chicago to search for hothouse flowers.

Miss Klein is in her room, unwrapping the mummy, gently. It’s dripped a little, where it’s warmed against her body. She’s marched back down the stairs to the kitchen and fetched a pot of boiling water for tea, and now the mummy has had some through a small opening in the bandages, lapping like a kitten fed with a dropper.

“Sanctuary,” Miss Klein keeps repeating to herself. She’s not at all sure what she’s done. “Respect for the dead.”

But that is not quite what this is. Dead isn’t this. She considers feeling anxious, then decides that anxious is beside the point. Her heart pounds. Her skin feels prickled. Her mouth waters. Her fingers are sticky.

The mummy’s skin, crystallized in the cold, warms nearer to the radiator, and becomes pliant. The mummy is like a grape, or a balloon full of syrup. There is something brittle about it, but it’s the sort of brittle that anyone would know needs sucking.

“I was swimming in honey,” says the mummy. “I ate only honey, until I was made of it. My heart was with me, kept in a jar of honey. But that, I gave away long ago.”

“To whom did you give it?” Miss Klein asks, but the mummy will not say. “Is it in a museum, or is it still underground?”

The mummy is half-unwrapped now, parts of its flesh visible, smooth and glowing, seeping with sweetness.

“I was lonely,” says the mummy. “I came to be of use.”

It beckons Miss Klein. “Unwrap yourself,” it says.

Shira Klein flushes. She’s never taken off her clothing in front of anyone but her sisters. A drop of honey runs down her throat, left from where the mummy was resting.

Miss Klein unbuttons the same long black dress she wore to her father’s funeral. She stands barefoot, dressed in her only concession to modernity, a set of the thinnest triangles of black silk, each of them embroidered with flowers. They were a trousseau at one point, and she hand stitched their borders in preparation for a marriage.

The mummy is recumbent and careless.

The mummy offers itself to the tip of Miss Klein’s tongue.

Five flights below, Chet Savor waits, clutching a bundle of funereal lilies.

“To be of use,” he murmurs to himself. “Seeking employment.”

But Miss Klein refuses to come down. She does not respond to the bell. Chet is forced to leave the lilies as a delivery. He scrawls a note in his lovely pen. It bleeds brown ink onto the paper.

“Dearest,” the note says. Chet stalls. “Dearest.”

He underlines it twice, Dearest, and adds three exclamation points. The pinched woman at the desk looks at him.

“I hope you don’t imagine Miss Klein to be that sort.”

“Of course not,” he says. There’s something odd in him, something he doesn’t understand. He feels shaky. “They’re not for Miss Klein. They’re for her friend. The one staying with her.”

The woman looks harder at him, and sniffs the air. “This is not that sort of establishment,” she says. “Single ladies only. You, sir, would do well to rinse your mouth of whiskey, before you encounter anyone else who might report you for public disorder. You might also do well to button the top of your shirt.”

Chet feels for the buttons, but they’re gone.

The rooming house woman smashes the lilies and the love note into a wastebin.

He flees into the street, and as he stands, trying to imagine which of the windows might belong to Miss Klein, he hears a cry of rapture coming from the building, a singing spiral of bliss. He can’t tell which window it comes from. He stands helpless in the ice storm, looking up, hearing again and again, the cry, the moan, the gasping delight of someone in the thrall of someone else.

“What in heaven’s name did you think I meant, Chet?” his father says in exasperation. He’s just off the train, scarcely taken off his coat, not even unloaded his cases full of candies, and he’s already demanded to see the mummy. “What’ve you done with my mummy? I told you to be wary when you opened it.”

“Miss Klein took it,” Chet says, and bites his inner cheeks savagely. He tastes blood. It helps, a little. “She’s been out sick for a week, and I’ve been to her rooming house over and over again, with no success.”

“Well, you’ll have to fetch it back. The mummy’s a volunteer, you know. It came to be of use.”

Chet wants to strangle his father. “Of use,” he says. “What use can you mean? Did you hire it to be my secretary? It didn’t care to be. Miss Klein’s absconded with it and taken it off to her den of sin.”

“Miss Klein is incapable of sin,” says Chet’s father calmly. “As for the mummy, it’s mellified man. Old technique. Not usually found in Egypt, but the mummy tells me this is the ticket. It drank honey, ate honey, nothing but honey for a year before it died. It’s body mellified. It became honey, bones and blood and all.”

Chet thinks woefully of the sounds he’s heard coming out of Miss Klein’s window.

Chet’s father smacks his lips.

“Said that the last few weeks before it died, everything tasted sweet, and it nearly ate its own fingers. I’ll tell you, Chet, it cost me dear to get that mummy out of the country, but it’s worth its weight in whatever you got. Grind it up and it’s medicinal. A little dash into batter, and it’s the sweetest thing you ever tasted. Secret ingredients. It’s a fortune waiting to happen. We’re making a new candy bar. The mummy’s an ingredient. I sampled a little in Cairo. I’m too old for more, but the memory of it will last me. It wasn’t cheap, no, it wasn’t, but who needs cheap? Besides, the mummy wanted to leave town.”

“Whatever the mummy is,” Chet says, “The mummy isn’t mellified man. The mummy’s a woman.”

“How do you know? Have you checked?” asks Chet’s father, and raises an eyebrow at Chet, who has to look away.

The mummy is the sweetest thing, the dearest thing, and the mummy is in the possession of Miss Klein. There is only one thing to do. He doesn’t like it, but it will serve.

“Your secretary,” he says to his father.

“Miss Klein,” his father says. “Miss Klein, the lovely, the competent, the proper.”

“Shira Klein,” Chet counters. “She’s unmarried.”

“That’s true,” says Chet’s father. “By choice, as I understand it. Miss Klein is a real find.”

“I’ve decided to marry her,” Chet says.

His father looks at him. “I should have known.”

“She’ll do it,” says Chet, though there is an urgency inside him, a panic that she won’t. But the mummy won’t like it at the rooming house. The mummy will be cold.

“She’ll have to agree,” says Chet’s father. “And that isn’t likely. Tell her, though, that she’ll have to bring my mummy back. She can’t keep it locked up in the dark. That’s where I found it, in the dark, calling out that it was looking for light.”

And for just a moment, Chet’s father looks quite unlike himself. There’s a question in his cheekbone, a shifting tic. Chet looks at his dad. His dad looks back.

“How is mother? How is she finding India?” Chet asks, attempting to shame him.

“You can try your luck,” Chet’s father says. “You can try your luck, Chet. Maybe an old man wasn’t what that mummy was looking for. But I doubt it will be looking for you either.”

Chet’s father pops a green lolly into his mouth and sucks at it, ruminating. When he removes it, Chet sees that it contains a little insect of some kind, an earwig, stuck there like a ancient in amber.

Chet leaves his dad’s office and goes back to drafting his official letter, in which he reports Miss Klein to her rooming house for having a male visitor in her rooms. He encloses cigar ash and a rumpled shirt, procured from his own closet. He signs it “Anon.” and waits.

He is still waiting when Miss Klein comes down the five flights of stairs, her suitcase in one hand, the mummy in the other, curled into the crook of her arm. Miss Klein looks at Chet.

“I got your proposal,” she says. “It seems convenient at best, irritating at worst. I’ll still work at the factory. We’ll have separate rooms, of course.”

“Of course,” says Chet.

“If it’s no bother,” says the mummy, crooning, lolling against Miss Klein’s shoulder, “I’d like a hot drink. It’s cold here, and I’m crystallizing. I’ve been very cold in Chicago. Perhaps a fire? Perhaps a laprobe?”

Miss Klein turns her head, and Chet looks at Miss Klein’s cheekbone as she runs her tongue along a slice of the mummy’s jawline. Miss Klein is looking sleek. Her hair shines, and her skin glows.

The mummy moans, and Chet moans too. They drive directly to the courthouse. Miss Klein wears a wreath of white flowers. The mummy witnesses the wedding.

“I was lonely,” says the mummy. “I was in the dark, for a long, long time. They say the dead don’t dream, but I dreamed of this. I have a higher purpose.”

The mummy stirs its finger in a cup of boiling tea, and then offers it to Miss Klein to lick at until part of the fingertip is gone. It unwraps a bit more of its finger, and casually crumbles it into a dish. Miss Klein, her hair unbound, eats it.

The mummy looks at her and smiles beneath its wrappings.

The place where the bandages meet the mouth is always damp.

The oldest—and most splendid—traditions!

You’ll love BIT-U-MEN, a crunchy-munchy sweet treat!

Conveniently cut into pieces for sharing,

This treasure of a bar is the chewiest, mouth-meltiest confection,
perfect for young and old!

Almonds, nougat, honey, and special ingredients.

Squares of wax paper, cut precisely to fit, drifting from the wrapping section, along with labels, inked and drying. Orange and blue. Swooping letters. A picture of a hive, a border of bees. An eye lined in kohl, discreetly placed on the back.

The candy itself is vat-mixed, poured onto cold slabs, and then into molds, hot squares solidifying, soft but slightly resistant, texturally similar to a shoulder blade kissed through a chiffon dress. The bars are pale white-gold in color, peppered throughout with black.

“Bit-U-Men is an inaccurate name,” says Miss Klein, who has been doing research. “A mistranslation of mummification methods. The Arabic word for bitumen is mumiya. People thought it meant bitumen and mummy were the same thing. They thought bitumen was medicinal, and then they mistook it for medicine made of ground up mummy.”

She glances up from her book.

“I’m not saying they’re medicinal,” Chet says. He licks his fingertip where it’s touched one of the new candy bars. “I’m saying they’re commercial. Or my dad’s saying that.”

Miss Klein looks at him, her lips tight. “If people knew,” she says.

“People don’t need to know,” Chet says, and he sticks his finger wholly in his mouth. “Special ingredients. And the mummy is a volunteer.”

He can feel the remains of a Bit-U-Men square dissolving on his tongue. He’s brought a small jar of mellified man to the office, meant to shake into the batter for the new shipment of bars, but he’s already taken an entire greedy spoonful and eaten it in secret, door closed, his hands shaking.

Miss Klein sighs.

“The mummy is a volunteer,” she repeats. “Surely there are other mummies.”

“Not like this,” Chet says, and feels his stomach drop at the possibility of a shortage. Still, though, there is plenty left.

Chet listens from his room, his monogrammed robe tightly tied at the waist. Miss Klein’s hair is sometimes sticky. She smiles at breakfast. She dresses in her black, and goes into the office, and she takes dictation from Chet’s father who shows no sign of ceasing speaking.

One day, Chet looks at a letter and discovers that she’s not taking dictation at all. She’s writing a romance, a page at a time, sealing it into envelopes, and posting it to the far corners of the world.

All Chet wants is to have the mummy to himself, to gorge on its sweetness, but he is forced to take what the mummy gives him, a tiny piece here and there, crumbled on a breakfast biscuit. A lick occasionally at the corner of the mouth, the humorously quirked mouth, so dear and yet so cruel. Sometimes he hears the mummy moan, but never when he’s with it. Only Miss Klein makes the mummy cry out. Only the mummy makes Miss Klein gasp.

Neither Miss Klein nor Chet pretend interest in anything but the thing they share.

Chet looks at men dressed in their waistcoats as he strolls home from the factory. He looks at tight vests and at cuff buttons. He looks at wrists and forearms. He thinks about the mummy, and he swallows. The mellified man. Mellified woman. Mellified neither and both.

He looks at the sharp slant of the mummy’s jaw, the thin and wiry arms he sometimes sees laced around Miss Klein. He looks at the mummy and imagines it wearing a properly starched and pressed shirt, the vest buttoned. He finds another loose button on his own shirt, and tugs it impatiently into the crystal dish where he keeps all the unspooling buttons.

Sometimes he sees a man looking at him from across the park. He can smell honey wherever he goes, but when he looks back, at dark eyes, at a well-brushed hat, he thinks of the mummy at home. He can’t let go.

“Conversion,” says Chet’s father. “Bones to nougat. Blood to honey. We’re all sugar in the end,” he says, “you and me both, old boy, old boy,” and Chet twitches his collar studs out in annoyance. The company’s doing well. This is a white tie evening.

Bit-U-Men bars are shipping from side to side of the states, and the mummy sits peacefully in the chair at the end of the room, dressed in the usual bandages, white silk, this time, with beaded fringe. Part of the mummy is missing. The left arm. The other arm is decked in bangles, fat gilded things. Each bandaged finger wears a ring. The mummy’s mouth is revealed now, painted red. The lips are plump and drenched, and in the mummy’s mouth, there is the sweetest syrup.

Sometimes, the mummy stands up. Sometimes the mummy sings a line or two in a language no one living speaks. Chet knows what it means, though, he does. He sympathizes.

I was lonely in the dark.

There is a brass band. There is a trumpet. There is Miss Klein sitting beside the mummy, decked in cobalt silk, a string of ever-living scarab beetles around her throat, a gift from the mummy.

Here is Miss Klein sitting beside the mummy, leaning over to whisper to the mummy, adjusting the mummy’s diamond headband. Here is the mummy sweetening the punch with a drop of honey here, and one there, until Chet rushes over, and stops the mummy from giving the milk away for free.

It’s 1928, then ’29.

Chet’s father spontaneously combusts while sitting on a train in Belgium. He bursts into flame, and runs out into the aisle, arms pinwheeling, skin shivering like paper rising up from a fire. No one can explain it, but Chet knows. Miss Klein knows. They look at the mummy. The mummy is quiet, but the mummy is often quiet. The mummy only shrugs.

“I was lonely in the dark,” says the mummy at last, sipping at hot tea, “but the dark was where I belonged. I don’t make the rules of religion. I gave my heart away and I’ll never find it, a honey heart in honey jar. Mr. Savor was there when the rock was pried up. He offered me passage to a new country.”

Chet imagines his father tromping into the tomb slightly behind the archeologists he’s bribed on candy earnings. He imagines his father running fingers over the drawings instructing him not to touch the sarcophagus. A drawing of bees. A drawing of honey dripping from a comb. A drawing, no doubt, of something else, of punishments promised for those who’d thieve from the dead. But Chet knows the kind of man his father was, and he imagines his father moving the wrappings aside, convinced of his sway over sugar.

It’s 1932.

It’s in the papers. Hart Crane, son of a candyman, who sometimes signs his name Heart, and whose name was once Harold, kills himself jumping off the back of a boat, and Chet Savor’s poems aren’t worth publishing anyway. He’s stopped writing villanelles. One morning the mummy unexpectedly kisses him and he feels its sharp teeth on his tongue. He jerks back, but for a moment, he wants to lean in and have it over with.

The mummy reads a book in the upstairs library, an old book in a leather binding:

“That mummy is medicinal, the Arabian Doctor Haly delivereth and divers confirm; but of the particular uses thereof, there is much discrepancy of opinion. While Hofmannus prescribes the same to epileptics, Johan de Muralto commends the use thereof to gouty persons; Bacon likewise extols it as a stiptic: and Junkenius considers it of efficacy to resolve coagulated blood. Meanwhile, we hardly applaud Francis the First, of France, who always carried Mummia with him as a panacea against all disorders; and were the efficacy thereof more clearly made out, scarce conceive the use thereof allowable in physic, exceeding the barbarities of Cambyses and turning old heroes unto unworthy potions. Shall Egypt lend out her ancients unto chirurgeons and apothecaries, and Cheops and Psammiticus be weighed unto us for drugs? Shall we eat of Chamnes and Amosis in electuaries and pills, and be cured by cannibal mixtures?”

The mummy looks up, eyes black and wet as ever. The mummy has only one hand with two fingers left. The mummy is earless and missing slices of the rest of its body. The mummy doesn’t mind. This body has been around a long time.

1938, 1941. Airplanes over Europe. Marching. Guns. Sugar rationed, but in Chicago, there is one place to find sweetness.

The Bit-U-Men bars with the Unique Flavor and the Marvelous Name sell and sell, to children and to soldiers, to housewives and to workers, to teachers and to Army medics in their kits. The mummy has one leg, and now none. Miss Klein carries the mummy up the marble staircase. Miss Klein stretches beside the mummy, and the mummy unwraps. Miss Klein unbraids her hair, puts out her tongue, licks gently at the mummy, and the mummy arches, eaten. Miss Klein is still Miss Klein, though when she goes with Chet to fancy dress balls in Chicago, she spins around the floor, her hair pinned with scarabs, her dress emerald green, and some men tell him they envy him his wife, and others look at him too long.

Chet walks in the park, looking at the men and longing for a flavor other than simple syrup. He walks the halls in his slippers, to hear the moans from outside the bedroom door.

He longs hopelessly for salt, for spice, to bury his face in someone with a pounding heart. At night, he sees Miss Klein walking in the long hallway of their house, her silk robe sweeping the floor, her hair loose. He feels the mummy waiting, and sometimes he looks into the room where the mummy sleeps, a small bundle beneath bedsheets. He thinks about its heart, preserved in a jar of honey, given away to someone long dead, and then he thinks about his own heart. He feels it swelling, swelling, with a love that has never made sense.

All over the country, the bars stick in teeth, press against gums, pull out fillings.

Chet touches his stomach and finds it rounded. He pats his pockets. There are no wonders in them, no pulverized lemon, no candied cricket. The factory is all Bit-U-Men Bars now, and the things his father brought, the sweetmeats from secret stashes, the fenugreek seeds and the balls of Turkish Delight are stale in their jars. The newsreels are salutes and stars.

It’s 1943. On the radio, a voice talks about orchestrated hell.

Chet climbs the stairs in his wonderful house and finds Miss Klein taking dictation. The mummy and Miss Klein look at him, and he stands there a moment, in the doorway, before he sighs and turns away. In the bathroom, he finds first one silver hair, and then another. In his chest, he finds a cluster of silver just over his heart, threads unraveled from a spun sugar machine. In the factory, Bit-U-Men bars flip from their conveyors, and into their wrappings, winding themselves up, tightly bound and safe for future generations. Twenty-four bars in each box, each box sealed perfectly for shipping, each box full of bits of the mummy and the world the mummy came from.

In the bellies of dead American soldiers in the jungles of the Pacific Front, there are bits of mellified man, slowly dissolving. In Germany, a bar is smuggled into a camp, and analyzed. A new experiment is done, a quiet death in a tank of honey. Everything that has ever been thought of in the history of horrible is tried again.

Then it’s 1945, and the commander eats a slice of newly mellified man, a prisoner converted into confection, and feels nothingness surge through him, the casual curse of a volunteer. He raises his pistol to his temple, and pulls the trigger.

The soldiers come home. All around the country there’s a craving, a sweet tooth. All around the country, babies are conceived, a generation born in fear of the lonely dark. Babies fill maternity wards, and ticker tape mixes with candy wrappers, men returning from the war, factories filling again, cars spinning down the roads and women in yellow dresses unwrapping bars full of unbearable sweetness.

The mummy gives the company its hollow chest. It gives its crackling spine.

Chet Savor stoops to pick up a button and feels something unbuttoning deep in his body, a ping in his ribcage. He goes to the doctor, who listens with a stethoscope and recommends less drink, less meat, less everything. In the park he watches a returning soldier embracing his bride. Savor’s Sweets supplied the war effort with sugar, but Chet never fought. He claimed injuries preexisting. Now he has regret.

Miss Klein, naked but for her scarab beetles, braids her hair, and twists it on top of her head, extends a long leg and rolls her stockings up it, inch by inch. The mummy watches her, and says “Now unwrap.”

She unrolls her stockings, unpins her hair, and brings the mummy a sip of hot milk. After a moment, she kisses the mummy on the mouth, and the mummy kisses back.

The 1950s are glass jars full of Technicolor jawbreakers, glittering colored candy, bars dipped in chocolate and filled with marshmallow nothing. Children look skeptically at the Bit-U-Men, and the label changes, to look more fetching, less worrying. Black bits in a golden field. Children begin to feel they are eating ashes, when they want to eat red dye. Bit-U-Men bars sit stale in candy counters.

It’s 1961. The Bit-U-Men brand becomes an uncertainty, despite the bees on the label, now dancing, despite the eye on the label, now winking. Chet hires an advertising company, and attempts to make it into a beach-blanket staple, a singing teenager with a guitar, a bunch of girls in bathing suits, all giddily twirling around a Bit-U-Men like it’s a campfire. Chet sits morosely in a corner watching the teenagers shimmy in the center of a pile of shipped-in sand. The boy with the guitar eats a bite of the bar, and Chet observes as mellified joy fills him. Chet watches the boy, his tanned skin, his white teeth, and considers saving him from a life of sugar.

The boy turns to Chet and says “Can I help you? Aren’t you Old Mr. Savor?”

Miss Klein carries the mummy wrapped in a warm blanket. It is only a head and throat now.

Chet Savor dies of a heart attack, his buttons bursting and flying off into the sky, each one turning as it goes into something with wings. There is a small swarm of locusts, but it isn’t long before they die too, falling into the streets where cars crush their wings. Chet Savor’s last words, written in a dark brown ink, are “I was lonely in the dark.”

The mummy smiles, but says nothing. Chet Savor’s pen has been left on his desk next to a dry jar of the ink called Mummy Brown.

Miss Klein attends the funeral. The mummy wears black wrappings and travels in a handbag. The mourners think she’s lost her mind with grief when she holds the handbag to her lips and whispers to it. She is still tall and thin, and her hair, now striped with silver and gold, is twisted into complicated patterns. Her mouth is covered in red lipstick. Her dress, beneath the black, is a red silk slip embroidered with hieroglyphs.

“Of use,” says the mummy when they return home, up the marble staircase, into the marble bathroom where Miss Klein washes honey from her fingers.

“You have been of use,” says Miss Klein.

“Sweetness doesn’t last forever. Other things do. That ink,” says the mummy. “What is it made of?”

“They don’t make it anymore,” says Miss Klein. “His father used it too. Nothing lasts forever.”

She unwraps the mummy, and looks at the mummy’s smooth, sleek face.

“I’m lonely,” says the mummy. “I want to see the world.”

Shira Klein inhales, exhales.

“The world isn’t so much,” she says, and for the first time in forty years, her voice wobbles.

“I’m not so much either,” says the mummy. “I’ve been in Chicago a long time. Come see the world with me.”

Miss Klein looks at the label on the ink bottle. She nods. She takes out a small notebook and writes down the name of the company. She dials an international operator in London, and connects with C. Roberson’s Colour Makers.

Miss Klein dresses in a traveling suit, and takes an airplane to Rome. The mummy, now gone below the lips, travels with her, in a soft bag made of snakeskin and lined in silk.

“I loved the light,” the mummy whispers, over and over throughout the flight. Shira Klein feeds it as she did long ago, this time a mixture of hot water and whiskey administered with her finger, a drop at a time.

In Rome, the mummy looks up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. In Venice, they ride in a gondola. In Paris, they see the Eiffel tower and at a small café in the dark, Shira Klein drinks a glass of sparkling wine and the mummy sits across the table, gazing.

In London, at the factory, Shira Klein settles the bag on the desk of the managing director. He looks apologetic.

“We might have a few limbs lying around, a finger, a hand,” he says. “But it’s been at least twenty years since we’ve been able to get an entire mummy. It’s frowned upon now. That ink’s discontinued. It’s in paintings and old correspondence all over London, though, if you’d like to see it. Edward Burne-Jones buried a tube in his garden when he realized he’d been painting with the dead.”

He laughs.

Miss Klein opens the bag, and there it is, the scent of honey, white flowers, forgetfulness, heaven.

The mummy looks up at him.

“I want to be of use,” says the mummy. “I want to be painted onto canvas. I want to be written into books.”

The managing director looks flummoxed into the eyes of the mummy.

“I want to be a portrait,” says the mummy. “A portrait of my wife.”

Miss Klein looks at the director. The director smiles uncertainly. Miss Klein shakes out her long silver, black and gold hair. She smiles back at him. There are tears running down her cheeks. Her traveling suit unbuttons itself, and stretches its arms on the chair she’s sitting in.

“This is what we want,” says Shira Klein.

The mummy whispers. “Oh, I’ve loved the light.”

“We can make a batch of ink for you,” says the managing director, uncertain, bewildered, why is he doing what he’s doing? He can’t say. “The last batch of Mummy Brown.”

Now, the portrait of Shira Klein hangs in a museum in New York City. It has a creamy background, and the portrait itself is done in a chocolate-colored ink. It’s skillful, in a style unusually abstract for the time in which it was painted, crosshatched precisely, but the woman’s hair is done in messy pools of spilt ink. There are several sticky prints along the border of the paper. The ink is sweet-smelling and even from across a room it can bring to mind things no one has ever seen.

Shira Klein’s mouth, the only part of the portrait that is painted in a different color, a dark red, is quirked at one corner. Around her neck, there is a strand of scarab beetles which look intriguingly alive.

Miss Klein lives in an apartment near the museum, and walks a circuit of the city every day, her hair straight and white and falling to her ankles now, a pair of red Lucite glasses balancing on her face like some kind of butterfly. She does not look her age. Her spine is straight, and her waist is encircled with her scarabs, and when she hails a taxi, she whistles in such a piercing tone that every driver in the city finds himself halted against his will.

In the room next to her gallery, the funeral portraits taken without permission from Egypt are in glass cases, these papyrus faces painted to show souls, all in a row of the dry dead, but in the room where Shira Klein’s portrait is displayed, the light bounces off the mysterious object painted into her left hand, a large carved insect, which, if looked at from a slightly sideways angle, is revealed to be a heart, the ink still wet with something sweeter and more complicated than blood.

© 2013 by Maria Dahvana Headley.

Originally published in The Book of the Dead, edited by Jared Shurin.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

Maria Dahvana Headley is the Nebula-nominated author of the dark fantasy/alt-history novel Queen of Kings, as well as the internationally bestselling memoir The Year of Yes. Her short fiction has appeared in Lightspeed (“Give Her Honey When You Hear Her Scream”), Subterranean, and more, and will shortly be anthologized in the 2013 editions of Rich Horton's The Year's Best Fantasy & Science Fiction, Paula Guran's The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, and Jurassic London's The Lowest Heaven, a celestial bodies anthology, in which she is responsible for the story about Earth. Most recently, with Neil Gaiman, she co-edited the young-adult monster anthology Unnatural Creatures, to benefit 826DC. Find her on Twitter at @MARIADAHVANA, or on the web at www.mariadahvanaheadley.com.

The Insect and the Astronomer: A Love Story
Kelly Barnhill

1.

The Insect has never been in love.

The Astronomer has never been alive.

It is important that you understand this.

2.

The Insect paces his office, allowing the tips of his forelegs, the ooze and suck of the pulvilli between his tiny, delicate claws, to graze against the stacks of books, the stacks of papers, the stuff and rustle of a life dedicated to learning and study and endless pontification. He has been, until now, and in his own estimation, a grand professor and a great scholar. Until now. Shed scales, he thinks. It is only shed scales. And abandoned husks. The remnants of word and lecture and useless thinking. He listens to his lower feet as they scuttle against the old stone floor—a thin, cold, lonely sound.

The Hon. Professor Pycanis Educatus—called the Insect, or the Pyca, or the Bug-in-Spats, or the Insectus Insuferablilis, or the Hon. Doctor Please-Swat-Me Creepy-Crawlie, by his students and former students and current colleagues—was one of only nine of his kind when he was born. Now, he is the only one. At one time the Pycanum bellus gigantis were numerous in this part of the world—and widely known for their devotion to the Arts and Sciences, as well as the noble pursuits of Athleticism, Skepticism, Gnosticism, and Algorithmic Recalculations. Not anymore. They are gone now. All, all gone. And he is alone.

If it is wrong for Man to be alone, the Insect muses in the solitude of his room, must it not also be wrong for Insect? If I share the Intellect and Soul of Man, should I not also share in his joy?

There must be a logical answer, he tells himself. A proof for the theorem. And so the Professor puts his brain to work.

The Insect, in his way, has always sought solutions in the study of opposites. Does not Light, he asks, counter Darkness? Does not Plenty vanquish Want? Contraria contrariis curantur 1, he reasons silently. Hypocrates, as dependable as the rising sun, provides the answer, as always. Surely his loneliness must have an antidote. Surely if the fact of himself has been the source of his terrible singularity, the cure would be found in one as wholly unlike himself to become himself. It is, he feels, astonishingly obvious, and he sits down with his notes and his ledgers and scratches out the beginning of his next Treatise—one of many that he will never complete.

Later that night, the Insect dreams of the Astronomer. He wakes in a sweat.

That same night, in a far-away country, the Astronomer dreams of the Insect. He wakes with a shiver and a cry, and, as usual, consults the stars. He does not breathe (he never does); he does not blink (how can he? He has no tears). The stars, as usual, are silent. The Astronomer watches without moving.

The Insect and the Astronomer have never met.

But they will. The Insect is sure of it.

3.

It has been many years since the Bug-In-Spats last set foot in Vingus Country—land of his birth, land whereby he received his extensive and thorough Education (by the hand of one Professor Ignatius Pedantare, at whose name the Pyca clasps his delicate tarsus to his brightly clothed thorax and sighs prodigiously), and land, in his more nostalgic moments, that he still refers to as his home. He had thought at one time that he would never return. Indeed, he swore that he would not.

Still, as he traverses the land where the green of the hills begins to lighten and sparkle, where it finally, thinly protesting, gives way to endless hills of yellow and yellow and yellow—the glow of his country, the shimmer of home— the Insect feels his soul begin to shudder and shake. He feels his bound wings begin tremble and moan. He raises his curled fingers to his enormous black eyes, and discovers a hidden reservoir of tears.

“How odd,” he thinks. He brings a single tear to his mouth and tastes the salt on his long, prehensile tongue. It tastes, he knows, ever so much like an ocean, though he has never seen an ocean, nor tasted it for comparison. He knows there are oceans somewhere, just as there is an ocean inside himself, inextricably linked to his heart.

The heart breaks and an ocean flows; this is the way of things.

“Abyssus abyssum invocat 2,” he whispers out loud. And he believes it, too. The abyss of his soul has pulled him here, on this path, toward the one who ponders the abyss of the sky.

The Astronomer, his dreams have told him. The Astronomer will know what to do.

The Insect brought little for the journey. Only a flutter of hope in his heart. And something else, in the regions beyond his heart. A quiet something that he could not identify or name. But it was heavy, and dark, and alive.

The journey has been long and his feet are tired. He sees no one on his first day home. Still. It is home. And that flutter in his heart feels like an ocean’s gale. And the salt lingers on his tongue.

4.

The moment that the Insect crossed into Vingus Country, the Astronomer froze in his tracks. The people in the village saw him halfway up the yellow hillside where his terrible tower stood. His left foot hovered over the ground in an aborted step. His right hand was nearly to his mouth. His lips were parted, as though he was about to smile. Or speak. Or cry out.

The village folk saw this, but they did not venture up the hill to investigate. They did not offer to help. They shielded their eyes from the sun and squinted at the Astronomer.

His chest don’t rise and it don’t fall, the people whispered.

There’s not a thing on that hill what’s alive, they grumbled.

It’s not natural. All that star-looking and planet tracking. It’s not natural with his infernal machines. It’s not natural at all. They seethed and seethed and seethed. Every day they watched the Astronomer turn the keys in his tower and mind the gears in his automatons and polish his instruments until they gleamed. They knew that he used neither an iota of magic nor a whiff of witchcraft. What he used was something else. And they didn’t trust it.

As the sun set, one of his automatons hoisted the Astronomer onto its back and hauled him inside. By the next day, he was back to normal.

Or mostly normal.

The village noticed that a smile played on the Astronomer’s lips. One that had not been there before. It was fixed into his face as though with paste or paint or solder. And what’s worse, he started muttering.

“Wings,” the Astronomer whispered over and over again. “Wings, wings, wings. Thorax and segment and luminous eye. But, oh! Wings!”

Sunup to sundown did that cursed man whisper.

And the villagers began to worry.

5.

The Bug saw no one on the road in his first day in Vingus Country, and the loneliness of the journey began to take its toll. Now, on the second day, when he sees the figure of a man moving in the same direction that he, himself, is travelling, the Insect increases his speed, his long legs bounding down the road in great, leaping strides. He adjusts his five pince-nez on his long snout and smoothes his finely tailored waistcoat. He ignores the itching of his tightly bound wings. He clears his throat. He knows the value of a good first impression.

“Tempora mutantur et nos mutantur in illis 3,” the Insect says to the man—a farmer, by the look of him. He dearly hopes that the man is impressed by this greeting. Indeed, it is terribly impressive, as well as being profoundly true. Has not the Pyca been changed by his time away? Has not his home country been changed as well?

It is nearly noon, and the Hon. Professor is feeling peckish and overly warm. He would not mind an invitation to lunch on a blanket in the shade, or, even more desirable, lunch in a farmhouse with cold milk and cold ale and a highly solicitous farmwife. He waves to the farmer and uncurls the final segment of his right arm to shake the man’s hand. With his left, he adjusts the two final pince-nez at the end of his impressively long proboscis and gives what he is sure must be a winning smile.

(The winning smile is important. After all, did Professor Pedantare not implore his students over and over the same sagely proclamation: Ut amaris, amabilis esto 4? Surely, after all this time, the lesson still stands.)

“Come again?” The farmer says. He is an aged fellow. His face is deeply creased and his back is bent. The Insect, in possession of a sensitive heart and a loving soul, is moved to pity. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a brightly colored parasol and hands it toward the farmer with a flourish. The farmer, assuming he is about to be attacked, jumps backward and screams. “Attack an old man will you?”

“Pardon?”

“I have no money, if that’s what yer asking.”

The Pyca peers at the parasol, its bright point gleaming dangerously in the mid-day sun and understands. “My apologies,” the Bug says. He remembers that, while in the Capital City—a cosmopolitan, forward-thinking place—his appearance is, while unusual, rarely commented on. No one finds him particularly dangerous. Why would they? The Hon. Professor spent his career cultivating his knowledge, his erudition and his appearance. To see an insect standing eye to eye with some of the tallest men around must surely be a surprise for the uninitiated, but seeing him decked in perfectly tailored waistcoats of the finest brocade and three-buttoned morning jackets of a fine, heavy silk and top hats imported from the Lands Beyond the Sea—well. Clearly the man is in shock. The Pyca decides to try a different route.

“My good man,” he says, “it occurs to me that my appearance alarms you. Fear not. I seek education and nothing more. As the scholars tell us, scientia potentia est 5. Have we not found such pearls of wisdom to be more than true? And if not, who are we to argue with scholars?”

“Yer lookin’ for the Astronomer?”

The Insect raises his eyebrows, though the farmer does not notice. His large black eyes shine like two dark pools. When people see the Pyca, they stop seeing the overly-large Insect: they see their own reflection instead.

“My good man,” says the Pyca. “That is exactly who I seek. Quaere verum 6, my good professor once said to me. If I am to seek the truth, I believe the truth must rest in the hands of the man who watches the stars.”

“Hmph,” the farmer grunts. “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant 7.”

So startled is the professor, that all five of his pince-nez fly from his nose and tumble to the ground. One shatters irrevocably. “Why,” he sputters, “my dear sir! You are a scholar!”

“No,” the farmer says darkly. “That’s what we call that man. If you can call him a man.” He pauses, rubs his hand over the gnarl of his face, expels his breath through pursed lips. “It is rude, I know, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I won’t share the road with you, Mister . . . whatever you are. I’ll not invite you to my home, nor to my table, neither, but you’re welcome to the lunch my good wife packed for me in this sack.” He lets his sack fall to the ground, and he backs away. “This road’ll take you right to where you want to go. Walk ’til you find that infernal tower. It’s unnatural, is what it is. Stars. The Astronomer. All of it. Unnatural. And I’ll bid you good day.”

And the farmer turns on his heel and walks down the road in the direction he had come. The Bug does not call out to him, nor does he beg him to return. He simply says, “A strange sort of fellow,” and pulls a hunk of meat from the satchel. He eats it slowly and continues on his way, pressing onward through the shimmering hills.

(His heart beating out yellow, yellow, yellow, with each blessed breath.)

6.

The Astronomer lives alone. He has always lived alone.

The Astronomer, it is generally thought, first came to Vingus Country four decades ago. Or, perhaps it was four years. Or maybe a month. No one knows for sure. When the Vingare try to puzzle it out, when they try to count the years on their fingers and toes and hash out the months on bits of paper, or perhaps a wall, they find themselves drawing a blank. Their eyes lose their focus and their minds turn to thoughts of far-away dust clouds, the bright accretion of swirling nebulae, of planets made of water or ice or storm, and quietly pulsing stars. Their eyes gaze skyward and they forget why they questioned in the first place.

The Astronomer has always been here.

The Astronomer has just arrived.

Both are true.

Even now, no one knows where he had travelled from, nor his country of origin, and he has never told. His accent is obscure, his clothes unusual, and his many trunks of fragile equipment unsettlingly strange.

The Vingare asked him when he arrived—as they watched him carefully remove item after item from his line of trunks, inspecting each one for damage and wear—what his many tools were for, but he simply smiled vaguely and gave a delicate wave of his small, pale hand. “Oh, you know,” he said, over and over again, “work, work, work.” And then he would say nothing.

The Vingare were unused to obscure answers. They are a concrete people. And so they became suspicious of the Astronomer.

They remain suspicious, even now. The Astronomer finds this charming.

Still, it became clear to the Vingare that the new resident was not like them, did not belong, and should probably leave their country, so they did their best to give him the cold shoulder. Or, as best they could. The Vingare are a welcoming people by nature, and not prone to open confrontation. They opted for subtle hints. Therefore, they did not line his walkway with rose petals, as was their custom, opting instead for a measly bundle of wildflowers (surely they would wilt soon) tied up in a ribbon that was not new, and presented in a vase. They thought certainly the Astronomer would feel the depths of their non-welcome, but he did not. He thanked them profusely for their kindness and declared the flowers the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

The Vingare grumbled as best they could, but as they were unused to grumbling, it sounded more like a happy sigh.

Apparently, they decided, more drastic measures were needed. They brought him no meat pies—nor sugared fruits nor brightly colored jellies to show him welcome—opting instead for common foods like bread and cheese and wine. He did not take the hint. He declared that Vingus bread was better than the finest pastries in the Capital City, and that Vingus cheese and wine would rival the sundries produced in the most gastronomically famous cities in the Lands Beyond the Sea. The Vingare were flummoxed. They had never met so dense a fellow. They then threw no banquet in his honor, gave him not a single key to any city—high, low, or middling—and neglected to organize a welcoming parade. He refused to notice these slights as well.

It was infuriating.

Meanwhile, the Astronomer told anyone who would listen how much he admired the Vingus people, and how much he desired to become one of them. To that end, he altered his appearance to fit in with his adopted countrymen (his hair, his dress, even the color of his eyes and skin). He mimicked their mannerisms, their habits, their way of walking, and tried desperately to integrate the linguistic oddities, peculiar to that region, into his patterns of speech, but the results were disastrous. The more he tried to assimilate, the more strange he became to his neighbors. They did not invite him to their homes, nor did they welcome him into their families. He was never invited to weddings—indeed, the very mention of his name in the course of any celebration was considered to be an omen of ill fortune, and thus avoided.

He never gave up his desire to become as near-to-like his chosen kinsmen as he could, however. And while he would never be Vingus, he would have to settle for Vingus-non-Vingus, and that would be that. And he would be alone.

And in time, the Astronomer was—if not accepted—at least tolerated. The Vingare ceased their grumbling. He was to them like a rare bird, flown into their region by mistake, and too lost to find another way home. Not of them, nor even with them, but near them. And the Astronomer had to content himself with that.

When the Astronomer arrived, he contracted fifteen Vingus laborers, five Vingus draftsmen, nineteen ironworkers, twenty-two tinsmiths, three surveyors, two engineers, and one overseer, and told them all to report to work in one week’s time. He set up a small tent—(There were stars inside, people said. Real stars that rose and set in tandem with the actual stars they represented.)—on the top of a hill and marked out a shape on the ground. Before work began, it was said that he sat for hours in the center of that shape, staring at the sky.

It took nearly five years to build the tower. (Or was it ten? Or twenty? No one can remember.) The Astronomer set up a second tent where matters of business and construction could be discussed. It was filled with drafting tables and chalkboards and narrow-drawered cabinets to accommodate and organize his meticulously drafted—and entirely inscrutable—plans.

The Vingare soon realized that it didn’t matter how much they failed to understand the instructions laid out for them. The Tower had a mind of its own.

The hill upon which the Tower slowly grew was tall and bald—a knob of rock in the center of a broad, flat yellow prairie. As a result, most Vingare were able to watch the Tower as it progressed, floor by shining floor. They watched the silvery skeleton of each story uncurl from the struts below and hook together like a web. They watched as the substrate of machinery grew like lichen from the base below.

They held their hands to their open mouths. It was beautiful—but not in a way that they could name. It was a beauty that stopped their voices in their throats and held them silent.

The Tower had hollow walls with a complicated network of steam pipes and humming engines, tiny levers, and delicate gears. There were dumb waiters and smart waiters and waiters of unknowable intelligence. There were automatic ottomans that rolled toward any visitor who looked tired and clearly needed to get their feet up for a moment or two. On each floor were copper-plated mechanized arms, each with four elbows and nine fingers. These were placed at the four corners of each room, each one with a different function. One arm set the desks and work tables each morning with razor-sharp precision, one saw to the dust, one fetched things (books, pencils, napkins, drafting tools, toothpicks) moments before one actually felt the need for it, and one took hats and coats and shook the hands of weary travelers.

In addition to the mechanical arms on the inside, there were also three more on the outside, and these would lift materials and supplies to the laborers on the upper floors, as well as fetch lunchboxes, jugs of water, afternoon tea, notes from home, and would—if a particular laborer looked as though she needed encouragement or that he was, perhaps, simply having a bad day—offer a sympathetic pat on the back.

The Vingus laborers went home each evening, their mouths heavy with stories they could not tell. Not that they were forbidden—the Astronomer had no secrets that he didn’t mind sharing and no aspects of his Tower that he’d rather keep hidden, and told them all as much from the beginning. No, they simply had no words. And so their husbands and wives and children and neighbors pestered them with questions that they lacked the language to answer.

“What is in that tower?” their loved ones said. “What is he building?” they needled.

“Nothing,” said the laborers. “Everything,” they countered.

Both were true.

7.

The Insect lies on his curved, shining back and rests his head upon the torso of a fallen tree. He tilts his head toward the domed sky and watches the clockwork machinations of the glinting stars. He had grown accustomed to the decadence afforded to him at the University, but he does not miss it now. No featherbeds or scented sheets here. Still he is not uncomfortable. The Vingus soil gives way to the ease of his back, and the Vingus winds blow gentle and warm on his skin. He is more comfortable than he can remember being.

There are no more hills; they have flattened into prairie. He is so close. Perhaps, mid-day tomorrow he will see the singular bluff standing alone in a sea of yellow and yellow and yellow, and the tower that has, for months now, infected his dreams.

Go to Vingus Country, his dreams told him. Find the Astronomer. You’ll understand when you arrive.

Now that he is this close, the Bug-in-Spats is not so sure. Certainly, the philosophers said in somnis veritas 8, so surely his dreams would speak truly to him if the philosophers claimed it so. Why would a philosopher lie?

Still, after his decision to leave his post at the Royal College of Athletic and Alchemical Arts, he has never wavered in the veritas of his dreams and the truthfulness of his inexplicable inclinations.

The Astronomer will know, he told himself. The Astronomer will understand. And lay there the rest of the night, awake and open, his great black eyes reflecting the endless glitter of endless stars.

8.

The Astronomer built nineteen automatons—all named Angel—who roamed the Tower and the grounds, and even explored the depths of Vingus Country, and did the Astronomer’s bidding. Angel #11 was the one who haggled at the flea markets and book dealers for rare volumes. Angel #9 went to the forests to find specific herbs and fungi. Angel #4 was sent into the schoolrooms to give lectures on the wonders of the stars.

The children covered their ears. They closed their eyes. The automaton had no mouth. Its eyes were painted on like a doll. It was so terribly wrong, that the children wept silently and hid their faces until it finished its programmed speech and stuttered out of the room.

Not all of the Astronomer’s automatic creatures walk on two legs, however. The tower itself is an automaton of sorts. The windows and the doors are in possession of a delicate and precise gear work, both internal and external, that anticipate their use by a second or more, and open and close with the gentlest of whirring to let in the day or to keep out the wind—depending on the perceived need. There are light boxes that show the images of the stars and screens that display maps of places that no one had ever heard of and books in languages that do not exist. Each floor turned on a central axis, at differing speeds and obscure directionalities. There is one floor that makes a full turn every hour and another floor that turns so slowly that a person standing by the window would have no knowledge of their movement, until he realized that his window faced North, when it had surely faced South earlier in the day. There were floors whose windows followed the sun and floors whose windows feared it.

The Astronomer does not call his automatons by their names, even though each one has his name welded to his metal lapel. He calls each one “brother.” He calls the tower “brother” as well.

The books, on the other hand, are “father” and “mother.” He holds them with trembling hands. He clutches them to his chest—just over where his heart should be.

The Mayor of the township of Lin, during his yearly Visit of Friendship with the Astronomer—a ghastly, tedious affair, in which both parties consume foodstuffs that they do not care for, and engage in topics of conversation that do not interest them, all in the name of Cooperation—once asked, in a rare moment of frank candor (one that has not been repeated since), “Can you tell me the reason for the intricacies of the tower?”

Immediately upon asking, the Mayor found himself choking on a particularly insipid piece of pastry. What was he thinking?

The Astronomer, for his part, was so stunned that he forgot to drink the foul-smelling liquor that was so typically served at that wretched function with any kind of relish or gratitude, and instead allowed himself to grimace. The Mayor noticed the grimace, took it as an indication of a shared moment of honesty, and carried on.

“I mean to say,” he said, “that I mean no harm. I simply notice that your work—from my point of view—requires no special equipment. Indeed, it seems to me that your work only needs your two flesh eyes and your one living brain and your own beating heart.”

The Astronomer looked at his companion in surprise.

“My dear sir!” he said. “But surely you know I possess none of these. I never have! My machines serve only to lure the one who might lend me his flesh eyes, his living brain, his own beating heart. My machines are my beacon of hope.”

“What?”

“D-did I . . .” the Astronomer faltered. “I m-mean to s-say.” But he said nothing after that. His eyes flickered and dimmed. His fingers pressed to his painted mouth and stuck tight. He did not move for the rest of the luncheon.

The Mayor, not wanting to be rude, but certainly not knowing how to respond, said nothing. He took his liquor. He ate his food. He left without another word.

He never returned to the table at the Astronomer’s tower. His eyes and brain and beating heart hurt just at the thought of it.

9.

The Insect agrees to stay the night at the home of an aged couple in the village that sits in the shadow of the Astronomer’s tower. They are extraordinarily kind. They have tender smiles and searching hands and glittering eyes. The Insect loves them. Their house is cozy and warm. Their food makes him sleepy.

He has never been so sleepy.

He takes another drink of wine. The room swims.

“Look at you,” the old woman says, her hand resting on the fourth segment of the Insect’s arm. “As light as a feather. And after such a long journey and all! Do you see him, my love? Do you see the state that he is in?”

There is a rumble in the ground. A squeak of gears. A scuttle of metallic legs. The Insect does not notice. The old man and old woman do not notice either. The man sharpens his knife. The woman checks the heat in the oven.

“Is someone coming?” he asks.

“Only you, my dear,” the old woman says. “And you have already arrived. Lucky us.”

He curls his fingers around berries and breads, he pours tea and milk and ale and wine into his open throat. The old woman fills his goblet. The old man cuts his meat.

“Thank you. My heart thanks you. Cor ad cor loquitur. 9”

The old man puts another slab of cheese on the Insect’s plate. “I don’t know what from cors, but you’re in a sorry state, my friend. A sorry state is what,” the old man says. “They work you too hard in that there city. All those buildings! All those people! That’s no way to live. And you just a young bug.”

“Not so young,” the Pycanum bellus gigantis says sleepily.

“Young and supple,” the old woman says. She smells his skin and smells his head and smells each of his hands. The Insect assumes this must be some sort of custom. “Did you see the shine on him, darling?” She asks her husband. “Did you see?” And to the Insect: “Eat. You must recover your strength. And your vigor. Your journey has sapped you dry.”

The Insect, it’s true, is starving. Starving. He feels he will never be full. His tongue lolls and his head rolls back. “Propino tibi salutem 10,” he garbles. He can hardly get the words out. “Abyssus somethingus probiscus,” he yawns. “Slurpus, durpus, interpus.”

“Of course, dear,” the old woman says.

She turns to her husband. “You did sharpen my needle, didn’t you, darling?”

“As you said, precious,” the old man replies.

“Vescere bracis meis, 11” the Insect yawns. He is not making any sense. His words are bubbles and dry leaves and loam. They are wind and stars and the vacuum of space.

In his mind’s eye the Astronomer’s tower stands against the night sky like a beacon. At its pinnacle, the Astronomer himself balances on the needle spire and calls his name.

Come to me, the Astronomer calls into the gale. Come to me.

There are salt tears in the Insect’s eyes. An ocean surges in his heart.

“Provehito in altum 12,” he whispers to the tower in his dreaming.

“Come now and eat,” the old woman soothes. She pulls a measuring tape from her apron pocket and measures the breadth of his abdomen. She peers into his mouth to scan for disease.

There are butterflies lining the walls, each one pierced at the thorax and preserved under glass. There are bright purple billie-bugs, too. And occulaflies and snankets and whirlibeetles, and three-headed crickets and trupalapods. Swamp moths and apple moths and moths-of-paradise and moths defying description or name. And they are beautiful. And they are everywhere.

“Your collection . . .” The Insect begins.

There are no Pycanum bellus gigantis that he can see. He can only see the others. The old woman moves in closely.

“I’ve caught other genus of the Acanthosomatidae for years. A fine suborder. One to be proud of, dear,” she says. “Bright, beautiful things. But I’ve never seen such a fine fellow as you.” The Insect notices the delicate beading on the woman’s blouse. He notices the whispers of the fragile husks that ring her wrists.

“Are they wings?” he asks. “Do you have wings?”

“You are . . . so lovely,” she whispers.

“Around your wrists.” The marching is closer. Metal on stone. Metal on dirt. Metal on damp gravel. Doors slam and shutters rattle and people shriek in alleyways. “Are they wings?”

“We all have wings, my darling. Mine are invisible. Yours are under your waistcoat. How I long to see them!”

A scramble of gears. A moan of rust. He hears a rocky hillside giving up its scree, the scree tearing up its soil, the soil submerging its trees, and tumbling into an avalanche.

“More wine?” she asks.

The Insect woozes and burps. He can hardly keep his eyes open. He blinks and blinks and blinks again. The old man and the old woman see their reflections in his inky, shining eyes. They see as their shoulders hunch, their arms raise, their features loom.

The hill is there. It waits in the darkness. It is calling him home.

The old man holds the shine of the knife next to the Pyca’s throat. He pauses, gazes into the bug’s large eyes and smiles.

“It won’t take but a second. If we thought we could trust you to stay put under the glass, we’d do that. We don’t want you wandering off.”

“I’ll get the needle,” the old woman says. “Mind you don’t muss up his waistcoat. We can make use of it later. Such a fine fellow. A fine, fine fellow.”

His eyes roll back.

The ceiling, he realizes has a curious sheen. It flutters and shines like wings.

There is salt in his mouth.

There is salt in his eyes.

The old woman screams and the old man shouts I’m armed, and the Insect says armed, armas, armat, armamus. Armaments. Arm-and-a-leg. Men-of-arms. Armies. Amis. Amigo. Amante.

The Pycanum bellus gigantis says Amo. Amat. Amamus.

There are arms and legs and arms and legs. There is metal and flesh—muscle and exoskeleton and snapping bones. There is the shine of a needle in the hand of the woman on the top of a tower on a lonely, windswept hill with the Astronomer balanced atop it like a flag.

Amo. Amas. Amamus. Amant.

I love. You love. We love. They love.

I am coming for you, the Astronomer says. I am coming for you. I am already here.

In his dream, the Insect lifts into the air on a cloud of metal and dust and speed. In his dream, he arcs around a burning star again and again and again. What is time to a planet? What is time to a star? Does the light from the star love the darkness? Does the darkness love the light?

Both darkness and light thunder and thunder and thunder inside the head of Pycanum bellus gigantis. And he is gone.

9.

When the Insect awakens, he is on the roof of the tower. His eyes are open. He feels the glint of each star like a needle. He is pinned in place.

He is terribly cognizant of his wings. This has been a growing problem. He has kept his wings bound by his vest and morning coat for so long that he can hardly remember the sensation of the sun warming the membranous shimmer of his forewings and mesothorax. There was a time, before his Education, that he went without clothing—a round-hulled marvel of color and light. How strange it seems to him now! How foreign! His wings itch. They ache. They long to be free.

The Astronomer lies next to him, his hand as close as possible to the Insect’s fingers to almost-touch without touching. There is no heat from the Astronomer’s hand. His chest does not rise and fall.

“Are you alive?” the Insect says.

“Are you?” the Astronomer counters.

“I eat and I breathe and I rest. I yearn and I ache and I wonder. I rage and lust and feast. I imagine and fear and mourn and journey. I am very much alive, thank you very much.” He says this a trifle sniffier than he had intended. Embarrassed, he clears his throat.

The Astronomer turns his face to the sky. “Pulvis et umbra sumus, 13” he says.

“Quaecumque sunt vera, 14” the Insect counters.

The Astronomer laughs. “May I take your hand?” he asks.

“You may,” the Pycanum bellus gigantis says primly. As he had assumed, the Astronomer’s hand gave off no heat. But it was not cold. It felt like a stone that had been warmed by the sun all day and was only just starting to cool—pleasant to touch; pleasant to hold. Cooler than the body, but guilty of no chill. The Astronomer’s skin had a similar elasticity as the Insect’s own wings. He rarely displayed his wings—he was, after all, terribly modest. And shy. And when he undressed at night in the privacy of his room and let his delicate fingers run down the length of his glittering wings, he would shiver with pleasure.

As he shivers now.

You called to me, the Insect thinks. And I came.

I loved you, the Astronomer thinks in reply. And you loved me in return. Rare bird yearns for rare bird. Things that have no opposite. Each to each.

“The question still stands: Are you alive?” the Insect asks.

“Whoever made the stars,” the Astronomer says, “imbued them with the life of a machine. They follow their courses. They implement their programs. They operate as they were designed to do. They are made of dust and return to dust and remake themselves from dust again. They recuperate, reincarnate, regenerate. Their gears do not rust. Their steps do not stumble. Their workings intersect and dialogue with the workings of their billions of brothers and sisters burning their way through courses of their own. To watch the sky is to watch the most intricate of clockworks, the most perfect of machines. They are unalive. And yet. They are terribly alive.”

“So?”

“That’s all there is.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“You want to know too much.”

“I want to know everything.”

“Qui totem cult totem perdit.” 15

“You don’t mean that.”

The Astronomer laughs ruefully. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“Did you call me here?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I needed your eyes so that I may see the reflection of the stars that I love in the eyes that I love. I needed your hands to steady my hands and your mind to temper my mind.” The Astronomer closes his eyes. He does not breathe. He does not swallow. The Pycanum bellus gigantis can hear the whirl of his gears. He can hear the pulse of the bellows and the tine of the spring and the click of each finely jeweled tooth into its delicate grooves. “A heart burns like a star—perfectly, patiently, selflessly. It lights the sky and it invigorates the land and it asks nothing in return. I have no heart. But I love yours. Is that enough?”

The Insect does not blink. He does not move. He is shadow. He is dust. He is bound by stars. He is particle hooking to particle hooking to particle. He is accretion and convection and radiation. He is heat and light and heat and light. He is sky and wind and deep, deep sea. There is salt in his mouth. There is an ocean in his eyes. There is an abyss in his heart and an abyss overhead. An abyss teaming with stars moving like clockwork across the deep, deep sky.

His waistcoat buckles and splits. Its perfectly-tailored seams rip wide open.

“Wings,” the Astronomer says. “Wings, wings, wings.”

“Yes,” the Insect says. “Wings.” And it is true enough.

The stars say nothing in return.

© 2013 by Kelly Barnhill.

FOOTNOTES

1 Opposite is cured by opposite

2 Deep calleth unto deep; or – Sea calls to sea.

3 The times are changed, and we are changed in them.

4 Be amiable, then you’ll be loved.

5 Knowledge is power.

6 Seek the truth.

7 The stars incline us, but do not bind us.

8 In dreams there is truth.

9 Speaking heart to heart.

10 Cheers.

11 Eat my shorts.

12 Launch forward into the deep.

13 We are dust and shadow.

14 Teach me whatever is true.

15 He who wants everything loses everything.

Kelly Barnhill is the author of Iron Hearted Violet and The Mostly True Story of Jack. She also writes short stories, which have appeared in Fantasy, Clarkesworld, Postscripts, and other places. She teaches writing to both kids and grownups and prides herself in her ability to read stories out loud, with passion, verve, and grand emotion. She lives on a city street, with a field and a creek behind her house, where a coyote runs by every morning at six a.m. and a heron flies over her yard just before the sun sets on slow summer evenings. Her next book is called The Witch’s Boy, and is forthcoming from Algonquin Books in 2014. She’s terribly excited about it.

Tonight We Fly
Ian McDonald

It’s the particular metallic rattle of the football slamming the garage door that is like a nail driven into Chester Barnes forehead. Slap badoom, slap badoom: that he can cope with. His hearing has adjusted to that long habituation of the rhythm of wall-to-foot-to-ball-to-wall. Slap baclang. With a resonating twang of internal springs in the door mechanism. Slap baclang buzz. Behind his head where he can’t see it. But the biggest torment is that he never knows when it is going to happen. A rhythm, a regular beat, you can adjust to that: The random slam of ball kicked hard into garage door is always a surprise, a jolt you can never prepare for.

The bang of ball against door is so loud it rattles the bay window. Chester Barnes throws down his paper and is on his feet, standing tip-toe in his slippers to try to catch sight of the perpetrators through the overgrown privet. Another rattling bang, the loudest yet. A ragged cheer from the street. Chester is out the front door in a thought.

“Right, you little buggers, I had enough of that. You’ve been told umpteen times; look at that garage door, the bottom’s all bowed in, the paint’s flaking off, you’re nothing but vandals. I know your parents, though what kind of parents they are letting you play on the street like urchins I don’t know. This is a residential area!”

The oldest boy cradles the football in his arm. The other boys stand red faced and embarrassed. The girl is about to cry.

“I know you!” Chester Barnes shouts and slams the door.

“Chester, they’re nine years old,” the woman’s voice call from the kitchen. “And the wee one, she’s only six.”

“I don’t care.” Back in the living room again, Chester Barnes watches the five children slink shamefacedly down the street and around the corner. The little girl is in tears. “This is a quiet street for quiet people.” He settles in his chair and picks up his paper.

Doreen has balanced the tea tray on the top of her walker and pushes the whole pajandrum into the living. Chester leaps to assist, sweeping up the precarious tray and setting it down on the old brass Benares tables.

“Now you know I don’t want you doing that, it could fall as easily as anything, you could get scalded.”

“Well, then you’d just have to save me, wouldn’t you?”

There is tea, and a fondant fancy, and a German biscuit.

“Those chocolate things are nice,” Chester says. “Where did you get them?”

“Lidl,” Doreen says. “They’ve a lot of good stuff. Very good for jam. You never think of Germans having a penchant for jam. Is it in again?”

“What?”

“You know. The ad. I can see the paper, you’ve left it open at the classifieds.”

“It’s in again.”

“What does it say this time?”

“Dr. Nightshade to Captain Miracle.”

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Are you going to reply?”

“With what? It’s nothing. I’ll bet you it’s not even him. It’s kids, something like that. Or fans. Stick on the telly, we’re missing Countdown.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t like that new girl. It hasn’t been the same since Carol left.”

“It hasn’t been the same since Richard Whitely died,” Chester says. They watch Countdown. Chester’s longest word score is a seven. Doreen has two eights, and gets the numbers games and today’s Countdown Conundrum. Doreen gets up to go and read in the backyard, as she doesn’t like Deal or No Deal. “It’s just a glorified guessing game,” she says. Not for me it’s not, Chester Barnes says. As she advances her walking frame through the living room door she call back to Chester, “Oh, I almost forgot. Head like a sieve. The community nurse is coming round tomorrow.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Well, I hope it’s after Deal or No Deal.’

Doreen closes the door after her. When the creak of her walking frame has disappeared down the hall, Chester Barnes picks up the newspaper again. Dr Nightshade to Captain Miracle. A rising racket on the screen distracts him. Noel Edmonds is whipping the audience up into a frenzy behind a contestant reluctant to choose between the sealed prize boxes.

“Twenty-seven, pick number twenty-seven, you blithering idiot!” he shouts at the screen. “It’s got the ten pounds in it! Are you blind? No, not box twelve! That’s got the fifty thousand! Oh for God’s sake, woman!”

Nurse Aine is short and plump and has very glossy black hair and very caked make-up. She can’t be more than twenty-two. She radiates the rude self-confidence of the medical.

“You’re not Nurse Morag,” Chester Barnes says.

“No flies on you, Chester.”

“Nurse Morag calls me Mr. Barnes. Where is she anyway?”

“Nurse Morag has moved on to Sydenham, Belmont and Glenmachan. I’ll be your district nurse from now on. Now, how are we, Mr. Barnes? Fair enough fettle? Are you taking your half aspirin?”

“And my glass of red wine. Sometimes more than a glass.”

“Bit of a secret binge drinker, are we, Mr. Barnes?”

“Miss, I have many secrets, but alcohol dependency is not one of them.”

Nurse Aine is busy in her bag, pulling on gloves, unwrapping a syringe, fitting a needle. She readies a dosing bottle, pierces the seal.

“If you’d just roll your wee sleeve up there, Ches . . . Mr. Barnes.”

“What’s this about?” Chester says suspiciously.

“Nasty wee summer flu going around.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t get the flu.”

“Well, with a dose of this you certainly won’t.”

“Wait, Miss, you don’t understand.”

Plump Nurse Aine’s latex hands are quick and strong. She has Chester’s arm in a grip, and the needle coming down. She checks.

“Oh. I’m having a wee bit of a problem finding a vein. Chester, you’ve obviously no career as a heroin addict.”

“Miss, I don’t . . .”

Nurse Aine comes in again, determination set on her red lips. “Let’s try it again. You may feel a little prick.”

“Miss, I won’t . . .”

“Oh. Wow.” Nurse Aine sits back.

“What is it?” Chester asks.

She holds up the syringe. The needle is bent into a horseshoe.

“I’ve heard of hard arteries . . . I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like this before. Mr. Barnes . . .”

The living room door opens. The walker’s rubber toes enter first, then Doreen’s low slippers.

“Suppositories,” Doreen says. “My husband gets all his medication by suppository.”

“It’s not in my case notes,” Nurse Aine protests.

“My husband is a special case.”

The rattle of the letter box disturbs Nurse Aine’s departure.

“There’s your paper, Chester.” She hands him the Telegraph as the paperboy nonchalantly swings his leg over the fence to Number 27 next door. Chester waves it after her as she goes down the path—daintily for her size, Chester thinks—to her small green Peugeot 305.

“Mr. Barnes!” he calls. But the kids are hovering around the garage door again, casting glances at him, trying to block the football from his view with their bodies.

In the living room Doreen sits on the unused seat beside Chester’s big armchair in the window bay rather than her wingback chair with the booster cushion by the door.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I am not hovering, I’m perching. So is it in?”

“Is what in?”

“Don’t come that with me, Chester Barnes. Turn to the small ads right now.”

They flip through the pages together. Their fingers race each other down the columns and sections, stop simultaneously on bold print.

Dr. Nightshade to Captain Miracle. Ormeau Park.

“Ormeau Park. He’s close. Where do you think he is?”

“I heard Spain, on the Costa, with the rest of them.”

“What do you think he wants?”

“I don’t know.”

“Chester, I’m concerned.”

“I’ll look after you, don’t you ever worry. Nothing will ever harm you.”

Doreen lays her hand on her husband’s.

“If only you could do that.”

Then with a slap baclang! like a steel avalanche descending into Haypark Avenue, the first goals hits the metal garage door.

Old men wake easily in the night. A bulge of the bladder, the creak of something that might be an intruder, the gurgle of water in the pipes, a night plane, the lumber of a big slow truck making deliveries to Tesco, the sudden start of a dream, or a nightmare, or that edge-of-sleep-plummet into nothingness that is much too much like death. Anything at all, and they’re awake and staring at the ceiling. And no amount of lying and turning and punching up the pillow to try to make it comfortable or flicking the blankets in under your feet will send you off again. Doreen sleeps sound as a child, her mouth open, her eyes crinkled up in a private, slumbering smile. Every insomniac knows the rule that a partner steals the sleep from you.

Chester waddles out to the toilet and pisses long and appreciatively. Still a good pressure there. On the landing he looks up through the skylight. He never puts the main light on because if anything is guaranteed to banish all hope of sleep it is harsh centralised lighting. Beyond the yellow city glow stand the brighter stars. A constellation of fast lights crosses the rectangle of night. Chester Barnes holds his breath, thrilled by a wonder he feared he had forgotten.

“Away, avaunt!” he breathes. “Plays gip with City Airport Air Traffic Control, my arse. They always were bloody jealous dogs.” Then he hears the high rumble of jets. A lesser wonder.

A wave of warmth and laundry-fresh fabric conditioner spills over him as he opens the hot-press. Socks, shirts—Doreen still irons his underwear. Chester thinks that one of the greatest tokens of love anyone can show. Sheets, towels. To the top shelf, where everything is piled along the front because Doreen can’t reach any higher. Chester takes down the shoe box. Inside are the press clippings, yellowed and redolent of age and laundry, and the comics. Chester lifts the comic out, then sets it back, replaces the lid. A confidential, matey tap.

The Bushmills bottle is at the back of the kitchen cabinet for the same reason that the top shelf laundry is at the front. Not that Doreen would object; it’s that it would be too easy, over Deal or No Deal, or the documentaries he likes on the History Channel. Chester Barnes still has an image, still has pride. When he opens the mock leather lid of the Dansette record player, the smell of old vinyls and glues and plastics whirls him back through years and decades. It’s a dreadful tinny box and he can’t find as decent replacement for the stylus, but it’s like valve sound. The 45s only sound right on it. He takes them out of the shelf of the old radiogram, stacked them up on the ling spindle, settles back in to his chair with the Bush and the comic. Always the dread, as the latch moves in, that more than one disc will fall at once. The Dansette doesn’t fail him tonight. Billy Holliday. God Bless the Child. Except the ones who bang that bloody ball off the bloody garage door. No. God bless the child and God bless you, Lady Day. He opens the comic. Captain Miracle, issue 17.

The set up is rubbish; the writer never was any good. It’s the one with Dr. Nightshade’s Malevolent Meteor Machine, and the usual superhero dilemma; save the girl or save the city from destruction. The true hero must do both, in a method that surprises but is consistent, different enough from last month’s instalment, and returns all the balls in play to their original triangle on the table. Nothing must change in the world of comic book superheroes, unlike real superheroes.

So Captain Miracle, decide. The woman you love, or two million people in Belfast.

Cobblers. There weren’t even that many people in the whole of the North. Chester Barnes smiles. Good panels of Captain Miracle flying into the meteor storm, plunging down through the upper atmosphere haloed in plasma. Kick two into each other, send a third into the Irish Sea just off Dublin where it swamps Blackrock (It’s PR, the Northern Ireland Office management team had said), fry one with laser vision, swing one by its tail, get underneath the big one bearing down on the city (the artist was an American, no idea about what Belfast looked like: a shipyard and the City Hall surrounded by miles of thatched cottages) and struggle and strain until the people in the streets were pointing and staring, before heaving it on his shoulders back up into orbit again. And of course, leaving one last, unseen straggler to bear down on innocent Belfast, before grabbing it and booting it back into orbit as sweet as any drop goal at Ravenhill.

“I’d’ve been good at rugby,” Chester Barnes says. “Ach, too good. It would’ve been no game at all.”

Then screaming fist-forward back down to Dr. Nightshade’s Castle of Evil, which was based on the real Tandragee Castle where they made the potato crisps, which Chester Barnes always found stranger than any Northern Ireland Superhero comic. Intercepting the deadly grav-beam, with which Dr. Nightshade had hauled the meteors from the sky and with which, on full intensity, he would collapse his hapless prisoner into a black hole. Pushing the ray back, back, with both his hands, until grav-beam projector, power unit, control room and the abominable Dr. Nightshade himself all collapsed into eternal oblivion. Until he extricated himself in the next episode.

I’ve got you, Doreen. Soaring up from the singularity, his love in his arms.

“Away, avaunt,” Chester Barnes whispers. Dean Martin now; good old Dino.

They’re PR material, the NIO Department for Nonconventional Individuals had insisted. He has every issue of Captain Miracle, from Number One in 1972 to the final issue in 1979.

It’s not really making any difference, is it, Chester? But it couldn’t, that was always understood. Now Chester lifts out the press cuttings. Robbers thwarted. Passengers rescued from sinking car ferries. Fires put out. Car bombs lifted and hurled into Belfast Lough. It was always impressive when they exploded in mid-air, until people started putting claims in about damage to roofs. Freed hostages. Masked villain apprehended: SuperVillain for our Superhero? Here he could make a difference. Here were things a hero could do. Against politics, against sectarianism, against murders and no warning bombs and incendiaries slipped into pockets of clothes on racks, there is nothing super to be done.

It’s four thirty. The stack of singles has played out. The bottle of Bush is half-empty. Chester Barnes refills the shoe box and climbs the stairs. Beyond the skylight there’s a glimmer of dawn.

Together they paw over the Belfast Telegraph, so eager they tear the sheets. Forefingers race each other down the small ads.

“What’s it under?” Doreen asks.

“Prayers and novenas,” Chester Barnes says.

Their digits arrive simultaneously on the message. In bold: Dr. Nightshade to Captain Miracle. Ormeau Park. Tonight . . .

“Does that dot dot dot mean there’s something more?” Doreen asks. “Maybe the rest of it’s in the late edition.”

“Him, pay for two small ads?” Chester Barnes says. “That wouldn’t be like him.”

“Tonight, then.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to go?”

“Of course not.”

There’s a pounding all along the right side of Chester Barnes’s head, from behind his eye to just above his ear, a steady pulsing beat, a painful throb. A headache. He never gets headaches, unless they’re tension headaches. Then he realises that his brain is thumping in time to the thudding of the ball, that ball, that bloody ball off the garage door. Slap baclang. He had been so intent on the message from his former nemesis that he hadn’t noticed the little voices outside, the cries, the ringing smack of football on the pavement.

“Bloody kids!” Chester Barnes shouts, sitting bolt upright, trying to scrub the hammering out of his head. “Will they never, ever, never go away and do something else and leave me in peace?”

And now Doreen is saying that she’s worried, what’s it all about, why has he come back and what does he want with Chester, are they safe? But all Chester can hear is the slap baclang of the ball and then a different noise, a change in tone of the voices, alarm, fear. He rises from his seat and turns round as the football comes looping in through the front window in a smash and shower of shards, great spears hanging from the frame, fangs of glass poking up from the sash, splinters flying around him and Doreen as he covers her. No flying glass, from a window or a blast, could ever harm him. Chester seizes the ball and storms out on to the street where the children still stand, frozen in horror. They are very small. But months and years of the rage and frustration of a man able to do anything but allowed to do nothing bursts inside him like a boil.

“You little bastards, you could have hurt my wife, all that flying glass, do you ever think of anyone but yourselves? Of course not, it’s the way your parents bring you up; you’re all selfish bastards, no sense of gratitude for anything, it’s all me me me.” The children stand shaking with fear. Chester Barnes throws the ball into the air. He throws it far and hard. It loops so high it is almost out of sight, but as it drops down he looks at it, looks at it long and hard, like he looks at the boxes on Deal or No Deal, looks with all his power. The football explodes in a deafening boom. Scraps of vinyl rain down but the children are already running and every door on Haypark Avenue is open and the people staring.

“Selfish, the lot of you!” Chester Barnes shouts. “None of you ever said thanks, not one. Ever.”

Then he slams the door and goes in to sit on his glass-strewn chair and pretends to watch Countdown.

Officer Ruth Delargy is very fresh and smart and every inch the majesty of the law in her crisp white shirt and cap that shades her eyes and makes her remote, authoritative, just. She is the community officer from Ballynafeigh PSNI Station. She sits in the living room of Number 27 in Doreen’s chair, but Chester thinks it better not to complain. The glass has been swept up, the window patched with cardboard and parcel tape. The glazer can’t make it until the end of the week. Three of his Poles have suddenly announced they’ve had enough of Northern Ireland and are going home.

“The situation, Mr. Barnes, is that where children are concerned, we have no option but to investigate. It’s a statutory duty. Now, from what I’ve heard, this isn’t the first time you’ve had issues with the McAusland children.”

“Is that what they’re called? McAusland?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes. Do you not know your neighbours?”

“Did they bring the complaint?”

“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Barnes, under the Data Protection Act. It is the sort of thing we would try to resolve at a community level through a mediated meeting between yourself and the McAuslands and we wouldn’t want to invoke anything as heavy handed as an Anti-Social Behaviour Order . . .”

“An ASBO? You’d try and give me an ASBO?”

“Like I said, Mr. Barnes, we wouldn’t want to be that heavy-handed. That would be using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Now, I’m prepared to overlook the criminal damage to the football, but I do think it would be good if I arranged a series of meetings with the McAuslands: I’ve seen this kind of thing before and you’ll be amazed how much better relationships are when people get to know each other.”

Chester Barnes sits back in his chair.

“Do you think they can get to know me?”

Officer Ruth frowns.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s just that some people, well, you think you know them but you don’t know anything at all. It’s just that some people, well, they’re not like you know. They’re different. They have their own rules. You see, it so happens that I know you. We’ve met before. It was a long time ago, you were very small, maybe four, five. It was Christmas. Now, they always say that Christmases blur into each other, but you might remember this one. You were in town with your parents, they took you to the Santa’s grotto, it was a good one, in the old Robb’s department store. It’s not there anymore, it was destroyed by incendiaries, back when they were doing a lot of that sort of thing. But they always had a very good Christmas grotto. You went on a ride first: Santa’s Super Sleigh. It didn’t actually go anywhere, it was set of seats that went up and down while the walls rolled past, and there were stuffed reindeer in the front bobbing up and down so you felt you were on a journey. You were on it when the firebombs went off. Do you remember? I’m sure you don’t remember all the details, you were very small and it must have been a terrible trauma for you. You got separated from the rest of your family, somehow, you slipped in under the mechanism and got trapped there. There was smoke everywhere, the fire had really caught. Then someone came through the fire. Someone pulled you out from the burning reindeer, someone took you in his arms and flew you out through the flames, down the stairwell. Someone flew you to safety, Officer Delargy. There was a hero there for you. And maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s just vanity, but I like to think that because someone did right that day, that’s the reason you’re doing right today. And that’s more than I could hope, because we don’t have children, me and Doreen, it’s part of the whole super thing, apparently, but if someone does right because right was done to them, that’s as much children as I can hope for. So, I appreciate that there are rules, there have to be, but maybe you also appreciate now that the rules are different for some people.”

He watches her drive off when she has finished with her notes. The police are in Skodas now. They used to be in Rovers, but that was when Rovers were good cars and Skodas were joke cars. These claims, well, they’re so outlandish I don’t think anyone could really believe them, Community Officer Delargy had said before closing her electronic notebook. It will be quiet again. He can carry on in his life of everyday unsuperness.

“That was a bit naughty,” Doreen says, entering now that her rightful chair is hers again. A Tesco bag swings from the handles of her walker.

“What?”

“Pulling rank like that.”

“I did remember her. It was real, it happened. And I think at the end she may have remembered me.”

“Chester, it was over thirty years ago.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“A present.”

“For me?”

“Who else would it be for? Not that you deserve it; that was a horrid thing to do, you bad old goat. Here you are anyway.”

In the bag is a brown paper parcel tied with string. The rule with Doreen’s presents has always been no peeping. Chester does not break it now but it does smells of fabric conditioner, and the package is soft, springy to his touch. He tears open a corner. Crimson and gold spill out.

“I thought I’d thrown this out years ago.”

“You did. I threw it back in. Oh, I know I was so very afraid, every time you went out, and I know that’s why you got rid of it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. It needed a damn good wash, and I’m afraid some of the stretch has gone. Go on. You have to go. You have to find out.”

Chester Barnes holds the paper parcel in his hands.

“I won’t leave you, Dor. I won’t ever do that.”

He thinks he may have strained something scrambling over the wall. A twinge in the lower back. Stupid stupid stupid, with just a thought he could have been over it, quicker and less conspicuously than climbing up the moss-smooth, faced stone. Chester Barnes pauses, stretches, one side then the other. Even superheroes need to warm up. He’s only a stone throw from the main road, the yellow streetlight glows through the tree branches and the traffic is a constant rumble, but the Ormeau Park seems far away from the concerns of Haypark Avenue. The night is warm and the flowering shrubs release a tremendous sweetness. Shaking out the muscle cramp, stepping out boldly along the deserted path, he feels hugely alive. Every breath empowers. Here is a secret heart in the city and tonight he is connected to it as he hasn’t felt in years. With the merest flicker of his powers, he can steer clear of the dog shite as well.

“So, Captain Miracle!” a voice booms from a rhododendron clump. Chester Barnes stops dead. For all his powers, he’s a little shocked.

“You know I can see right into that rhododendron,” he says.

“You know, would you ever, once, let me finish?” says a peevish, cigarette-thick voice from inside the shrubbery. “Just let me say it. So, Captain Miracle! Tonight!”

“Tonight what, old enemy?”

“Tonight . . . we fly!”

Dr. Nightshade, evil genius, Pasha of Crime, Tsar of Wrongdoing, steps from the rhododendron. He wears his purple cape and leotard; the Facility Belt has been let out at the waist and the mask sags over one eye. Chester doesn’t remember him so short.

“So you made it then, Chester.”

“Well, Sean, you made it hard to refuse.”

“Good to see you anyway,” says Dr. Nightshade. He extends a gloved hand. Chester Barnes takes and shakes it warily. “I don’t want to seem an ingrate, but I did kind of make an effort.” He indicates his costume. Chester Barnes steps back. With his two hands he takes his cardigan and tears it open. Golden yellow on scarlet shines forth: a glowing letter M.

“Give me two minutes.” Chester Barnes steps into the bushes. Dr. Nightshade averts his gaze. In less than the advertised time he steps back, a hero in scarlet and gold, creased at knee and elbow, loose across the chest and tight across the belly. Chester tugs at the cape.

“I could never get this bloody thing to sit right.”

“I never bothered,” Dr. Nightshade says. “Pain in the hoop, capes. Shall we, er?” He nods down the empty path. They walk together, hero and villain.

“It feels rather odd,” Chester says, tugging decorously at his crotch. “What if someone sees us?”

“I don’t know, it feels kind of free to me,” says Dr. Nightshade. “A bit mad and wild. And there’s much worse goes on in this park after dark.”

They stroll through the trees to the high point overlooking the football pitches. The grounds are closed up, someone has left a light on in the pavilion. Beyond the dark circle of the Ormeau Park, Belfast shines. Aircraft lights pass overhead.

“There’s no one else understands, you know,” Dr. Nightshade says.

“What about all those alumnus groups, the online forums, Heroes Reunited, all that?”

“Ach, who could be arsed with that? It’s all bloody talk, and a few wankers like to hog the forum. And anyway, it’s our thing, you know? A Belfast thing.”

“No heroes or villains here,” Chester says. “Only politics. I thought you went to Spain after you got out?”

“It was good until everyone started moving there and, well, to be honest, it’s expensive now. The pound’s weak as piss against the euro and I’ll let you into a wee super-villain secret; I was never that well off, thanks to you. Those Criminal Asset Recovery Boys; that’s a real superpower. It’s just, well, in the end, you understand more than anyone else.”

Traffic curves along the Ormeau Embankment. The river smells strongly tonight. The night smells merely strong. Chester Barnes looks up to the few stars bold enough to challenge Belfast’s amber airglow.

“Do you ever?” Chester asks. “Have you ever?”

“Oh, no. It doesn’t seem right. You?”

“No, never. But tonight . . .”

“Let’s see if we still can. One last time,” says Dr. Nightshade, suddenly fierce and passionate. “Just to show we bloody can!”

“Because we bloody can, yes!” shouts Chester Barnes. “Who’s like us? Who can do what we can do? They’re all too busy on their iPods to look up when they hear something go over their heads, too bloody busy texting to look up when they see a flash of light up there in the sun. Come on, we’ll not get another chance.” He punches a fist at the stars, then runs after it, down the hill, pell-mell, headlong, in golden boots over the dew-wet grass.

“Hey, wait for me, you bastard!” cries Dr. Nightshade and runs after his enemy, the only one who can ever understand him, but Captain Miracle is ahead and drawing away and Dr. Nightshade is panting, heaving, the breath shuddering in his chest. He stops on the centre of a spot of the football pitch, leaning on his thighs, fighting down nausea. Captain Miracle is far ahead, almost at the Ravenhill Road gates. Then he hears a strange cry and a peal of laughter, ringing out over the traffic and looks up to see a streak of gold and crimson arc up into the sky. The curve of light bends back over him, dips with a supersonic roar, then turns and climbs toward the lower stars with a faint, half-heard shout: “Away, Avaunt!”

© 2010 by Ian McDonald.

Originally published in Masked, edited by Lou Anders.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

Ian McDonald is the author of the 2011 Hugo Award-finalist The Dervish House and many other novels, including Hugo Award-nominees River of Gods and Brasyl, and the Philip K. Dick Award-winner King of Morning, Queen for a Day. He won a Hugo in 2006 for his novelette, “The Djinn’s Wife,” and has won the Locus Award and four British Science Fiction Awards. His short fiction, much of which was recently collected in Cyberabad Days, has appeared in magazines such as Interzone and Asimov’s and in numerous anthologies. His most recent book is Be My Enemy, part two of the Everness series for younger readers. Part three, Empress of the Sun, is coming soon. His next novel for adults will be Luna. He lives just outside Belfast, in Northern Ireland.

Sleeper
Matthew Hughes

Erm Kaslo always found that a strong drink or two helped clear his head of the after-effects of the sedative that cushioned the fragile human psyche from the irreality of passage through a whimsy. He was sipping from a glass of red abandon in the second-class lounge of the second-rate liner, Armitou, when harsh bells clanged throughout the ship. Immediately, the ever-present underhum of the vessel’s normal-space drive lowered its pitch then began to fade. In a few moments, Kaslo couldn’t hear the sound at all.

“What’s going on?” he said to the steward behind the bar.

The man shrugged. “We’re slowing.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Another shrug. Kaslo addressed the air: “Ship’s integrator, why are we stopping?”

A cool voice spoke in his ear. “The captain has decided to pick up a sleeper. We have matched velocities and are about to take the container aboard.”

“A what?”

The device delivered a brief explanation. Sleepers were a form of space travel for those whose finances could not stretch even to the cost of a third-class ticket on a tub like the Armitou. A sleeper was a utilitarian container scarcely larger than its occupant; its systems suppressed life processes to a hair above sustainability. For a small fee, the cylinder would be ejected into space by an outward-bound ship, then it would slowly make its way across the immensity until it entered a whimsy and was transposed to somewhere else. It then oriented itself toward its destination and began a painfully slow progress toward it, continuously broadcasting a plea to any passing vessel to pick it up in return for the small fee enclosed with its passenger.

“Sounds like a risky way to travel between worlds,” Kaslo said.

“Agreed,” said the integrator, “and that is why very few try it. If launched from a ship with insufficient velocity, the sleeper might lack the fuel to reach the targeted whimsy. As well, such a craft’s integrator is never of a high order. Some are superannuated devices that have been given only the barest refit. They lose their way, or . . . misalign their priorities.”

Kaslo was familiar with the latter expression. It was how integrators referred to the rare but not entirely negligible instances when self-aware devices exposed their human charges to danger or death.

“What happens if no vessel responds to the request to be picked up?”

“Eventually, the sleeper’s energy stores will become depleted. The occupant will have lost his gamble.”

“It’s good of your captain to stop for such a mendicant,” Kaslo said. “Indeed, I am surprised that a vessel of even this class—”

The integrator’s voice became even cooler. “The captain,” it said, “was asked by a passenger to keep an ear out for a sleeper signal and to stop if one was encountered.”

“That seems unusually compassionate.”

“Yes,” said the ship, “doesn’t it?”

The bells rang a second time. The steward looked up and said, “And we’re on our way again.”

Kaslo was returning to his home world, Novo Bantry, after completing an assignment that had taken him down The Spray. He had delivered a sealed package to a man who conducted sightseeing tours over and through the canyons of Wavertree on the desert world Toolie. The nature of the package’s contents was not made known to Kaslo, only that the item must arrive safely and intact. He had been made aware that someone might try to take the item from him en route, and that he was to use any means necessary to frustrate such an attempt.

While he was changing ships at an orbital above Holycow, two men had followed him into a toilet. But Kaslo, long experienced as a confidential operative, had already noted their interest and was waiting for them when they made their move. He had left them propped unconscious against the dividers in two cubicles while he hurried to board his outbound vessel just before it departed. There had been no further incidents.

His job done and the fee paid into his account at the fiduciary pool on Novo Bantry, the op had nothing on his agenda until he returned to his office and examined any proposals that had come in during his absence. The Armitou would take another three days to cross normal space to the next whimsy, which would deposit it within a half-day’s journey from his home world. He had intended to spend the time reading and playing thrash in the ship’s casino. But the other passengers who came to the table lacked skill, except for one smooth-headed operator who possessed far too much. Kaslo found the flow of the game too one-directional and ceased attending the all-day, all-night sessions.

For lack of diversion, he decided he would satisfy his mild curiosity regarding the sleeper and asked the ship’s integrator where the rescued man could be found.

“In the infirmary,” was the answer. “His container’s systems were not well maintained. He suffers from the effects of prolonged dehydration, as well as from a pre-existing chronic illness.”

“Can he receive visitors?”

“It’s not likely he would be aware of them.”

“Direct me there.”

The integrator caused a shining mote to appear in the air in front of the op. It moved and he followed until it led him to the infirmary where the sleeper lay on a pallet.

The man’s age was difficult to establish. A lengthy somnolence in a less than optimal environment had left him pale and papery-skinned. He was breathing without assistance, but his sunken cheeks and slack-jawed mouth suggested that he might not be capable of continuing to do so much longer. His breath rasped in and out through desiccated tissues, and his bony fingers reflexively scratched like the legs of dying crabs at the cloth that covered his gaunt chest.

“Is he expected to recover?” Kaslo asked the integrator.

“The odds are long against it. He was not well when he began his voyage, and the long, dry sleep has not improved his condition.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“Schmetter’s chorea, a rare genetic disorder.”

“Curable?”

“If treatment begins in youth,” the integrator said, “but even then, it is expensive.”

Kaslo watched the sleeper’s hands move against the covers. “Odd that such a sick man should emigrate,” he said. “Especially by such a desperate method.”

“Indeed,” said the ship.

“What is his name and place of residence?”

“Osvert Chittipath, of the County of Soudan on Novo Bantry.”

As the name meant nothing to him, and there was nothing more to be seen in the infirmary, Kaslo made his way back toward the casino. But along the way, another thought intervened. “Integrator,” he said, “I would like to see the container the sleeper traveled in.”

It was in the hold, near the airlock through which it had been admitted. Another shining mote led the op to where the cylinder lay on the deck, its top hinged back. The canister was barely longer and wider than its former occupant. At its base was a rudimentary drive that would operate in normal space, at its top an automatic communicator. Along the sides were the systems that kept the comatose passenger hovering just above the threshold of death. The inner skin was lined with a thin layer of gray metal, which Kaslo assumed offered protection against cosmic radiation.

He poked around inside the container, found nothing of note, and said, “I believe I have exhausted all the diversion I’m likely to get from—”

“What are you doing there?”

The voice was harsh, the kind of voice that is used to receiving answers to its questions. Kaslo straightened and turned to find himself looking at a strongly built man of middle years striding across the hold toward him.

“Exercising my curiosity,” he said. “How does it concern you?”

“The sleeper is mine,” said the man.

“And you are . . . ?”

“Slovan Ballameer.” The name was spoken in a manner that suggested it ought to command recognition. Kaslo had a faint sense of having heard it before, but nothing more came when he tried to place it. He identified himself.

Ballameer did not stop his approach until he was closer than was considered polite on most worlds. He was tall enough to be able to look down on Kaslo. “What were you doing?” he said.

“I told you: exercising my curiosity. I had never seen one of these,” —he gestured toward the cylinder— “and I thought I’d take a look.”

“It is my property.”

“You bought it off Osvert Chittipath?”

Ballameer’s eyes widened then narrowed. “How do you know that name?”

“The ship told me.”

Ballameer moved even closer. “Time you were leaving.”

Kaslo did not budge. “I’ve answered your questions. You have not answered mine.”

There was a moment of expectation. Kaslo kept his eyes on the big man’s and prepared himself to do whatever would be required as the situation developed. But Ballameer eased back a slight distance, a tinge of uncertainty in his gaze.

“The sleeper is not expected to live,” he said. “Since I have paid for his passage, the captain has declared his container to be salvage and transferred its title to me.”

“I see,” said Kaslo. “That was an act of kindness on your part.”

“I will also see that his remains are disposed of with dignity.”

“Even more gracious,” said the op. “Do you often indulge in acts of charity?”

Ballameer bridled at the question and it seemed to Kaslo that he was about to snap out an answer, but then the same air of incertitude showed in his heavy features. He said, “Are you, by any chance, a peace officer?”

Kaslo signaled a negative. “A confidential operative,” he said, “returning from an assignment.”

He saw relief cross the other man’s face, then saw that an idea had formed in Ballameer’s mind.

“Are you available at the moment?” the man said.

“I could be.”

“And, once engaged, any information that comes your way in the course of an assignment you must hold in strictest confidence?”

“Within certain limits.” He saw Ballameer come to a decision.

“Accompany me to my cabin,” the man said. “I wish to discuss something privately.”

Ballameer’s ample quarters were on the first-class deck and even commanded a view of space through a small porthole. When they had entered and the door was closed, the man said, “Ship’s integrator, I do not wish for this conversation to be overheard.”

“It will be overheard, but not recorded, within the limits stipulated on your ticket,” the device said. Kaslo knew that that meant the device would hear all that was said, just as it heard and observed everything within range of its ship-wide array of percepts, but anything that posed no danger to itself, its crew, or the passengers would be forgotten as soon as it was heard.

Ballameer went to a cabinet and poured himself a glass of liquor, leavening it with a splash of improved water, then asked Kaslo if he wished anything.

“Not,” said the op, seating himself in an upholstered chair, “when there is business to discuss.”

Ballameer nodded in approval and took a seat opposite. “What do you know,” he said, “of noubles?”

Not much, was Kaslo’s first thought, but when he applied his neatly ordered mind to the matter he discovered that he knew they were rare and precious gems that came in varying colors and sizes. They originated somewhere down The Spray but precisely where was shrouded in mystery. He told Ballameer this and added, “I have never seen one.”

“Few have,” said the other man, “and fewer still possess one. I, however, am about to come into ownership of three prime specimens.”

“Congratulations.”

The op’s dry response won him another assessing look from Ballameer, then the big man drank half of what was in his glass and leaned forward with the air of someone who is feeling his way forward. “Fresh noubles can be bought only on a secondary world called New Gargano—”

“Why need they be fresh?” Kaslo said.

“They fade with time, especially if they are not kept warm. The place where they come from . . . well, it has different . . . climatic conditions.”

Kaslo’s profession had taken him to many worlds. He had experienced arid deserts, sultry jungles, temperate savannas, and continental ice sheets. “Every world has its own climes,” he said. “I do not know what you mean by ‘different.’”

Ballameer drained his glass and leaned forward again, and the op saw that he was about to unburden himself of a secret.

“They don’t originate,” the man said, “on this plane.”

“Oh,” said Kaslo, “is that so?”

The big man’s brow clouded with confusion. “That is news,” he said, “that most people find difficult to accept on first hearing.”

Kaslo made a dismissive gesture. “I am not most people,” he said. “And, as it happens, I had a case recently that caused me to reorder my views on the subject of interplanar transference.”

Now Ballameer was suddenly eager. “Tell me about it.”

“I cannot say much,” said Kaslo. “Confidentiality is the core of my profession.”

“Then tell me what you can.”

The op thought for a moment, then said, “I had a client who was interested in transferring objects from a higher plane to this one.”

“Which higher plane?”

“He said it was the sixth.”

Ballameer sucked in his breath. “And did he succeed?”

Kaslo nodded. “He managed to retrieve a small scoop of what constitutes soil in that place. He had to send it back because it immediately ignited the table on which he deposited it.”

“Fool,” Ballameer said, as if to himself. “Then what?”

“Then two persons who wished to interfere in my client’s affairs entered and made difficulties. After I had dealt with them, my assignment was completed. I severed our relationship.”

The big man stared at Kaslo. He raised one thumb unconsciously to his mouth and bit its nail. “You do not know what happened after?”

“I did not care to,” Kaslo said. “The client had a theory that from time to time, the operating principle of the universe shifts between rationalism and magic—he called the latter ‘sympathetic association.’ I found the concept . . . shall we say, disconcerting.”

Ballameer blinked, then blinked again. “Disconcerting?” he said.

“I am a practical man, engaged in a practical profession,” Kaslo said. “The troubles of this plane are plenty for me.”

Ballameer studied him silently for a long pause, then discovered that his glass was empty. He went and refilled it, drank half of it while standing, then came and sat again.

“Here are the facts,” he said. “Some time ago, I went to New Gargano, where I acquired three prime noubles from a vendor who operated outside the cartel that controls the supply. Getting them off-world, however, posed problems. The cartel, which is indistinguishable from the government of that world, has detectors at all the spaceports’ loading ramps.”

Kaslo said, “Your resources must run to a private space yacht. It could land anywhere.”

“The cartel also has orbiting weapons platforms.”

“Ah. Please proceed.”

“I bought Osvert Chittipath a passage to New Gargano as well as a used sleeper. A sleeper’s inner surface is usually coated in a substance the detectors cannot penetrate.”

“And then?”

Ballameer took a breath then said in a rush of words, “Chittipath swallowed the noubles before we left the hotel for the New Gargano spaceport. There he was searched, as was the cylinder, but he was sealed within before the sleeper passed through the detector and up the ramp onto a tramp freighter.

“He was set loose in space, headed for the whimsy that we just came through. His craft survived the interplanar transit and began to make its way slowly toward Novo Bantry. I booked passage on this vessel so that I could intercept it. The rest you know.”

Kaslo stroked the line of his jaw. “Osvert Chittipath did you a considerable kindness,” he said. “Did you offer to pay for a cure?”

“There is no cure,” the other man said, “at least not once past the disease’s onset.”

“I think to hear a ‘but,’” the op said.

“But two of Chittipath’s children were on course to develop the syndrome. I intervened to save them.”

“Ah,” said Kaslo. “So now he lies dying, the noubles nestled warmly in his innards, with this ship two days from the whimsy that will throw us within a few hours of Novo Bantry.”

“Where I will deliver Chittipath to a hospice and await an opportunity to recover my noubles.”

“You don’t propose to hurry the process?”

“I am not a monster.”

“That is good to know. What need have you of my services?”

Ballameer said that the man who sold him the noubles had sent a coded message to the effect that agents of the cartel might be waiting on Novo Bantry.

Kaslo said, “They have no jurisdiction on our world. Alert the constabulary.”

“Word would leak out. My reputation might suffer.”

The op heard a false note in the explanation. He remembered that the client who had opened a portal to the sixth plane had rivals who were making similar experiments. Apparently they were part of a subculture that, like the criminal halfworld, considered themselves unbound by legal or moral stricture.

“I do not work for those who are not frank with me,” he said. “Is it really the cartel’s agents you fear?”

Ballameer poised on an edge of decision before his shoulders slumped and he said, “No.”

“That was a contrived story,” the op said. “Here is what I think is the truth: Like my previous client, you are a student of sympathetic association, and the noubles have some role to play in that regard.”

“Yes.”

Not long before, Kaslo would have thought the man deluded. Experience had since taught him a sharp lesson. “When we land,” he said, “what opposition will we be facing? Hired thugs with conventional weapons? Or will some budding thaumaturge try to change me into a mouse?”

Ballameer’s face darkened. “These are scarcely matters for levity.”

“Nor are hard men with energy pistols. I will not work for you unless there is mutual trust. This is your last opportunity.”

The rest of the story came out. Ballameer had had a partner in his experiments, a man named Asrat Gozon. There had been a falling out.

“Before or after the business with Chittipath was in train?” Kaslo said.

“Before.”

“What was your plan upon arrival?”

“I am to arrange for a vehicle and an attendant to take Chittipath to a hospice that has a crematorium. He will not live long.”

Immediately after death, the remains would be disposed of, with Ballameer overseeing the process. The man who operated the immolator would recover the noubles and hand them over.

“The noubles will be unaffected by the fire?” Kaslo asked.

“Yes.”

“Is your former partner a reckless man?”

The big man’s hand made a negative gesture. “He considers himself a subtle sort, and prides himself on his intelligence. But I cannot vouch for any new associations he may have formed.”

“But he did not find partnership easy? Is that why yours dissolved?”

“Yes.”

The op was silent for a long moment, thinking it through. Then he named his fee and his terms. Ballameer accepted them and told the integrator to send a message telling the fiduciary pool on Novo Bantry to transfer half the amount to Kaslo’s account.

“Now what?” the client said.

“I will play a few hands of thrash.”

Osvert Chittipath, his flickering life sustained only by the devices to which he was connected, was gently unloaded from one of the Armitou’s cargo portals. The stretcher’s gravity obviators hummed softly as Ballameer steered it toward the waiting vehicle. A calm-faced attendant wearing the uniform of the hospice waited to receive him.

Kaslo also stood nearby, looking up and down the dock and occasionally consulting his chronometer, the very image of a recently arrived traveler who had expected to be met at the foot of the gangplank but hasn’t been. He observed the movement of the stretcher with mild interest before checking the time again and tapping his foot three times in a show of impatience.

But the chronometer was more than a timepiece. It told the op that the hospice’s vehicle and attendant were just what they appeared to be. And the triple foot-tap told Ballameer that it was safe to proceed. The big man squeezed in next to the attendant and patient, and the carrier closed itself up and departed.

Kaslo immediately beckoned to the hired air-car that he had kept waiting, climbed aboard, and followed. He had learned the route from the port to the hospice, and once it was clear that the carrier was heading where it was supposed to, he bid his own vehicle rise up into the faster stream.

When Ballameer and Chittipath arrived, to be greeted by the dying man’s distraught family and friends, the op had already scanned the small crowd and found them to be no threat.

The dying man was brought into the departure chamber. The attendant applied a stimulant to revive Chittipath long enough for his loved ones to make their final obsequies. It was a touching scene, even with Ballameer hovering in the background, but Kaslo kept his attention on his instrument. All was clear.

The stimulant faded, as did the main participant in the ceremonies. The attendant pronounced him departed and the mourners left for the next phase of the rites.

Ballameer and the op remained. The attendant disconnected the corpse and removed the covers, then said, “You may deliver him to the immolator, if you wish. The operator should be waiting.” He gestured to a narrow door that had been invisible until it opened.

“We will,” said the big man. The attendant left.

Kaslo went to the opening and scanned the downward-sloping passageway that lay beyond it. “Clear,” he said. Then, “Wait.”

In a cupboard against one wall, he found a garment like that which the attendant had worn and slipped it over his daysuit. Into its outer pocket he placed a small object.

Ballameer reactivated the stretcher’s obviators and steered it through the doorway, which closed behind them. They descended the ramp and came to a small open space. In the wall directly opposite the passageway was set a door of some ceramic material, just large enough to admit a body.

Kaslo looked around. “Where is the immolator’s operator?” As he spoke he palmed the object in his pocket, withdrew it, and held it by his thigh.

A door opened at one end of the small room, and a man, stooped by advanced age and clad in a utilitarian smock, came through. “I am sorry,” he said. “My midday meal was delayed, and I thought the ceremonies would take longer.”

As the old man bustled toward the stretcher, Kaslo consulted his chronometer and saw that he carried no weapons, although tucked into his waistband was a stick of dense wood. The op judged it too short, thin, and blunt to make a useful weapon.

The man in the smock positioned the stretcher end-on to the ceramic door, then went to touch some controls beside the portal. It swung wide. “If you wish to say or do anything,” he told Ballameer, “now would be the time.”

Ballameer said nothing and the old man gently pushed the stretcher toward the opening. A long tray slid out, passing between the stretcher frame and its pad, on which the body lay. When it withdrew back into the immolator, it took the remains of Osvert Chittipath with it. The old man closed the door and touched another control. A discreet humming sounded for a few seconds, then a tell-tale on the door began to blink. “It is done,” he said.

“Let me see,” said Ballameer.

Another touch of a control and the door opened. The tray slid out. Where the body had lain was a long, thin layer of gray ash, in the middle of which lay a trio of small spheres. Two were bright with shifting colors, as if auroras fluxed beneath their smooth surfaces; the other, a lustrous black, looked like a hole in the universe.

Ballameer let out a wordless sound of satisfaction and reached for the three orbs. Kaslo looked to the old man and saw, not surprise, but intense covetousness. Indeed, the fellow suddenly did not seem so elderly now. It was as if his age reversed itself and in a few moments the op found himself looking at a straight-backed man in his prime, with wings of black hair swept back from a face like that of a predatory bird.

“Gozon!” said Ballameer. His hand closed on the noubles.

“The same,” said the other man, drawing a black stick from beneath his smock and pointing it at Kaslo’s client.

“Ha!” said Ballameer. “I expected one of you would try your tricks. I am protected by Itzmeer’s Impenetrable Mesh.”

“No,” said Gozon, “you are not. If you’d studied more, you would have known that contact with a stygian nouble negates most green and blue spells, including the Itzmeer.”

Shocked, Ballameer opened his hand and the three spheres fell to the grit-covered tray. Now Gozon spoke some syllables that were foreign to Kaslo. A dark bubble appeared at the end of the black stick, expanded, then burst. As it disappeared, so did Slovan Ballameer.

The hawk-faced man turned to Kaslo, the wand still extended. “It would be best for you, attendant, if you mentioned this to no one. Besides, who would believe you?”

“I find it hard to believe, myself,” said Kaslo. Then he squeezed the object in his palm so that it emitted a high-speed projectile that, guided by his seeming chronometer, penetrated Gozon’s skull with immediate and devastating consequences for his neural tissues.

Kaslo stepped forward and caught the man as he fell. Then he lifted him and placed him on the tray, deftly scooping up the three noubles before lowering the body onto the ash. He retrieved the black wand from the floor then quickly looked through the dead man’s pockets. He found an identity disc and an empty pouch of old but supple leather that was just the right size for the three spheres.

He pushed the tray back into the immolator, closed the door, and touched the controls as he had seen Gozon do. The hum sounded briefly, then the light blinked to tell him that the process was completed.

Kaslo went back up the ramp and left the building by a side door. He summoned an air-car and had it take him to Ballameer’s townhouse, where his skills soon gained him entry. Behind a locked door, he found a room full of curious objects, including several ancient books. He boxed them all up and put them in the vehicle’s cargo compartment.

Then he went to the address on Asrat Gozon’s identity disc and found more items, some of them even stranger. He took them back to his lodgings and arranged them on his work table.

To his integrator he said, “Cancel all my appointments, accept no communications. We will be engaged full-time in research until further notice.”

“Very well,” the device said.

The op leafed through one of the crumbling old books. The script was unreadable, but the illustrations were compelling. “And then,” he said, “I just might undertake a change of profession.”

© 2013 by Matthew Hughes.

Matthew Hughes writes science-fantasy. His SF novels are: Fools Errant and Fool Me Twice, Black Brillion, Majestrum, The Commons, The Spiral Labyrinth, Template, Hespira, The Damned Busters, The Other, Costume Not Included, and Hell to Pay. His short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Postscripts, Storyteller, Interzone and a number of “Year’s Best” anthologies. Night Shade Books published his short story collection, The Gist Hunter and Other Stories, in 2005. His works have been short-listed for the Aurora, Nebula, and Philip K Dick Awards. Formerly a journalist, he spent more than twenty-five years as a freelance speechwriter for Canadian corporate executives and political leaders. His web page is at matthewhughes.org.

Author Spotlight: Martha Wells
Robyn Lupo

How did “Holy Places” start for you?

I wanted to show the moment when Ilias and Giliead first met, and the first time Ilias met the god. I had already given Ilias a backstory that involved a break with his birth family and adoption by the Andrien, and I also wanted to show this part of the culture in more detail.

A lot of this story is about Ilias’ pain, both his feet and his abandonment. Why choose this story?

I wanted to tell a story about abandonment and betrayal, and about finding a family but still being affected by where you came from, which is a large part of what forms Ilias’ character in the later novels. And I wanted to show just how harrowing an experience like this would be.

Do you have any other stories set in this world?

There are two other short stories, both of which also originally appeared in Black Gate Magazine, where this story was first published. There’s also a third, which was acquired by Black Gate but hasn’t been published yet. The stories are all prequels to the Fall of Ile-Rien trilogy (The Wizard Hunters, The Ships of Air, and The Gate of Gods), which was published by HarperCollins Eos in 2003-2005, and has Ilias and Giliead as supporting characters.

Can you tell us more about the separation between adult worlds and children’s worlds in this story?

The children’s world is definitely more sheltered. I wanted to try to get that feeling of young kids seeing and experiencing things they don’t quite understand, and coming up with alternate explanations for them. And I wanted to show the moment when Ilias leaves the childhood world and confronts the realities of adulthood.

How do you see the common view of curses fit in with our own ideas about illness and disability?

The curses and the curse marks certainly work as a metaphor for people who are stigmatized for things that happened to them that they had absolutely no control over. The people who are forced to wear curse marks are basically being punished for surviving terrible traumatic experiences and continuing to live their lives. I think that’s what happens in our society, too.

What’s next for you?

I’ve just had two novels come out, a YA fantasy from Strange Chemistry called Emilie and the Hollow World, and a Star Wars novel, Empire and Rebellion: Razor’s Edge. I have a novella coming out in ebook that’s set in the world of the Books of the Raksura series, and another YA fantasy Emilie and the Sky World that will be out next March.

Robyn Lupo has been known to frequent southwestern Ontario with her graduate student husband and elderly dog. She writes, reads, and plays video games. She is personal assistant to three cats.

Author Spotlight: Sean Williams
Patrick J. Stephens

How did “Death and the Hobbyist” start for you?

This story has a complicated genesis. The short answer is that it’s a tie-in to my new novel, Twinmaker. I’ve been writing a bunch of these stories to explore aspects of the world and the main characters (including “The Missing Metatarsals” and “Face Value,” also published by Lightspeed). “Hobbyist” sprang in part from speculation regarding how death from illness is treated in a post-scarcity society. It would be easy to regard it as a vile injustice, but modern humans have always had a nuanced relationship with mortality, and that’s something I was keen to look into.

At the same time, “Hobbyist” was conceived and written while I was stuck in a sleep research facility for a week, exploring how fatigue and lack of control altered my creativity. So much of this story comes from what happened in that study, particularly the parts where Juliet is confined and raging against her decreasing cognitive abilities. In many ways, it’s a story I would never have written out in the real world because I had never experienced anything like it. So while it started with idle speculation regarding one particular facet of the world I was building, what really got it going was a very personal and very difficult experience that I am still to a large degree processing—much like death, really, although thankfully not permanent.

Do you think Juliet’s mental illness is a common one, given the world? Do you think many people are left behind because of technology?

I think the mind is a very complicated organ that we will struggle to fully understand for generations to come. Its relationship with our environment, an environment that, thanks to technology, is undergoing accelerating change, makes this quest even more difficult. Some people have always felt left behind by technology, and to a large degree my new series is an exploration of this kind of feeling. In its most severe forms, is it a symptom of profound psychological illness, or could it even be the cause? I don’t know, but I expect to see new kinds of illnesses as our technologies change even more. For that reason I never name Juliet’s illness. It’s new, and yet at the same time very old.

What subject would define you as a hobbyist? The act of writing can—in essence—become an obsession, so what, from the terminology you’ve given us, might you identify with?

I am a writing obsessive, so that is definitely my hobby. The way I write, too, is increasingly outdated. I don’t like voice recognition, or Scrivener, or any of the other fancy tools some of my peers have taken to. Give me a word processor and I’m as a happy as a bean. But if you gave me a pen or a manual typewriter, I’d go crazy within the hour. There are limits to my obsession.

The d-mat has aspects of incredible potential, so what was your process in researching the device? What came first, the characters or the technology?

The technology has been the back of my mind ever since I wrote my first short story, so in a sense that came first. There are ideas I’ve always wanted to explore. But ideas aren’t stories. Stories are driven by characters, so until I have them, I don’t have anything at all except for notes. The voice that came to me first was Allison’s. She narrates Juliet’s story from the point of view of a daughter dealing with love and loss, and also the growing awareness that her own daughter (the protagonist of Twinmaker) might experience similar conflicts with her mother, one day. It’s a universal story, really, one that plays out differently here because of the world it’s set in. I hope that everyone who reads it will see glimpses of themselves and their own losses, as I do, although Juliet is not based specifically on any of my family members who have died.

What’s next for you?

I’ve spent this year mostly working on Crashland, the sequel to Twinmaker. And now Twinmaker is out, I’ve been doing blog tours and travelling hither and yon to support it (times like these I just wish d-mat was real). Coming out in 2014, as well as Crashland, are two books from me and Garth Nix: the latest in our Troubletwisters series for MG readers, The Missing, and the third book in a multi-author series called Spirit Animals, also for middle graders. Between book projects, I’ll be working on more Twinmaker-related projects, which you can find over at twinmakerbooks.com.

Patrick J. Stephens recently graduated from the University of Edinburgh and, after spending the entire year writing speculative fiction, came back with a Master’s in Social Science. His first collection (Aurichrome and Other Stories) can be found on Amazon.com.

Author Spotlight: James Stoddard
Patrick J. Stephens

The idea that all of our history can be erased is terrifying. With current advancement on the edge of full reliance on electronic recording and the threat of magnetic shift, how much research did you do into the science behind the story? How did potentiality of the event affect the plot, characters, and your interpretation of the world?

I considered throwing in something about Quantum Storms or some such, but I’m a lousy liar and your readership is intelligent enough to see right through any nonsense. This story had two inspirations. The first was a short story called “Letter from a Higher Critic” written by Stewart Robb, that I found in an old Analog 6 anthology. Set in the far future, it is written as a textural interpretation that “proves” that much of American History never happened—World War II and Abraham Lincoln being the main “myths” debunked. I was also reading The Poems of Ossian about that time. Apparently, it is still up for debate whether Ossian is authentic, or merely a clever invention penned by James MacPherson, but I was struck by the idea of a wandering poet compiling various folk-tales and working them into a narrative, as Homer supposedly did with The Iliad.

So the idea came first, and the science was only secondary. The truth is, apart from the hard SF writers, much of what we call science fiction is fantasy. As far as we know, Faster Than Light travel is impossible, hyperspace is pure speculation, and traveling through a black hole will only get you squashed. (This holds with my current theory that physicists are fiction writers with calculators.) So the “magnetic field disaster” of my story is a device used to give credibility to a fancy. As far as I know—though I’m going to have to research this a bit for the book I’m currently working on—a magnetic pulse powerful enough to destroy all the digital information on the Earth would possibly also disrupt the electrical functions of the human brain, ending most of the life on the planet. I enjoy reading about science, especially scientific speculations, and like to think I have a scientific outlook, but a lot of SF writers use “fuzzy” science for the sake of stories. (I do have an ansible in my basement, however; and no, you can’t come over and see it. I use it to talk to Ender.)

Why did you choose the characters you did? What was the inspiration behind such historical adjustments as making Washington have a battle-axe named Valleyforge?

Washington was an obvious choice. It is an historic fact that many of the American people wanted to make him King after the Revolutionary War. When he turned it down, King George of England called him “the greatest man in the world.” If even half of what has been written about Washington is true, George was right.

My story assumes that all of American history has been condensed in time so that Washington, Custer, and Eisenhower all lived at the same time. In such a case, Washington would undoubtedly be the central figure—I conceived of him as being the leader of a group consisting of generals and other past presidents—an Arthurian figure surrounded by his Knights and Representatives of the Pentagonal Table—except ruling (paradoxically) in a democracy.

I think I picked the vainglorious General Custer as a counterpoint to Washington’s virtue. Plus I got to call him Armstrong Custard—given a few hundred years, such a name transformation could indeed happen, especially to a people lacking an oral tradition. As my family will tell you, groaning as they say it, I love puns and odd combinations, so I couldn’t resist that one.

As for Eisenhower, I had to use Ike. Arguably one of the greatest generals of all time, he always displayed a surprising humility for such a prominent person, the result of a boyhood spent in Abilene, Kansas. How many former generals, upon leaving the office of President, would give a speech warning the people against the dangers of the military-industrial complex?

The eagles, E. Perilous Union and Apollo Leven were added at the suggestion of editor Gordon Van Gelder, as was the mention of Washington’s wooden teeth. Re-reading the story today, I wonder how I could have written an American myth without including the American eagle. Kudos to Gordon for that one.

Naming Washington’s battle-axe Valleyforge, and having him ride the Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver, was not only great fun, it helped give the story verisimilitude by demonstrating how the American tales had changed through being retold. It also fits in with the legendary weapons and steeds of other mythic heroes.

What are you the most proud of with the completion of this story?

Apart from the sheer joy of writing it, my goal was to present the American heroes in a mythic context. From the reader responses I’ve received, I think I was at least somewhat successful. One person told me, with a hint of perplexity in his tone: “the story was humorous, but it was kind of serious, too.” Which is exactly what I was shooting for. I worked a long time on the final paragraph. I don’t know if it does anything for anybody else, but I still get a chill when I read the last sentence.

If history teaches us a lesson, then what lesson would you like to convey with this history propelled into the future?

The news tells us nightly that our politicians are crooked, our businessmen, rapacious, our scientists, unscrupulous. We have become a nation of cynics. But we are the descendants of a great people. Despite their flaws, the Founding Fathers, and many of those who came after, were incredible individuals, truly passionate about their beliefs. It’s hard to read even a Wikipedia article about Thomas Jefferson or Teddy Roosevelt or Thomas Edison, or any of our other heroes, without becoming inspired.

When it was first published, one online commentator saw my whole story as a brilliant satire lampooning American patriotism. I’m flattered that he thinks I’m that smart, but actually, I’m a very patriotic person, in what I hope is in the best sense of the word. My father served in the Normandy Invasion, wading onto the beach the day after D-Day (29th Infantry Division). Six of my uncles were in the military in WWII, and all came back alive, including one who survived the Bataan Death March and a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.

I guess the main thing I wanted to get across in this little story is that the United States is more than a country; it’s an ideal. And as Americans, we need to be worthy of that ideal. But I didn’t set out with that in mind when I wrote it. Writers don’t always know what they’re trying to say until after they’ve written.

What can your fans expect from you in the near future?

Coincidentally, I’m working on a book tentatively titled The Last American, set a thousand years after all the world’s literature was lost in the worldwide magnetic field disaster. America is slowing rebuilding. Liberty Bell, the idealistic heroine, has grown up believing every word written in The Americana. With an unlikely Secret Service agent, she is thrust into a quest that will take her through the heart of the Old Forest, Yoosemitee, to find the gold of Fort Knocks. Along the way, they encounter various historic American figures, and Liberty’s belief in the tales of The Americana is sorely tested.

I started this novel about a year and a half ago, when I was getting ready to plot an entirely different book. The idea literally struck me while I was driving to have lunch with a friend. I’m currently working on the second draft.

My agent is currently shopping my third book in the Evenmere series. Hopefully, a publisher will pick it up.

I’m also finishing editing the audio book for my modern retelling of William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land. (I am, by profession, an audio engineer.) The book, entitled The Night Land, A Story Retold, came out a couple years ago, and I’m really excited about the audio version. The book is read by a brilliant reader from England named Jason Mills. It’s my goal to have the final edits done by Christmas.

Patrick J. Stephens recently graduated from the University of Edinburgh and, after spending the entire year writing speculative fiction, came back with a Master’s in Social Science. His first collection (Aurichrome and Other Stories) can be found on Amazon.com.

Author Spotlight: Beth Revis
Jude Griffin

What inspired you to tackle the Turing Test?

I got the idea for the short story after talking with my husband about a novel idea I had involving a lot of elements on androids. I had been thinking of Philip K. Dick—I always felt that the androids in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? were fascinating, and the Blade Runner interpretations of them were equally intriguing. All these elements combined to spark the story—and another story, a book which I recently sold to Penguin/Razorbill. The short story is in no way similar to the novel I’m writing, but both were written with the same spark of inspiration.

Do any other stories (in any format) about the Turing Test stand out for you?

I saw Blade Runner before I read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and one thing I think the movie missed the mark on was exploring their version of a Turing Test in more depth. In the original novel, Dick emphasizes empathy so much more, and draws a much harder line between human and machine than the movie does. But the whole idea of empathy being the key to humanity really struck a chord with me and made me want to explore the same questions Dick raised.

What were the challenges for you in deciding the arc and flavor of each participant’s contributions to the conversation? Did you go down any dead ends and have to rethink your approach?

This story flowed out of me—it’s one of the fastest short stories I’ve ever written. The character who changed the most was absolutely the doctor; it took me a few edits to understand what kind of person would be so willing to create something like Elektra. But the character who surprised me the most was Rory. When I started the story, I thought Elektra was the subject, but it wasn’t until the last pages that I realized the point of the story really was within Rory’s character.

Can you talk about the choices you made for Elektra: the sexualization, the lone female, and the subject of manipulation by men?

Elektra herself is interesting because of her ego—she has sentience, and within her own mind (albeit a manufactured one), a purpose. The ego is the part of the mind that tells us what’s real and not, what’s important and not. But to the men around her, Elektra is a representation of the id: our basic human desires. The id is where our dreams come from—and Elektra, ultimately, is nothing but a dream of man, and embodies those dreams, as varied as they may be.

I spent some time reading through descriptions of the Oresteia trilogy and the O’Neill adaptation to look for any echoes in your story, just in case the unusual Elektra name was a reference. Did I miss anything?

I love hiding Easter eggs in stories, and there absolutely are references to other works in this story, but my source of inspiration was a little different! Elektra Shepherd’s name came from Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?—and the names of many of the other characters come from there as well, including Andy Deckard (a mix of the nickname for androids in the novel and the last name of the main character) and Dr. Richard K. Philip (my way of switching around the original author’s name, Philip K. Dick). Rory Rivers’s name came from two of the companions on Doctor Who when I wrote the story, and Elektra’s model number, ES42, is a small allusion to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.

What’s next for you? Any projects you’d like to tell us about?

I am working on a new YA science fiction trilogy that will be coming out in 2015. The details haven't been announced yet, but I think it's something that fans of my original trilogy will like. Keep an eye at bethrevis.com for more details!

Jude Griffin is an envirogeek, writer, and photographer. She has trained llamas at the Bronx Zoo; was a volunteer EMT, firefighter, and HAZMAT responder; worked as a guide and translator for journalists covering combat in Central America; lived in a haunted village in Thailand; ran an international frog monitoring network; and loves happy endings. Bonus points for frolicking dogs and kisses backlit by a shimmering full moon.

Author Spotlight: James Tiptree, Jr.
Patrick J. Stephens

Science fiction embraces seduction. Alice Bradley Sheldon, writing under the pen name of James Tiptree, Jr. is adept at taking on this concept. With “And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side,” first contact is mystical and mysterious. Every action of the Sirians is perceived as sexualized, even when the actions remain normal to the aliens. This is the same kind of enticement and curiosity that drives men and women to pursue ideas and fantastical dreams. At the same time, as a woman writing in a vastly patriarchal field, Sheldon described the plight of women in science fiction, and how essential they would be to the field.

Sheldon was no stranger to being publicized. Sheldon was promoted to the rank of Major by the United States Army Air Force in 1942, one of the highest ranks a woman could hold during that time. She was also outspoken regarding her complex sexual orientation, claiming interest in both genders with a preference towards women. But when it came to writing science fiction, she chose to sidestep the public eye and adopted the pen name of James Tiptree, Jr.. The idea protected her from stigmatization in what was considered a man’s field and allowed Sheldon the chance to solidify herself as a science fiction author without the burden of previous accomplishments and rejection based on gender. “Birth of a Salesman,” her first published short story in 1968, came through Analog Science Fiction. Three other publications followed, but the truth quickly revealed itself: Her male persona pulled more weight in the wake of authors like Bradbury, Heinlein, Asimov, and Simak. However, the authority that came with having a male pseudonym gave Sheldon the chance to continue exploring feminism alongside hard and soft science fiction techniques and psychological anxieties like the ones present in “And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side.”

This story derives its name from “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” by John Keats. Keats wrote about the lustful danger related to another world—a faery seducing a knight amidst the connotations that many other knights and wanderers had come before. Kings, princes, warriors—all have fallen to the thrall of the faery. But science fiction proves the world evolves. We withdraw from the throne and move through centuries of oppression, liberation, life, love, and adoration until we reach the present, where we’ve become engaged in an affair with the stars. But this time, it is the women of science fiction who have become the knights. They see the dangers of the world surrounding them, knowing that sexualized discrimination is something worth fighting against. This alien force oppresses, unbeknownst to its enticement.

As a dominant force in science fiction, Sheldon understood and used this to create a dichotomy between reader and story, writer and genre. While we were looking up at the stars, wondering about the curiosities that could come our way and getting lost in the possibilities, Sheldon wrote about an alien environment that could easily destroy the world, one that was uncaring and existed in tandem with—not in spite of—what surrounded it. As a metaphor for the environment of the 1960s and ’70s, she offered a modern parallel for the struggle continuing today. Grasping the idea that humanity would be safe provided we not upset the fragile balance is a constant source of consideration in “And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side.” The engineer’s interaction with the alien is intense and agonizing, just like fighting a constant struggle to maintain equality. Even when we’re given the chance to see the effects of mingling with this temptation, the relationship remains.

Humanity will always speculate. However, as Sheldon illustrates, the constant threat of a male-dominated genre could have easily cast her aside and wiped away any trace of progression. Instead of writing through fear, Sheldon stole the chance to progress and speculate on humanity’s future. We were, and are, on a dangerous path. If anything is learned from “And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side,” it remains that our knights must be given the chance to shine and embrace the moment of seduction, even if it means we are led on a path that we won’t understand. Sheldon was aware of the dangers of the world, careful not to upset the balance, and cognizant enough to continue dreaming under the very core belief that science fiction idolizes: To dream amongst danger is to dream of progress.

Patrick J. Stephens recently graduated from the University of Edinburgh and, after spending the entire year writing speculative fiction, came back with a Master’s in Science. His first collection (Aurichrome and Other Stories) can be found on Amazon.com.

Author Spotlight: Maria Dahvana Headley
Kevin McNeil

It’s great to see your work in Lightspeed again. I’ve heard this story described as mummy-confectionary-cannibalism, which made it impossible not to read. Can you tell us a little bit about what inspired “Bit-U-Men”?

It is a little odd, looking back on this, that I’ve now published two very different honey-themed stories in Lightspeed! I promise, I write about things other than honey. For this one, Jared Shurin and Anne Perry of Jurassic London got in touch ages ago, requesting a mummy story for their anthology The Book of the Dead, a co-pro with the Egypt Exploration Society. (The whole book is going to be amazing—there are stories by Gail Carriger, Paul Cornell, Adam Roberts, and many more.) I wrote a novel about a monster-y Cleopatra, so I can see how it seemed that I might be the sort of person who could have a mummy story lurking in an office sarcophagus somewhere, but I had nothing. Somehow, though, as the deadline neared, I ran across a mention of mellified man (a likely apocryphal type of mummy, typically described as being created by a dying man eating only honey for a year, until said man’s entire body converted into crystallized honey—take it from me, a diabetic, this isn’t how it works), which led my brain to thoughts of the ingredients of the (in my opinion singularly nasty) Bit-O-Honey candy bar. That led me on an obsessive research wander to learn more about the creation of the Bit-O-Honey, and when I discovered that it was invented in Chicago in 1924, shortly after Tut’s tomb was opened . . . well, hello there, darling. I thought that was all I needed for something rip-roary. Then, goddamn. I found other things. Things about the last bottle of ink made of mummy, a quote from Thomas Browne’s 1680s Fragment on Mummies decrying the eating of Egypt’s ancient philosophers as ground-up medicine . . . and then, I learned that the alleged medicinal substance thought to be derived from mummy was bitumen. Which was not even part of actual mummy, but a mistranslation: The Persian word for bitumen is mumiya, so people thought bitumen was the embalming agent for mummies. Eating mummy, therefore, was totally something people did, from about the 16th–18th centuries. (Mixed with things like pulverized rhubarb: delicious.) All that left me with the Bit-U-Men Bar. I made wicked shrieks and ran through the house in writerly ecstasy, trying babblingly to explain to my roommate why all this was so cool.

The whole time I was doing this research-fevered wander through candy-making and mummy-nibbling history, I was in a paranoid panic that another contributor would write this story before me. To me, in that moment, all the above seemed like HELLO, OBVIOUSLY THE STORY EVERYONE WOULD WRITE ABOUT MUMMIES. I was morose, convinced that Jared and Anne would receive a whole book of identical stories about the tilted ancestry of the Bit-O-Honey. Weirdly, they did not.

The setting is evocative. What kind of research was required in order to do this story justice? What can you tell us about the creation of this world?

I did lots of research into candy-making in the ’20s in Chicago. The candy industry in Chicago was a big deal, and the stuff in the story is pretty accurate as far as that goes, the female workers, the kinds of machinery, although also, given that it’s a story about a candy factory, I went Wonka on the list of things Chet’s father brings in from his travels. Only a little, though—most things in this story are things you might find in the real world. Besides, of course, the talking, tasty mummy. I like writing worlds that are tilted, but almost possible. And as noted, I did a lot of research into labels and language from candy bars of that moment—I altered the original Bit-O-Honey blurb a bit, but they were all written in that great, breathless style. I knew the story was going to end with another product, ink made of mummy, so I did some research into that, and found a terrific tiny story in a 1964 issue of Time Magazine about the last bottle of Mummy Brown—a marketing director from the paint company basically talks woefully about how mummies are now in short supply, and announces that the ink has been discontinued (if you’re hunting for it these days, look for Caput Mortuum, or dead head, seriously—brownish purple ink, minus the mummy bits). Edward Burne-Jones apparently really did bury a bottle of Mummy Brown in his garden, horrified to discover he’d been painting with the dead. So . . . candy making, art history, ink recipes, advertising, confectionary around the world . . . this was pretty research-heavy, but it was all totally fun research. Come on, I got to wander the blogs of people obsessed with eating deadstock candies. Oh, for an Old King Tut bar!

What’s the appeal of speculative fiction for you? Why use a fantastic setting to tell this story?

Talking mummy. The appeal of the speculative in this case is definitely all about that talking mummy. I suppose I could have told a similar story from a non-speculative angle—the manager of a candy factory takes delivery of a mellified mummy meant as an ingredient for a candy bar, and has a moral dilemma regarding cannibalism—but I’m more inclined toward weirder narratives, with assortments of elements. This story ended up one part love story, one part mummy’s curse, one part alt-history of the 20th century, one part hijinks, one part tragedy . . . maybe a few more parts labeled “Other.” There is, of course, a great tradition of talking mummy stories, particularly set in the 1920s, and I wanted to play with that kind of silent film and early talkie-era milieu. I was interested in the notion of a mummy that is cursed, but is a bit shoulder-shruggy about the whole thing. It’s not the mummy’s fault. It has desires of its own. Why should it not get what it wants? (Related: the terrific Josh Ritter video “The Curse.”)

Love, and often the darker aspects of love, is a common theme in your writing. What would you like an ideal reader to take away from this story?

I’m actually a bit puzzled at my recent slew of love stories—everything I’ve published at Lightspeed is a love story, and they’re all different kinds. But, fuck it, I’m completely interested in dramatic actions, in people doing crazy things, and a lot of the time? People do those things for love. In this case, additional to all the above things, I was interested in writing an Earth-based, human-based love story in which one of the characters is of a gender we never actually learn, and in which that character’s gender really doesn’t matter. The other characters perceive the mummy as basically whatever they desire: Chet sees the mummy as one gender, and Miss Klein sees the mummy as another, but to my mind, the mummy doesn’t see itself as gendered at all, and nothing about the mummy’s gender is ultimately relevant to its future. I’ve been interested in that lately, for obvious reasons—politically, I’ve been getting increasingly furious about acts of violence, bias, and harassment committed due to prejudices about the victim’s gender. Since I’m apparently a politically wrathful romantic, I wanted there to be real love here, too, between Miss Klein and the mummy. So, it’s hot. Real love is often hot.

As for the cannibalism, sometimes real love is also about eating one another, what can I say? I wanted to portray that in a different way than we usually see it: It’s an act of love here, which has various repercussions, both world-altering and life-altering. In lots of ways, this is a tender story, particularly by the time we get to the end. But hey, people spontaneously combust as well, so maybe my notion of tender is, as ever, skewed.

You’ve got an amazing range of writing experience, including novels, short stories, editing, as a memoirist, and as a playwright. Do you have a preference for working in any particular form? Outside of the fact that novels require more time, do you take a different approach to writing novels as opposed to short stories?

I like writing everything—hence credits all over the place. I especially like to try things I haven’t tried before, so writing in different genres and styles is appealing. That’s part of what I love about writing short stories: they take less commitment, but give a lot of satisfaction. An entire novel set in the “Bit-U-Men” world, for example, would be a lot of style and worldbuilding commitment, though honestly, now that I’m thinking of it, it’d be fun to write, and the structure lends itself to that. At some point, this might be fun to expand. I’d kind of love to spend a little more time with those characters, over the decades. Do I have time in my schedule right now? No, alas. So, a short story it is.

Generally, short stories are pleasing because I can approach them as a weekend trip to an invented island: Pack your bikini and sunglasses, you don’t need the rest of the closet. Novels are a full household move to an invented country, boxes and bags and trucks full of tools, yowling cat in the passenger seat. Editing, in contrast, is a visit to someone else’s country, or someone else’s island. It’s this gorgeous tourist experience, but the kind of tourist experience where you’re helping the local build a house.

Is there anything else you’d like to share about “Bit-U-Men”? What’s next for you?

Nothing more on “Bit-U-Men” that I can think of, beyond this link to a 1960s Bit-O-Honey TV beach-party commercial referenced in the story, in which a bunch of bikini clad girls and a guitar-playing boy are excited to an unlikely level by honey toffee. I watched it a lot as I was writing this. I think I may still have research fever, because I also happen to know about, though sadly have never seen, a psychedelic Bit-O-Honey commercial from the early ’70s, done by the noted Pop Art animator Fred Mogubgub, (if only I could have smashed that name into this story) which apparently gave people seizures, and got pulled from TV. I hunted that ad all over the internet, but it seems to be nowhere. If anyone can find it, tell me.

As for upcoming . . . an assortment. I just sold a young adult pirates-and-skyships novel to HarperCollins, and Kat Howard and I finished work a few weeks ago on a novella for Subterranean Press, which is horror, horseshoes, a dab of Cupid & Psyche, plus some serious monster, set in the contemporary American West. I think that’ll be out as a book in 2014. There are two new forms for you. Here’s a third, because I can’t keep to two things: I just started working with a co-writer on a comic book, and it is going to kill. I had an out-of-nowhere idea a few months ago that caused us both to scream, and it’s only gotten better since he came on. Follow me on Twitter, and you’ll see updates.

Kevin McNeil reads slush for Lightspeed Magazine and is an editorial assistant for Nightmare Magazine. He is a physical therapist, sports fanatic, and volunteer coach for the Special Olympics. He graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2012 and The Center for the Study of Science Fiction’s Intensive Novel Workshop, led by Kij Johnson, in 2011. Kevin is a New Englander currently living in California. Find him on Twitter @kevinmcneil.

Author Spotlight: Kelly Barnhill
Jude Griffin

“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” You’ve served up some delicious Weird here. What was the seed for “The Insect and the Astronomer: A Love Story”?

You know, it’s funny. This story originally started out as an odd little tale to go in John Joseph Adams’s recent anthology exploring the Oz universe. Or the Ozziverse. Or whatever. The trouble was, as I was an obsessive Oz reader as a child and knew the stories backward and forward, that my imagination had pounced on a rather obscure character in the canon—the Woggle Bug—and pushed him so far afield that we found ourselves far outside of Oz. I mean, heck, we might as well have been in Kansas. Anyway, Mr. Adams kindly let me know that, while I had somehow produced a story that would never find a way to fit in the anthology, it did stand on its own feet. So now my beloved Insect and my beloved Astronomer may live in Lightspeed, and that feels good.

How did you visualize the Insect? I had been thinking a cricket-y type creature (the endless influence of Disney and waistcoated crickets, I suppose), but then I looked up “pulvilli” and there were photos of the hairy legs of ticks and houseflies. *shudder*

In my mind he was somewhere between a beetle and a cicada and a boll weevil. (Though less evil than a weevil, obviously. And more insufferable. And, yanno, gigantic.)

One of my favorite passages in the story was: “The Insect agrees to stay the night at the home of an aged couple in the village that sits in the shadow of the Astronomer’s tower. They are extraordinarily kind. They have tender smiles and searching hands and glittering eyes. The Insect loves them. Their house is cozy and warm. Their food makes him sleepy.”

So many sweet words undone by just a few sinister ones. What was the purpose of having the Insect undergo this experience just before completing his quest?

So it is with every hero’s quest—there is a moment when the hero has an opportunity to choose ease and tranquility, where the object is obscured from view, where the sails go slack and resolve fades. And they may choose to give up and give in and give way to bliss and sweetness and sleep—and it is perilous. The Insect is fragile and vulnerable in his spirit, but he is in his body, too. And it was important show that.

FYI—I totally made all that up. Did it sound smart? If so, it was a ruse, alas. When I write stories, I do so as an act of discovery and with no outward planning at all. I operate entirely in the dark, with no map, no tools, no identifying marks. Only my intuition. I had no idea that he would end up at the old couple’s house. He just went there. And it was terrifying.

The Latin phrases work so beautifully in the story, achieving their own naturalness—were you concerned about how to handle so much footnoting without interrupting the narrative rhythm? (Or has Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell freed us from that fear forever?)

Oh! How I love that book! You know, it’s funny, I wasn’t intending to use any Latin at all, but while I was writing the story, my fifth-grade daughter was in the midst of studying for a big Latin exam, and I was helping her to fill out flashcards, and was checking her homework (thanks, Google Translate!) and she and I started throwing Latin sayings at each other at random—she, the ones that she learned at school, and me, the ones that I memorized from good ole Wikipedia. And truly, I didn’t worry about interrupting the flow at all, given that my Insect seemed the type who would likely think with footnotes anyway. Heck, his footnotes would probably have footnotes.

“The Insect and the Astronomer” reminds me a little of your story “The Taxidermist’s Other Wife.” What was it like to hear someone else read that story aloud?

I’ve had the experience a few times, actually, because both of my novels are available as audiobooks—though I must say that the experience of listening to “Taxidermist” was less stressful than for the novels. First of all because they had male actors reading both The Mostly True Story Of Jack and Iron Hearted Violet—one American and one British gentleman. And they both did a fine job, it was just hard for me to force myself to listen. With “Taxidermist,” Kate Baker just did a marvelous job, but even more, the fact of her gender made the story feel more natural to my ear. Because I read my work out loud approximately one million times before I send it out into the world. Her reading matched the inflection and rhythm that I typically used, which put me instantly at ease.

I was reading your blog, and many of your posts are in the same lyrical voice as your story. You also write poetry, read aloud your own stories and stories by others, and are attracted to books with a strong aural sensibility. All of you bends toward the music of words. Do you ever find yourself stuck between the beauty of a passage and needing to let it go for the sake of the story? Can you delete a beloved line or lines before you have replaced them with something of equal beauty?

Oh, honey. Let me tell you a thing or two about deletions.

I delete everything. All the time. I am a slash-and-burn sort of self-editor. Nothing is sacred, nothing is impervious to loss. Once, while writing a novel that never sold (but that was important for me to write because I learned how a novel is put together), I was at around page 130 . . . and my laptop burst into flames. Smoke. Heat. Actual flames. Terrifying. Obviously nothing could be saved. And, alas, I had backed up exactly nothing. After weeping and wailing for a few days, I returned to the page—that clean, open, limitless space—and began to work, re-experiencing the story from memory. And it was awesome. I wasn’t bogged down, I wasn’t heaving idea to idea like heavy stones tied to my back. Everything was possible and exciting and new.

Which is why, when I am revising a novel or a story, I always start with one easy step: Select All, Delete.

I highly recommend it. Okay, I don’t really. It sucks up a sheet-ton of time and energy. Not to mention sanity. Still, it’s the only way I know how to do it.

I think part of it, for me, is just the fact that I have such an aural and tactile sensibility to my work. I like how words feel in the mouth; I like the insistence of sound in the ear; I like the rhythm of the jaw, the swish of the tongue against the teeth, the rise and fall of the voice, and the slide of breath in the open places. Writing and re-writing is very physical for me. I stand; I pace; I spin around. My body is fully engaged.

Wait, what was your question? Oh yeah, deletions. Honestly? I think that if you are fashioning phrases that you can hold in your hands, and that you can feel their weight and heft if you let them fall onto your lap, nothing is really deleted. Your office is crowded with raw material. You pick up sounds, hold them next to your ear, and pin them to page. If they don’t fit, you let them fall to the ground with a crack, and start over.

Does that sound nuts? It does, doesn’t it. Ah, well.

What’s next for you? Any new projects coming out?

Well. I’m just about to turn in my last revisions for my novel The Witch’s Boy, which will be published by Algonquin Books for Young Readers next fall. And then I’ll have another book with them after that. I’m also busy working on a new novella (“The Unlicensed Magician”) and several short stories that I’ll kick off my desk in the next couple months. It’s good to have projects—it keeps us off the streets. Because the last thing we need in this country is roving gangs of SFF authors wandering the alleys like a bunch of hooligans and stirring up trouble. And shenanigans. We do better when we are chained to our desks as a general rule. It’s best to stir up trouble on the page.

Jude Griffin is an envirogeek, writer, and photographer. She has trained llamas at the Bronx Zoo; was a volunteer EMT, firefighter, and HAZMAT responder; worked as a guide and translator for journalists covering combat in Central America; lived in a haunted village in Thailand; ran an international frog monitoring network; and loves happy endings. Bonus points for frolicking dogs and kisses backlit by a shimmering full moon.

Author Spotlight: Ian McDonald
Amber Barkley

In “Tonight We Fly,” Chester grumbles about technology keeping people from noticing superheroes. Will you tell us more about the conflict between superhero and technology?

Technology is what makes us super. Every single one of us. Smartphones put us not just in contact with other people anywhere, anywhen, and give us the ability to socially interact, but also give us access to almost any piece of human knowledge. That’s a superpower. We can’t fly, but we have machines that can, and serve you a cocktail while you’re hurtling across the sky. Superhero stories are always about an aristocracy (like vampire stories)—an elite with special abilities and agency: Technology is the great leveller. All of us can have something like that power. As Syndrome says in The Incredibles, “When everyone’s super, no one is.”

What gets more in the way of superheroes: technology or politics?

Politics every time. The real world can’t tolerate superpowers. And in a sense, superpowers are powerless against politics. Millions of people deciding how they want to live; making laws, economics. There aren’t any super-powered solutions to that, and that’s Chester’s epiphany . . . that he was ultimately powerless to change Northern Ireland politics. Hitting things hard ultimately isn’t a solution to anything. Heroes and villains like to keep things simple.

Captain Miracle and Dr. Nightshade meet up to relive their younger days. What is the relationship between villain and superhero?

Always close. Bromantic. After all, no one knows a hero like her or his nemesis, and vice versa. And they both share the phenomenon of being super—it’s a lonely curse, superness. Every decent hero has fought the temptation to be a villain, every villain has made the decision to be what they are. And ultimately, what kind of sane person would want to rule the world? Why do we never see the supervillain’s civil service? They certainly need one to run an evil empire.

What inspired “Tonight We Fly”?

It was a short film, originally, that I wrote back in 2001(ish), but it seemed perfect for adaptation to a story when Lou Anders asked for stories for his original Masked anthology. I’ve always like stories about super-people not being super—what happens when they lose their jobs, or get old, or retire: when they hang the cloak up and the flying days are done. Because, once you fly, you never, ever forget that.

What did you enjoy most about writing “Tonight We Fly”?

The sense of the mundane—Captain Miracle lives in a little house in a street off Belfast’s Ormeau Road, and its implied that Dr. Nightshade used his ill-gotten gains to buy a little beach bar in Spain. Heroes and villains have to think of financial security.

Amber Barkley is a recent graduate of Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. She was born in Idaho and grew up in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Her favorite animals are cats and horses, and she considers it a great injustice that she is allergic to both—though that doesn’t stop her from being around them whenever she has the chance. Amber writes high fantasy with a dark twist, and is currently working on her first novel.

Author Spotlight: Matthew Hughes
Patrick J. Stephens

We last heard from you with “And Then Some.” Now that we’ve seen more with this addition to Erm Kaslo’s tale, what can you tell us about your process in creating such a serialization? With so many stories to tell, what was the dividing line between teasing another story and keeping us firmly rooted in the current?

The process is largely intuitive. At this point, I’ve written five Kaslo Chronicles episodes (about 38,000 words), and I’m starting to see the shape of the story. But I still don’t know how it ends. To keep the readers “in the current,” I’ll do what I almost always do: Tell the story from the viewpoint of the principal character. In this case, it’s Erm Kaslo, a highly competent practitioner of the detective arts, who must adapt his skills and personality to a universe that has abruptly changed its ground rules.

The idea behind a “sleeper” is very intriguing, and in an economic climate where availability begets funds, it sounds very probable. What inspired the concept behind the sleepers? Would you ever travel like that?

It was a concept I alluded to in one of my other Archonate stories (I don’t remember which), and I thought I’d give it more of a looking-over. It is, essentially, interstellar hitchhiking (first conceived of by Douglas Adams). In my youth, I hitched all over the place, but I wouldn’t take my chances on a sleeper. Space is too big and cold.

Last time, we discussed characters and which ones you identified with, and the characters in “Sleeper” are just as incredibly vivid and well-crafted as in “And Then Some.” Now, with focus on this story and the exception of Kaslo, which was the most intriguing to write?

Diomedo Obron interests me. In the rational universe, he’s a dreamer and a mark for a con-man like Binnie Varshun. But after the change, his innate abilities fit him for the role he will play as a thaumaturge, and he begins to grow. That will make the relationship between him and Kaslo more complex, I think.

With more added to the universe through “Sleeper,” what is your method of keeping the locations clean and precise? Without giving anything away for future stories, how in-depth has the universe already been created and what can you tell us about it?

This story is set in my far-future space-opera-ish Ten Thousand Worlds, a civilization extending up and down our arm of the galaxy. I’ve probably written close to a million words in various novels and short stories set in this universe, all of them at about the time that the big change from rationalism to sympathetic association (magic) is about to happen. Readers who find the setting interesting might visit my webpage and read the excerpts from other works set on Old Earth under the Archonate, as well as others of the Ten Thousand Worlds.

With the serialization in full swing, what can we expect from Kalso in the future?

A certain amount of derring-do, and plenty of complications.

Patrick J. Stephens recently graduated from the University of Edinburgh and, after spending the entire year writing speculative fiction, came back with a Master’s in Social Science. His first collection (Aurichrome and Other Stories) can be found on Amazon.com.

Coming Attractions

Coming up in December, in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by Hao Jingfang (“Invisible Planets,” translated by Ken Liu) and Gregory Benford (“Leaving Night”), along with SF reprints by Maureen F. McHugh (“Dead Fads”) and David Barr Kirtley (“Power Armor: A Love Story”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by James Patrick Kelly (“Miss Nobody Never Was”) and Siobhan Carroll (“The Correspondence Between the Governess and the Attic”), and fantasy reprints by William Browning Spencer (“The Foster Child”) and Kit Reed (“Yard Sale”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author and artist spotlights, along with feature interviews with Jay Lake and Margaret Atwood.

For our ebook readers, we also have the novella reprint “The Ballad of Bowsprit Bear’s Stead” by Damien Broderick and a pair of novel excerpts.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

Looking ahead beyond next month, we’ve got a veritable plethora of stories forthcoming. We’ve got work from the following authors coming up over the next couple of issues: Anaea Lay, Adam-Troy Castro, Sunny Moraine, Sofia Samatar, Jeremiah Tolbert, Kat Howard, Sarah Pinsker, Carrie Vaughn, Seth Dickinson, Chen Quifan (translated by Ken Liu), Jessica Barber, Carmen Maria Machado, Ken Liu, Thomas Olde Heuvelt, Sandra McDonald, Shaenon K. Garrity, and Linda Nagata. Plus, we’ve got three more all-new Erm Kaslo tales by Matthew Hughes in the queue, which take place in the author’s popular Archonate milieu.

So be sure to keep an eye out for all that SFnal goodness in the months to come. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Lightspeed. Thanks for reading!

Bonus Story from Nightmare Magazine

If you enjoyed this issue, you might also enjoy Nightmare Magazine (www.nightmare-magazine.com), also edited by Lightspeed editor John Joseph Adams. Herewith you will find the complete text of one of the stories from the current issue of Nightmare. Enjoy with our compliments—and, if you do, please consider subscribing!

The Beasts of the Earth, the Madness of Men
Brooke Bolander

The crew is drowned, the ship is flayed to ribbons and splinters, and her own arms are a-rotted down to yellowed bone and salt-cured jerky not even the gulls will touch. Cross-legged on her chunk of life-raft, staring at that familiar line of decaying blubber through the spyglass, all Captain Perth can think, over and over again, is: just a little further. Just a little further and things will right themselves, if only I am strong.

Madness tastes like copper and salt, old fish and the rank flavor of your own tongue putrefying between your clenched teeth. It stinks like guano, wet lumber, rancid fat from a beast almost as unnatural as yourself. Sometimes—on the bad days—it smells like the memories of places and people you’ll never get back, gardens and faces you will never see again in all your long, miserable lifetime. Perth chases the whale because it’s all she knows how to do. Perth chases the whale because it was there when all the world was green, and she cannot let go of the cursed thing even to lay down and die. All well and good for the salts to wag their grizzled heads and say oh aye, madness is repeating the same course over and over again and expecting a different port at journey’s end, no doubt about that. It never seems like madness when you’re the one at the helm; if it did, mad people wouldn’t be mad in the first place.

Just a little further. Her finger-bones are curled around the harpoon in a lover’s grip. The seabirds scream and swoop to scoop beakfuls of sloughed flesh and oil from the swells, what’s left of the makeshift sail snapping in the wind above like a ghostly coachman’s quirt. The sun rises and sets and rises and sets and ‘round and ‘round they go, on and on in the same pathetic, tottering bilge donkey’s circuit. Just a little further, and everything will be as it was before.

But she knows that this is a lie.

There are as many theories about the whale’s origins as there are rusted harpoons jutting from the creature’s back. The most popular ones say it was revenge that stirred the great flippers back into motion. A podmate butchered, or a calf lost, or half a dozen other silly sentimental claptraps that sound more like children’s tales than the back-and-forth mess-cabin musings of grog-addled, louse-kissed sailors.

Bilgewater, all of it. Perth knows better. That kind of anger burns up too fast and too easily, and while some have a reserve that goes on smoldering for years or decades or lifetimes, that’s not what this is all about. The whale seems to want nothing more than to quietly fall apart like a slice of old cheese in a puddle. It doesn’t eat maidens; it doesn’t wreck ships. It swims on and on, aimless as bad luck.

Rage can’t keep you going like that, but sadness and old regrets can. Perth has her own theories as to why a body might keep moving long after life and hope have been drained away. Her free hand finds the locket hanging ‘round her neck, the chain sunk deep and permanent into the cured flesh. Barnacles have sealed the pendant shut, but she knows the face inside by her dried fig of a heart; she needs no oyster pry to recall that. When she’s at the bottom of the deeps with only the hagfish and the anglers and the bones of barquentines and bowheads to keep her company, she’ll dream of it still.

The days and nights have long since melted into a solid yellow mass, like a tallow candle left burning too long on a nightstand. Occasionally she sees other ships on the horizon. (And how many ghost stories has she inspired now? she wonders. What do sailors and whalers think when they look out through their own spyglasses and see her squatted on her scrap of drift, grinning ivory and curling at the edges like a sun-dried perch?) But the ships she sees are as unremarkable as seabirds or sunsets, nothing worth wasting memory on.

It takes a great event to differentiate one sunrise from the next. In this case it’s a storm, fiercer and blacker than any Perth’s encountered since the day her ship and her lungs first took on water. A black line of sediment on the horizon that sprouts a crop of thunderheads. Waves that pace and toss their heads with growing restlessness as the afternoon suddenly goes dim. The deep, stifling pause before the first bolt of lightning splits the sky from liver to lights. Wind and rain, buckets and buckets of it, turning the air to water and the water to darts and the whitecaps to jagged, monstrous jaws that could swallow a church steeple whole.

And then the whale. It never strays too far, her prey. Maybe there’s something inside that won’t let it, a hateful little voice hissing you’ve earned this.

It breaches close enough to her raft that she can see the bones of the flippers shining through rents in the flesh, like white faces behind ragged curtains. Up and up and up it climbs, an entire continent of rotten meat, a mountain range of carrion. Slimy things wriggle and squirm in eye sockets the size of hogsheads. Water sluices down from its mottled gray back, pocked and pitted as the moon. Through the storm’s teeth Perth watches as it blots out the sky above her—it seems to go on forever, the shark-gnawed flukes, the belly riddled with streaming caverns—and, for the first time in who knows how long, something akin to an emotion stirs in her chest. A strange kind of happiness, maybe, out here in the maelstrom with the sea and the spume and the horrid awesomeness of the whale.

But it passes, as all distractions do. The whale completes its arc and vanishes into the green-black as quickly as it came. A wash of memories slams into her. She falls to her gristly knees and vomits seawater flecked with bits of stomach lining.

“Don’t leave me,” she says. “Please. Come back.”

Recollection always comes, whether you want it or not.

Sheaves of letters on paper yellow as sun-rotted silk, scattered for the wind and the waves to rifle when Perth’s hopes swam north and her ship sank south. She kept them in a hatbox beneath her bunk in the captain’s quarters, because she was no stronger in life than she would be in death and torturing herself with old hurts and wrongdoings had become an addiction more powerful than the opium pipe. The script (firm, no-nonsense, blue ink) had been traced by greasy fingertips so many times only the imprint of the words remained, carved into the pulpy surface like a sailor’s initials whittled into a beam. And then the sea took those as well, and she was left with nothing but the memory of a goodbye, and she knew that this, too, was her doing. Take the medicine you’ve earned, dearie duck. Swallow every last blessed, bitter drop.

The whale beaches itself on a strip of pockmarked stone and black sand. Dead trees reach up to clutch at the gray sky’s skirts. Bones lay scattered up and down the coast for as far as the eye can track, rolling like a cast die each time a wave rolls inland. They rasp against the underside of Perth’s raft as she pulls ashore, the only bright and polished things in this faded daguerreotype of a landscape. She kicks them aside. Surf the color of driftwood foams around her ankles.

“No,” she says. The noise is less her rotted tongue and vocal cords making recognizable words and more the universe remembering what that might have once sounded like. “Never.”

She takes a swaying step. Another. Invisible strings pull her along the sandbar, staggering the final yards like an old dog finding her sealegs. The bulk of the whale crests before her, bone and barnacle and bare, slippery sinew. Baleen between the jaws like an antiquated harp with all the strings snapped and fraying. Hagfish wriggling slimy sailor’s knots through what’s left of the flesh. When she lays her finger bones against its ruined side she can feel the faint vibrations of their stirring, like the ghost of a long-dead pulse. “Get up, gods damn you. We’re not done yet. We can’t be done.”

A groan comes from somewhere deep inside the beast. It’s the sound of an old ship threatening to break apart, finally strained beyond what oak and iron can endure. Let me die the final death, woman. The bottom aches for my bones. The crabs and the little nibbling fish call out to me. My ancestors sing songs of rest from the silt. Unclench your grip and let go, for both of our sakes. Mercy. Mercy for your soul and mine.

Perth ignores the plea and pushes. Her claws sink elbow-deep into the jellied mass. Twenty able-bodied living men could not move the mountain but beneath the straining gibbet’s wreck of her it shifts, ever so slightly. Somewhere out of sight bone strikes bone and the resistance gives her more leverage. The heels of her boots dig furrows in the wet sand. Every bit of will and concentration she has left bends towards budging the whale from its resting place. And reluctantly, resignedly, with a noise like a sigh and a noise like a sob, it lets itself be shoved towards the water, shedding bits of gristle and blubber as it grates across pumice. The oily waves slowly choke the beast back down, fore to aft.

When the gulls are through cleaning up, there’s nothing to show the beast was ever there, save a deep furrow in the gravel identical to a hundred others up and down the beach. And the bones, of course. It always sheds a few. Perth wonders how many more it has to lose. She wonders, not for the first time, how much longer they can go on like this.

She waits until the whale has a good head start. Then, harpoon in hand, she pushes her raft out into the surf and follows.

© 2013 by Brooke Bolander.

Brooke Bolander is a chaos-sowing trickster girl of indeterminate employment, half-tornado, half-writer. Originally from the deepest, darkest regions of the southern US, she attended the University of Leicester from 2004 to 2007 studying History and Archaeology, and is a graduate of the 2011 Clarion Writers’ Workshop at UCSD. She enjoys loud music, peaty scotch, drawings that move, and anything pumpkin-flavored you might happen to have on hand. Her work has previously been featured in Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, Reflection’s Edge, and the Prime Books anthology Aliens: Recent Encounters.